Trickle Down Economics
Enough about you, here's a little more about me:
Kristin Dunning is, or aspires to be, the Well Read Hostess. The WRH lives, geographically speaking, outside of Philadelphia. In her imagination, however, she breathes the rarified air of a place where she can spend her days reading and throwing fantastic parties. She does not particularly care for the word "Blog" and is considering offering a reward for the clever soul who comes up with a happy substitute. She is writing this "not-a-blog" because her brother basically double-dog dared her to.
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C'est Magnifique, Mais Ce N'est Pas Le Guerre
Last week's question was: What does a WRH do when her son announces he'd like to have a beach party? (or something to that effect). The reply: Goes batshit crazy.
This week's question: What does a WRH do when she has only 30 pages left in the book she has been reading for months on end and she can't decide if she's happy to be done with it or sad to wave adieu?
The reply: She paints a wall. Seriously. I just did. I painted a wall. It's 10:30 at night, I have forty million trillion gazillion things to do that are NOT wall-painting. And yet. I painted a wall.
Terry Darlington's Narrow Dog to Carcassonne is either an irreverent romp through the waterways of Europe, narrated with wit and intelligence.
OR
Terry Darlington's Narrow Dog to Carcassonne is the Bhutan Death March, with a few Cirque de Soleil pitstops along the way.
In order for you to decide (because, hell, I think it's pretty clear that I cannot be relied upon to make a choice), here are some excerpts:
"We held our ropes and waited and nothing happened but after a while the fields and hills below had been pushed away. Give me a place to stand and I will move the world. It was a blank experience, like the Channel Tunnel, like having a tooth out under gas, like Shakin' Stevens. Far away the gate opened and we sailed out two hundred feet higher, on to the top of a hill, the body of the cockroach tower behind us. Beneath the boat the water lay still dead."*
I'm not so much of a scrub that I can't appreciate that there is poetry and metaphor in here...but I am so much of a scrub that I don't know what to do with it.
"When we woke, Villeneuve-sur-Yonne had swept its stone quay and turned its pansies to the sun and picked up its litter and checked that its free electricity was pure sine wave, clean enough for our laptops, strong enough for our fan heater and kettle."
This is epic and deadly personification. I think he probably had to apply for a permit to use it.
"A walk by the river. Jim's first countryside, his first chance of a burn-up since we came back from England. The path between the trees was bordered by new grass, with constellations of buttercups. Bird's-eyes looked at us and we were children again. Once when I was ill, said Monica, I went for a walk and the bird's-eyes were out and I said to myself everything was fine when I was a little girl and it will be fine again."
I think maybe my problem is that I had assumed, seeing as how the name on the cover of the book says "TERRY DARLINGTON" that "TERRY DARLINGTON" had written the book when, in fact, and quite clearly, James Joyce was a major contributor.
"Notre-Dame strained on its stone ropes, longing to throw itself into the Seine and sail away. The sun beat on its sides and tourists washed around like surf."
I'll give him this. This is quite beautiful and I actually understand it, as opposed to the other three passages- which, come to think of it, explains why I might be struggling with how to characterize this book. I'm just not smart enough to understand chunks of it. I couldn't tell you the difference between a sine wave and a hunk of Limburger cheese if my life depended on it; though context indicates that "bird's eyes" are some sort of planty flowery item, I really don't know.
Further proof that he's a good writer and I am an ungrateful wretch and should stick with what I know, namely In Touch magazine (which, by the way, used to be under 2 bucks and is now well over. What gives???!!!)...
"I poured another glass of Chiroubles and picked up a lamb chop. To get the taste of Chiroubles say the name twice slowly and roll your eyes and think of blackberries and rain, and if you are a bloke the taste of the mouth of the girl you kissed by the privet hedge when you were sixteen and you hoped her mother wasn't watching through the window."
Kind of makes me wish I were a bloke. Or, at least, that I had a bottle of Chiroubles right here in front of me.
So, gentle reader. At the end of this long ramble of my own, it has become clear to me that I do, truth be told, really like this book a great deal. Terry Darlington is someone I'd like to meet and share some Chiroubles with, though it would be important for his wife Monica to be there because it seems like she might be able to translate for her husband when he whips out that personification permit and goes hogwild.
*If paint fumes weren't getting to my head, I might sacrifice a moment or two to actually look at the site I have linked here to determine who or what in tarnation Shakin' Stevens is. If I'm revealing some appalling degree of cultural illiteracy, I'm forlorn, but I can't spare the time for someone who thinks that the apostrophe might have been better advised than the letter "G" which so clearly belongs at the end of his name.
I Hate It When That Happens
My mother maintains that one can become dependent on lip balm.
All I know is, she's obviously never experienced the need for a product that will, "suck many kinds of natural nutrition protect wet composition."
Be warned: if you click through, you will lose 45 minutes of your life before you can say, "Make good life love & and monky peaceful bland."
All I know is, she's obviously never experienced the need for a product that will, "suck many kinds of natural nutrition protect wet composition."
Be warned: if you click through, you will lose 45 minutes of your life before you can say, "Make good life love & and monky peaceful bland."
Whoooosa Puppppy
As my brother said, on the cuteness scale of 1 to 10, it's probably an 11.
Link to my Technorati Profile
Link to my Technorati Profile
You're Welcome, I'm Sorry, and Really...There Is No Excuse For This, But Still.
From Adelle, who does not lie.
The easiest and greatest summer salad ever. Ever.
1 1/2 cups orzo (the greatest pasta ever. Ever)
some sweet onion
red & green peppers--one of each
cucumber
some fresh basil
crumbled feta
lemon juice
Tspoon or two of olive oil
fresh pepper
salt
I have also substituted/included green beans and artichoke hearts
You're Welcome.
From Ina Garten in all her Barefoot Contessa'd Wonderment, this is the cupcake recipe from her cupcakes with peanut butter icing recipe (which do not sound appealling to me one bit) and the frosting recipe from a chocolate cake recipe. Together. As they were meant to be.
The Chocolate Cupcakes
Preheat the oven to 350. Use paper cupcake liners. Just because it keeps you from double fisting the cupcakes after they're made. You have to slow down long enough to peel the paper away or you might choke.
Cream together 1 1/2 unsalted butter, 2/3 cup granulated sugar, and 2/3 cup light brown sugar (packed...as if it's ever NOT packed. Brown sugar is SO predictable) until light and fluffy, approximately 5 minutesor 1 and a half like I did and they turned out great.
Lower the speed, proclaimeth Ina, and add 2 egg, one at a time.
Add 2 tsp vanilla.
In a separate bowl, whisk together 1 cup buttermilk (what do people DO with buttermilk other than bake?), 1/2 cup sour cream (I used light, which is kind of funny when you consider the big picture here), and 2 TB brewed coffee - which, if you are me, you will drain out of the morning's coffee cups still on the dining room table because making coffee for 2 TB seems like too much work. Apparently, if you are like me, you are also hideously lazy.
In another bowl, sift the hell out of 1 3/4 cups flour, 1 cup good cocoa powder (No. Nestle's Quik is not good cocoa powder.), 1 1/2 tsp baking soda, and 1/2 tsp. kosher salt. I don't know what would happen if you didn't use kosher salt, but I've read parts of the Old Testament, and I wouldn't tempt fate if I were you.
Alternate adding wet and dry ingredients to butter/sugar sludge bowl while mixing at low speed.
Bake in cupcake pans for 20-25 minutes. When I first typed that, I accidentally wrote "cupcake pants," which seems more festive, but in the interest of clarity, I changed it back.
The Frosting
Chop 6 oz good semisweet chocolate (but not chips says Ina and I'd listen to her if I were you, she looks like she could whup your ass if she felt like it), melt it in a double boiler (or a microwave but don't tell Ina I said so).
Set aside until cooled to room temperature. Doesn't this drive you crazy? Shouldn't writers of recipes tell you AHEAD of time that you're going to need to make time for chocolate the temperature of lava fresh out of Kilauea to cool?
Beat 2 sticks unsalted butter (it should be room temp first. Again...same principle applies. Who's to say that you might not want to make some chocolate frosting at 2 a.m. out of the clear blue??? Nobody has butter just hanging around warming to room temperature) until light yellow (??!!! As opposed to....?) and fluffy.
Add 1 egg yolk at room temperature (this is getting exhausting) and 1 tsp vanilla.
Turn the mixer to low and add 1 1/4 cups sifted powdered sugar. You absolutely must sift it. This is non-negotiable. You also must turn the mixer to low or you will look like you work in a cocaine lab or Lucille Ball in a baking episode.
Beat until smooth and creamy.
Dissolve 1 TB instant coffee powder in 2 tsp of the hottest tap water you get wrangle out of your sink. Add this and the chocolate to the blended goo and mix.
"Don't Whip!" admonishes Ina.
Hide the spoons before you make this or there may be a little problem involving you and a bowl of frosting and an unhealthy afternoon.
I'm Sorry.
I realize that showing you this next product photograph reveals more about what is happeningin certain areas Chez WRH, but I think the disclosure is worth it.
Really...There Is No Excuse For This, But Still.
The easiest and greatest summer salad ever. Ever.
1 1/2 cups orzo (the greatest pasta ever. Ever)
some sweet onion
red & green peppers--one of each
cucumber
some fresh basil
crumbled feta
lemon juice
Tspoon or two of olive oil
fresh pepper
salt
I have also substituted/included green beans and artichoke hearts
You're Welcome.
From Ina Garten in all her Barefoot Contessa'd Wonderment, this is the cupcake recipe from her cupcakes with peanut butter icing recipe (which do not sound appealling to me one bit) and the frosting recipe from a chocolate cake recipe. Together. As they were meant to be.
The Chocolate Cupcakes
Preheat the oven to 350. Use paper cupcake liners. Just because it keeps you from double fisting the cupcakes after they're made. You have to slow down long enough to peel the paper away or you might choke.
Cream together 1 1/2 unsalted butter, 2/3 cup granulated sugar, and 2/3 cup light brown sugar (packed...as if it's ever NOT packed. Brown sugar is SO predictable) until light and fluffy, approximately 5 minutes
Lower the speed, proclaimeth Ina, and add 2 egg, one at a time.
Add 2 tsp vanilla.
In a separate bowl, whisk together 1 cup buttermilk (what do people DO with buttermilk other than bake?), 1/2 cup sour cream (I used light, which is kind of funny when you consider the big picture here), and 2 TB brewed coffee - which, if you are me, you will drain out of the morning's coffee cups still on the dining room table because making coffee for 2 TB seems like too much work. Apparently, if you are like me, you are also hideously lazy.
In another bowl, sift the hell out of 1 3/4 cups flour, 1 cup good cocoa powder (No. Nestle's Quik is not good cocoa powder.), 1 1/2 tsp baking soda, and 1/2 tsp. kosher salt. I don't know what would happen if you didn't use kosher salt, but I've read parts of the Old Testament, and I wouldn't tempt fate if I were you.
Alternate adding wet and dry ingredients to butter/sugar sludge bowl while mixing at low speed.
Bake in cupcake pans for 20-25 minutes. When I first typed that, I accidentally wrote "cupcake pants," which seems more festive, but in the interest of clarity, I changed it back.
The Frosting
Chop 6 oz good semisweet chocolate (but not chips says Ina and I'd listen to her if I were you, she looks like she could whup your ass if she felt like it), melt it in a double boiler (or a microwave but don't tell Ina I said so).
Set aside until cooled to room temperature. Doesn't this drive you crazy? Shouldn't writers of recipes tell you AHEAD of time that you're going to need to make time for chocolate the temperature of lava fresh out of Kilauea to cool?
Beat 2 sticks unsalted butter (it should be room temp first. Again...same principle applies. Who's to say that you might not want to make some chocolate frosting at 2 a.m. out of the clear blue??? Nobody has butter just hanging around warming to room temperature) until light yellow (??!!! As opposed to....?) and fluffy.
Add 1 egg yolk at room temperature (this is getting exhausting) and 1 tsp vanilla.
Turn the mixer to low and add 1 1/4 cups sifted powdered sugar. You absolutely must sift it. This is non-negotiable. You also must turn the mixer to low or you will look like you work in a cocaine lab or Lucille Ball in a baking episode.
Beat until smooth and creamy.
Dissolve 1 TB instant coffee powder in 2 tsp of the hottest tap water you get wrangle out of your sink. Add this and the chocolate to the blended goo and mix.
"Don't Whip!" admonishes Ina.
Hide the spoons before you make this or there may be a little problem involving you and a bowl of frosting and an unhealthy afternoon.
I'm Sorry.
I realize that showing you this next product photograph reveals more about what is happening
Really...There Is No Excuse For This, But Still.
Just A Little Crabby
Recipe for great weekend
1) Start with crabs and beer
2) Mix with family, hot sun, lots of laughs.
3) Let sit for a weekend, preferably in a swimming pool.
4) Enjoy.
1) Start with crabs and beer
2) Mix with family, hot sun, lots of laughs.
3) Let sit for a weekend, preferably in a swimming pool.
4) Enjoy.
Wipeout
Query: What does a Well Read Hostess do when her six year old son announces that he'd like to have a backyard beach party?
Response: She goes batshit.*
More specifically, she puts down her book (thank you Great Spirit in the Sky - damn boat and dog, stupid canals), she shops, she bakes, she decorates, she creates playlists with a heavy Jan and Dean and Ventures emphasis, and she hurls cash in the general direction of the snaggle-toothed semi-literate clerk in Le Ville de Fete.**
She invites the adorable wild things AKA her son's friends.
She borrows her father's light-up palm tree. Her father actually drops off the wrong light up palm tree, causing her to remark that she hadn't considered the possibility that he might have MORE THAN ONE light up palm tree and would, therefore, need to be specific about which light up palm tree she wanted to borrow.
She inflates and fills a pool (Ok, that's a lie. HE inflated and filled the pool, but she patched the hole in the pool so that HE could re-inflate and refill).
Oh yes. One more thing. She forgets to document most of it despite the fact that camera was in her hand the entire time.
Sunscreen Bar (must convince other parents that I am a responsible adult)
Tiki "lantern"
Party favors decoratively arranged on circa 1942 stove that has been sitting on my porch since March. Want it? It's yours.
Lonely remaining weird looking hot dog. All hot dog friends gone. Devoured by pack of ravenous children.
And this is where the photo of the cupcakes I made would go. Had I taken a photo, that is. You would have liked the photo. You would have liked the cupcakes, too. Two kinds. Chocolate and coconut. They were good. Thanks Ina.
Lack of evidence aside, we all had a time. And, who woulda thunk it, it felt a lot like SUMMER.
* Sorry, mom.
**She also enlists the invaluable assistance of TWGH who cannot resist a good Slip 'n Slide and who gamely tries to construct a wave/surfboard doohickey for kids to play on. And who does not raise one eyebrow even a millimeter upon wife's purchase of tiki lantern strings. Yay TWGH!
Response: She goes batshit.*
More specifically, she puts down her book (thank you Great Spirit in the Sky - damn boat and dog, stupid canals), she shops, she bakes, she decorates, she creates playlists with a heavy Jan and Dean and Ventures emphasis, and she hurls cash in the general direction of the snaggle-toothed semi-literate clerk in Le Ville de Fete.**
She invites the adorable wild things AKA her son's friends.
She borrows her father's light-up palm tree. Her father actually drops off the wrong light up palm tree, causing her to remark that she hadn't considered the possibility that he might have MORE THAN ONE light up palm tree and would, therefore, need to be specific about which light up palm tree she wanted to borrow.
She inflates and fills a pool (Ok, that's a lie. HE inflated and filled the pool, but she patched the hole in the pool so that HE could re-inflate and refill).
Oh yes. One more thing. She forgets to document most of it despite the fact that camera was in her hand the entire time.
Sunscreen Bar (must convince other parents that I am a responsible adult)
Tiki "lantern"
Party favors decoratively arranged on circa 1942 stove that has been sitting on my porch since March. Want it? It's yours.
Lonely remaining weird looking hot dog. All hot dog friends gone. Devoured by pack of ravenous children.
And this is where the photo of the cupcakes I made would go. Had I taken a photo, that is. You would have liked the photo. You would have liked the cupcakes, too. Two kinds. Chocolate and coconut. They were good. Thanks Ina.
Lack of evidence aside, we all had a time. And, who woulda thunk it, it felt a lot like SUMMER.
* Sorry, mom.
**She also enlists the invaluable assistance of TWGH who cannot resist a good Slip 'n Slide and who gamely tries to construct a wave/surfboard doohickey for kids to play on. And who does not raise one eyebrow even a millimeter upon wife's purchase of tiki lantern strings. Yay TWGH!
Doh!
Why didn't I think of this?!!
Either:
1. This woman will end up being the most satisfied, fulfilled, happy, productive, and stylish person on the planet (next to O herself).
2. This woman will burn herself out trying to what O says we can be and will go screaming into the hills within a few weeks.
3. I will spend all of myfree??!! time reading her website. And since Adelle sent this link to me, I'm going to assume that it will be sort of like she and I are actually spending time together. That's right...it's SOCIAL time spent obsessing over la vida Oprah.
Either:
1. This woman will end up being the most satisfied, fulfilled, happy, productive, and stylish person on the planet (next to O herself).
2. This woman will burn herself out trying to what O says we can be and will go screaming into the hills within a few weeks.
3. I will spend all of my
I Don't Think I'm Doing This Right
Lots of very successful bloggers have created these virtual events called "blog carnivals." This one has "Ten Word Tuesday," another has created "Menu Plan Monday," here's "Wordless Wednesday," and this wonderful person created "Filch it Friday."
I thought that it might be fun to create my own carnival, and, as a bonus, possibly generate some new readers. Tell me what you think!
Without further ado, I give you: Throw Up Thursday.
Here are the rules.
Exercise in 90 degree weather while there's a Code Red air quality advisory, which, to the best of my knowledge, means that if you walk outside and take a deep breath, you will instantly burst into flame.
Develop a skull-splitting, throbbing sensation in the left side of your brain. Assume that you are dehydrated, what with the 90 degree weather and all, and drink a lot of very cold water. Also apply a bag of frozen peas from your mother's freezer to the back of your neck. This won't help, but you'll feel good about being pro-active. Plus, maybe proximity to a green vegetable counts as one of your servings for the day.
Consider the possibility that the headache, which you now realize has turned into a migraine, could be the result of the icy grasp of a former high school teacher, with whom you shared a handshake on the way home from the track. Why were you shaking hands with your teacher? It's simple. Despite the fact that you see her at least once a month, you must constantly re-introduce yourself to her because you were not interesting enough in high school for her to ever remember your name. When she realizes that you are married to TWGH, she says, "Right! TWGH's wife." To which, your blessed and divine mother in law responds, "Yes, but she also has her own identity." Have I mentioned how much I adore my mother in law?
With peas jammed between the headrest and your skull, retrieve one child from day camp. Child is adorable and happy to see you, especially since you had promised her that you would take her out to lunch. To the pizza place she loves, the one with the VW in it, and the Cartoon Network on full blast. And the loud music. And the smell of food. As nausea is now building, this seems less like a good idea than it did at 7 this morning when you promised to take her to make up for the fact that her brother got to go on a zoo field trip and she didn't.
Get home. Take migraine medicine. Install child in front of Sprout with a cookie. Decide you don't really care so much if cookie crumbs end up in your bed or, truth be told, in the clean laundry that is piled like a mountain on your bed.
Throw up migraine medicine. And some other stuff. 'Nuff said.
Try to convince daughter, who is periodically coming in the bathroom to investigate, and ask for more cookies, that all is well.
Take another dose of migraine medicine, with the same effect.
Rest head on cooland completely filthy bathroom tile and wish for quick death. Realize that husband is out of town on business and not likely to be home until late tonight and daughter probably hasn't been properly taught to dial 911. Revise wish for quick death. Vow to properly teach daughter how to dial 911.
Hear strains of Caillou opening song coming from television. Force yourself to get up off floor and hold onto anything left in your stomach. Daughter must not watch Caillou...no matter what it takes. Caillou is a whiny brat. NO CAILLOU.
Daughter reminds you that you promised to take her out to pizza.
Return to bathroom.
Rally yourself, wash your face, brush your teeth, change your clothes, gather child and plastic bags in the event of spontaneous in-the-car vomiting and depart to retrieve other child from summer camp zoo field trip.
Drive to summer camp pick up location. This is a very poor decision, by the way. Clutch plastic bags in sweaty fist during entire drive.
Retrieve tired but lovely child.
Stagger into local (no VW, but come on, I made an effort) pizza joint. Pick up slices to go for children. Clench teeth and try not to breathe through nose. Pizza aroma, usually pleasing, not so much when battling crippling nausea.
Drop children off at in laws. Have I mentioned how much I adore my in laws?
Return home.
Eat lunch. Pictured below.
Take to bed.
Wake inspired by desire to concoct creative and witty not-a-blog carnival.
I thought that it might be fun to create my own carnival, and, as a bonus, possibly generate some new readers. Tell me what you think!
Without further ado, I give you: Throw Up Thursday.
Here are the rules.
Exercise in 90 degree weather while there's a Code Red air quality advisory, which, to the best of my knowledge, means that if you walk outside and take a deep breath, you will instantly burst into flame.
Develop a skull-splitting, throbbing sensation in the left side of your brain. Assume that you are dehydrated, what with the 90 degree weather and all, and drink a lot of very cold water. Also apply a bag of frozen peas from your mother's freezer to the back of your neck. This won't help, but you'll feel good about being pro-active. Plus, maybe proximity to a green vegetable counts as one of your servings for the day.
Consider the possibility that the headache, which you now realize has turned into a migraine, could be the result of the icy grasp of a former high school teacher, with whom you shared a handshake on the way home from the track. Why were you shaking hands with your teacher? It's simple. Despite the fact that you see her at least once a month, you must constantly re-introduce yourself to her because you were not interesting enough in high school for her to ever remember your name. When she realizes that you are married to TWGH, she says, "Right! TWGH's wife." To which, your blessed and divine mother in law responds, "Yes, but she also has her own identity." Have I mentioned how much I adore my mother in law?
With peas jammed between the headrest and your skull, retrieve one child from day camp. Child is adorable and happy to see you, especially since you had promised her that you would take her out to lunch. To the pizza place she loves, the one with the VW in it, and the Cartoon Network on full blast. And the loud music. And the smell of food. As nausea is now building, this seems less like a good idea than it did at 7 this morning when you promised to take her to make up for the fact that her brother got to go on a zoo field trip and she didn't.
Get home. Take migraine medicine. Install child in front of Sprout with a cookie. Decide you don't really care so much if cookie crumbs end up in your bed or, truth be told, in the clean laundry that is piled like a mountain on your bed.
Throw up migraine medicine. And some other stuff. 'Nuff said.
Try to convince daughter, who is periodically coming in the bathroom to investigate, and ask for more cookies, that all is well.
Take another dose of migraine medicine, with the same effect.
Rest head on cool
Hear strains of Caillou opening song coming from television. Force yourself to get up off floor and hold onto anything left in your stomach. Daughter must not watch Caillou...no matter what it takes. Caillou is a whiny brat. NO CAILLOU.
Daughter reminds you that you promised to take her out to pizza.
Return to bathroom.
Rally yourself, wash your face, brush your teeth, change your clothes, gather child and plastic bags in the event of spontaneous in-the-car vomiting and depart to retrieve other child from summer camp zoo field trip.
Drive to summer camp pick up location. This is a very poor decision, by the way. Clutch plastic bags in sweaty fist during entire drive.
Retrieve tired but lovely child.
Stagger into local (no VW, but come on, I made an effort) pizza joint. Pick up slices to go for children. Clench teeth and try not to breathe through nose. Pizza aroma, usually pleasing, not so much when battling crippling nausea.
Drop children off at in laws. Have I mentioned how much I adore my in laws?
Return home.
Eat lunch. Pictured below.
Take to bed.
Wake inspired by desire to concoct creative and witty not-a-blog carnival.
Storytime
I'd like to introduce you to my friend Cindy.
Cindy,Reader Massive Community of Readers. Reader Massive Community of Readers, Cindy.
Cindy,
An Irishman, A Canadian, and An Italian Walk Into A Bar...
Being a civic minded individual, I tried to educate the masses about irony and satire. Remember? Here and here?
Apparently, the world needs a refresher.
This, the most recent cover of The New Yorker magazine, for example, is satire. And, hold on to your hats and glasses, it's also irony.
It's satire because it makes fun, in an exaggerated fashion, of the rumors swirling around about the Obamas...they hate America, they are terrorists, they are radical Islamic militants, and they will do a happy victory dance in the Oval Office if Barack gets there because, as Jon Stewart chided Obama himself, "(they) will commence the complete domination of the white race."
It's ironic because it's absurd. All of it. The bald fact that any of the above could be true is entirely ridiculous and no rational person could seriously believe it. And yet...and here's why irony is...uh...ironic...people do. Believe it, that is. Even though that belief occurs on an amorphous and/or visceral plane, people believe it.
Why is this the cover of The New Yorker? Well. I'll tell you.
It's the cover of The New Yorker because the people at The New Yorker are brave and smart.
They are brave because they knew that they would be hearing about this "shocking" and "disturbing" and "scandalous" and "in poor taste" bit of cover art for more than one measly news cycle.
They are smart because they understand and appreciate satire and irony, and they think it's more important to point out the fact the hideous truth that the preposterous rumor-mongering surrounding the Obamas is nothing other than racism...I wish I could have written thinly veiled, but I don't think it is thinly veiled, perhaps "veiled in a gossamer whiff of some kind of poor-quality veily-like substance."
Because it is.
Anybody who doesn't acknowledge that he/she harbors some kind of biases, prejudices, or subconscious rigid belief in stereotype is a liar. We all do. Listen in on your own thoughts as you walk down a city street in this country and hear what your subconscious is telling you. This doesn't mean you are a bad person or, even, that you are a racist. It just means that, like everybody else, you are a product of your environment and that you are human. It also means that, now that you have introduced yourself to this aspect of your subconscious, you're going to have to work a little harder to retrain your brain.
If, by the way, while you are walking down a city street in this country and it's not your subconscious but your conscious mind saying things that reflect prejudice and rigid belief in stereotypes, you might very well be, in fact, a racist, and that's a bigger problem. For everyone.
So people are freaking out about a magazine cover. Mostly because they are afraid that "people in Kansas" (those poor shlubs in Kansas...everyone who isn't from Kansas talks about them like they can't hear us) won't get it and will use it to validate their racist beliefs.
A) People in Kansas don't read The New Yorker. I'm KIDDING, KANSAS, RELAX! (Or, you know, hike up your big girl britches and try to move your social politics out of the dark ages so we can take you seriously.)*
As Art Spiegelman said today, this cover is like a vaccine. It hurts a little bit, but it might just protect us in the future from something truly bad.
C) It doesn't matter if you are pro-Obama or pro-McCain or even pro-Lyndon LaRouche (although...come on!), this is an important vaccination.
* No offense, Kansas. It's just rhetoric. We'll get to that later in the semester.
Apparently, the world needs a refresher.
This, the most recent cover of The New Yorker magazine, for example, is satire. And, hold on to your hats and glasses, it's also irony.
It's satire because it makes fun, in an exaggerated fashion, of the rumors swirling around about the Obamas...they hate America, they are terrorists, they are radical Islamic militants, and they will do a happy victory dance in the Oval Office if Barack gets there because, as Jon Stewart chided Obama himself, "(they) will commence the complete domination of the white race."
It's ironic because it's absurd. All of it. The bald fact that any of the above could be true is entirely ridiculous and no rational person could seriously believe it. And yet...and here's why irony is...uh...ironic...people do. Believe it, that is. Even though that belief occurs on an amorphous and/or visceral plane, people believe it.
Why is this the cover of The New Yorker? Well. I'll tell you.
It's the cover of The New Yorker because the people at The New Yorker are brave and smart.
They are brave because they knew that they would be hearing about this "shocking" and "disturbing" and "scandalous" and "in poor taste" bit of cover art for more than one measly news cycle.
They are smart because they understand and appreciate satire and irony, and they think it's more important to point out the fact the hideous truth that the preposterous rumor-mongering surrounding the Obamas is nothing other than racism...I wish I could have written thinly veiled, but I don't think it is thinly veiled, perhaps "veiled in a gossamer whiff of some kind of poor-quality veily-like substance."
Because it is.
Anybody who doesn't acknowledge that he/she harbors some kind of biases, prejudices, or subconscious rigid belief in stereotype is a liar. We all do. Listen in on your own thoughts as you walk down a city street in this country and hear what your subconscious is telling you. This doesn't mean you are a bad person or, even, that you are a racist. It just means that, like everybody else, you are a product of your environment and that you are human. It also means that, now that you have introduced yourself to this aspect of your subconscious, you're going to have to work a little harder to retrain your brain.
If, by the way, while you are walking down a city street in this country and it's not your subconscious but your conscious mind saying things that reflect prejudice and rigid belief in stereotypes, you might very well be, in fact, a racist, and that's a bigger problem. For everyone.
So people are freaking out about a magazine cover. Mostly because they are afraid that "people in Kansas" (those poor shlubs in Kansas...everyone who isn't from Kansas talks about them like they can't hear us) won't get it and will use it to validate their racist beliefs.
A) People in Kansas don't read The New Yorker. I'm KIDDING, KANSAS, RELAX! (Or, you know, hike up your big girl britches and try to move your social politics out of the dark ages so we can take you seriously.)*
As Art Spiegelman said today, this cover is like a vaccine. It hurts a little bit, but it might just protect us in the future from something truly bad.
C) It doesn't matter if you are pro-Obama or pro-McCain or even pro-Lyndon LaRouche (although...come on!), this is an important vaccination.
* No offense, Kansas. It's just rhetoric. We'll get to that later in the semester.
There Was An Old Woman Who Lived in A Shoe
Maddox Jolie-Pitt
Zahara Jolie-Pitt
Pax Jolie-Pitt
Shiloh Jolie-Pitt
Knox (Leon - please let it be a family name) Jolie-Pitt
Vivienne (Marcheline - her mother's name) Jolie-Pitt
So...what? The boys have to have an X?
And the girls sound like characters from a Harlequin romance?
Those are the only patterns I can discern.
I'd lay good money that there's a #7 by next April. More power to them. I hope they really love each other a lot.
But so help me, if I see one picture of her walking around in a size 4 by the end of next week, I'm going to lose it.
Zahara Jolie-Pitt
Pax Jolie-Pitt
Shiloh Jolie-Pitt
Knox (Leon - please let it be a family name) Jolie-Pitt
Vivienne (Marcheline - her mother's name) Jolie-Pitt
So...what? The boys have to have an X?
And the girls sound like characters from a Harlequin romance?
Those are the only patterns I can discern.
I'd lay good money that there's a #7 by next April. More power to them. I hope they really love each other a lot.
But so help me, if I see one picture of her walking around in a size 4 by the end of next week, I'm going to lose it.
Tour de WHAT THE...??!!!
I was perched on the horns of a dilemma this morning. Spinning class or Pilates/Yoga? What to do, what to do...
I did a spinning class once, the week after I got engaged, before I decided that I would be the only bride ever in the history of the world to actually gain weight for her wedding (interesting choice...worked for me...sort of...did you know that wedding dress sizes are freakishly inflated? An 8 turns into a 12, and ON UP. I'm not sure what the psychology of that practice is, but my suspicion is that it originated with the Inquisition).
Pilates/Yoga. Been there, done that. No problem. Like it. Happy making. All good.
I kept trying to talk myself into valid reasons as to why I should do the Pilates/Yoga class, so I figured that actually meant I should do the spinning class. Turns out that "spinning class" is actually code for DIVINE PUNISHMENT FOR OVERTHINKING WHICH EXERCISE CLASS TO TAKE.
See how these people are all smiling?
These people are not my friends. I smiled once or twice, nervous habit I guess, once the class started, then it was grimace upon grimace for 45 minutes. I even channeled Roseanne Roseannadanna...I had a little itty bitty sweatball hanging off the end of my nose for a good long while. Then I just looked like I'd been caught in a sweatstorm rainstorm. When the instructor started counting down the time we were riding "up hills," and 15 seconds started to seem interminable, I knew I was probably in over my head. I persevered, but it wasn't pretty.
The fact that the woman directly in front of me was built like a Twizzler didn't help matters. Let me revise that. Actually, she was built like a Twizzler with giant, ropy muscles. Afterwards, Twizzler asked me how I liked the class. I told her that I found it quite difficult (DUH - don't my purple face, visible heartbeat, and drenched shirt tell the story?), and she very kindly told me, "Yeah, it doesn't get much easier. You get used to how hard it is, but it doesn't get much easier." Oh. Okay then.
Check please!
Minus the mouthguard.
Another Great Mystery Solved
Query: If one so desired, how could one encourage adolescents to be more solipsistic?
Reply: Move to Racine, Wisconsin, during his/her senior year in high school.
How messed up is this? Let me count the ways.
This link is to This American Life, hosted by the marvelously nerdy and exquisitely well-groomed Ira Glass (living, breathing proof that money and success DO make you more attractive). Go to Act IV.
This link is to a film about the same Racine, Wisconsin, promapalooza.
Reply: Move to Racine, Wisconsin, during his/her senior year in high school.
How messed up is this? Let me count the ways.
This link is to This American Life, hosted by the marvelously nerdy and exquisitely well-groomed Ira Glass (living, breathing proof that money and success DO make you more attractive). Go to Act IV.
This link is to a film about the same Racine, Wisconsin, promapalooza.
What I've Been Doing
I'm having trouble adjusting to summer. Today, a friend helped me get my head on straight. I keep expecting it to be
SUMMER!!!!
Like, you know. Lyin' around. Readin' books. Drinkin' G&Ts.
My friend reminded me of one teensy weensy problem with this expectation.
I have children. And I'm 40.
That certainly explains why I've spend most of every day in my car.
When I haven't been in the car, I've been trying to get to the mountain of books taking up space next to my bed.
I've been reading this book, Narrow Dog to Carcassonne by Terry Darlington, for about three months. I like it...quite a bit...I think...but I can't deal with it in large doses. He writes almost poetically, but also very cryptically. Often pages will go by and I'll suddenly realize that I have no idea what I've been reading for ten minutes. He tells the story of his trip through England, across the channel, and through France on his canal boat with his wife and skitchy dog. Travel. Boats. Dog. Funny dude. All the fixings for a book I like. I think.
In between doses of Europe and the waterways, I read Lipstick Jungle by Candace Bushnell. It took about 25 minutes to read and left me feeling like I needed to gargle with Clorox. I'm going to lend it to my friend who is going to Mexico for a girl's vacation. It's perfect for that...and she should leave it in Mexico. Never has a collection of three more unlikeable and vapid souls appeared within the same volume.
I also read Elizabeth George's latest Inspector Lynley mystery, Careless in Red. You should read this. First, of course, you'll need to take a leave of absence from the rest of your life and read all the earlier books in the series. The only bad thing about these novels is that they end after a few hundred pages.
The Elizabeth George has rekindled my hopes for SUMMER. A well-written page turner! Hooray! Now bring on the gin! Somebody fetch me a lime!
SUMMER!!!!
Like, you know. Lyin' around. Readin' books. Drinkin' G&Ts.
My friend reminded me of one teensy weensy problem with this expectation.
I have children. And I'm 40.
That certainly explains why I've spend most of every day in my car.
When I haven't been in the car, I've been trying to get to the mountain of books taking up space next to my bed.
I've been reading this book, Narrow Dog to Carcassonne by Terry Darlington, for about three months. I like it...quite a bit...I think...but I can't deal with it in large doses. He writes almost poetically, but also very cryptically. Often pages will go by and I'll suddenly realize that I have no idea what I've been reading for ten minutes. He tells the story of his trip through England, across the channel, and through France on his canal boat with his wife and skitchy dog. Travel. Boats. Dog. Funny dude. All the fixings for a book I like. I think.
In between doses of Europe and the waterways, I read Lipstick Jungle by Candace Bushnell. It took about 25 minutes to read and left me feeling like I needed to gargle with Clorox. I'm going to lend it to my friend who is going to Mexico for a girl's vacation. It's perfect for that...and she should leave it in Mexico. Never has a collection of three more unlikeable and vapid souls appeared within the same volume.
I also read Elizabeth George's latest Inspector Lynley mystery, Careless in Red. You should read this. First, of course, you'll need to take a leave of absence from the rest of your life and read all the earlier books in the series. The only bad thing about these novels is that they end after a few hundred pages.
The Elizabeth George has rekindled my hopes for SUMMER. A well-written page turner! Hooray! Now bring on the gin! Somebody fetch me a lime!
Think Globally, Act Locally...or Sustainably Harvested Symbolism
I was disappointed when Barack Obama started appearing with the de rigeur flag pin on his lapel.
I understand what the pin symbolizes, I understand what the flag symbolizes, and I understand what the wearing of the flag pin symbolizes, and I don't have any complaint with any of them. I guess I'm just uncomfortable when I feel like someone tries to make a signifier signify to me exactly what, and to what degree, it signifies to someone else.
Or maybe it's that I don't really understand what patriotism is. To me, it's a pretty abstract concept. Love of country. Loyalty to country. Respect for country. How do these manifest themselves in such a way that is more than merely symbolic? Maybe it's like obscenity...I can't define it but I know it when I see it.
I, like John Mellencamp, was born in a small town. Actually, I was born in Chicago. I was raised in a small town. I always spend the 4th of July in that same small town, with my husband, who was also born (raised) in the same small town. On this 4th of July I spent considerable time near, with, and among lots of other people who were also born in the same small town.
The 4th of July parade in this small town is my flag pin. It means something deep and significant to me, and what it means to me is probably not that different than what it means to those wonderful people I spent the day near, with, and among. It probably would not, however, mean the same thing to anyone not from this same small town. Those people have their own flag pins.
I could list the day's events: bicycle races, shopping cart choreography, vintage cars full of familiar faces, grumpy dogs dressed in sparkly clothes, decorated red wagons, fire engine rides, free popsicles, a whole-town water fight, a barbecue, fireworks. And look. I did. This list tells a story of a day, but not the story of my day.
Love of country. Loyalty to country. Respect of country. The meanings are slippery for me.
Love of friends. Love of family. Love of tradition. Love of personal mythology. Love of laughter. Cheering for 4 year olds on tricycles, celebrating the blue ribbon be-costumed dog, a few hours of "remember that time...," reintroducing myself to my first grade teacher, and, of course, the free popsicles after the fire engine ride. These I can grab hold of. Tightly.
I understand what the pin symbolizes, I understand what the flag symbolizes, and I understand what the wearing of the flag pin symbolizes, and I don't have any complaint with any of them. I guess I'm just uncomfortable when I feel like someone tries to make a signifier signify to me exactly what, and to what degree, it signifies to someone else.
Or maybe it's that I don't really understand what patriotism is. To me, it's a pretty abstract concept. Love of country. Loyalty to country. Respect for country. How do these manifest themselves in such a way that is more than merely symbolic? Maybe it's like obscenity...I can't define it but I know it when I see it.
I, like John Mellencamp, was born in a small town. Actually, I was born in Chicago. I was raised in a small town. I always spend the 4th of July in that same small town, with my husband, who was also born (raised) in the same small town. On this 4th of July I spent considerable time near, with, and among lots of other people who were also born in the same small town.
The 4th of July parade in this small town is my flag pin. It means something deep and significant to me, and what it means to me is probably not that different than what it means to those wonderful people I spent the day near, with, and among. It probably would not, however, mean the same thing to anyone not from this same small town. Those people have their own flag pins.
I could list the day's events: bicycle races, shopping cart choreography, vintage cars full of familiar faces, grumpy dogs dressed in sparkly clothes, decorated red wagons, fire engine rides, free popsicles, a whole-town water fight, a barbecue, fireworks. And look. I did. This list tells a story of a day, but not the story of my day.
Love of country. Loyalty to country. Respect of country. The meanings are slippery for me.
Love of friends. Love of family. Love of tradition. Love of personal mythology. Love of laughter. Cheering for 4 year olds on tricycles, celebrating the blue ribbon be-costumed dog, a few hours of "remember that time...," reintroducing myself to my first grade teacher, and, of course, the free popsicles after the fire engine ride. These I can grab hold of. Tightly.
Grow Up
Today, while returning six bathing suits to a store nearby - yes, I said six, I wandered on into Anthropologie. I was in there for about fifteen minutes, and when I left, I was a completely different person.
Or could have been. I wanted everything in the joint. Except for jeans made for people with normal, not stunted, leg length and anything sleeveless, which, truth be told, eliminated about 80% of the items in there...even the ones made of wool. I don't understand why everything cute is sleeveless. But that's for another day.
Today I wanted everything (minus jeans and sleeveless goods) in the store. I wanted the clothes, I wanted the jewelry, I wanted the housewares, I wanted the perfume, I wanted the shoes, I wanted the whole freaking vibe. I am fond, to say the least, of Anthropologie. And as I pondered the wisdom of purchasing all new linens in a gentle sage green woven from the odd numbered hairs from the underbellies of Himalayan jackelopes, and as I equivocated over vintage (old looking?) aprons with matching dishtowels, and as I contemplated the appropriate scented candles for the living room - $30 fig? Perhaps $27 french lavender and something called "cade" that I've never heard of and let's face it, I've heard of a lot of shit-, I also stumbled upon another collection of goodies available for thecrazed eager shopper.
BOOKS
Hmmm....what have we here?! My mind drifted away from vintage (old looking?) fixtures, dreams of waif-like upper arms, and a house that smells like at least one of the people living there has a clue about what she's doing, and I became mesmerized by the piles of books. The answers to life's great questions, you see, are all neatly and oh so prettily tucked away in stylish stacks at Anthropologie. Forget new clothes, new shoes, new scent, new home decor, here lay the potential for a New Me.
I began innocently enough: dream interpretation. I can even claim a prior legitimate interest in this...when I learn Greek or figure out how to make clocks run backwards so I have the time to actually read it, I'm going to invest in the Oneirocritica, the ancient Greek book of dream interpretation. It even had a shiny blue cover.
The Green Book. I like this! I can understand my whacked out dreams AND learn little tips and tricks to protect the earth for my children and my children's children.
And on and on it went...The Art of Simple Food by Alice Waters, Manners Can Be Fun, Anything But Chardonnay - a wine buying and drinking guide, Audrey Style - how to look, act, and project Audrey Hepburn, about ten different organizers, each more slick and cool than the one before. I could learn what to cook, what to eat, what to drink what to wear, how to talk, how to interpret my deepest desires, and how to organize them JUST SO as to be prepared when opportunity presented itself and, voilà, I could spin my own brand of wonderfulness into whatever fulfulling and rewarding magic form I so wished.
It was then I came upon Simon Doonan's Eccentric Glamour: Creating an Insanely More Fabulous You, prominently featured in a huge row of "How to be Stylish and Wonderful in Every Way" books on a long farmhouse table made of distressed wood from Maple trees exclusively harvested from the Putney, Vermont, region. And as my hand reached out to pick it up, I froze.
I have no beef with Simon Doonan. I'm pretty sure he was the Barney's window designer who became haute shit and I begrudge him absolutely nothing. Maybe it was the cover, maybe his book happened to be the straw on the back of the camel-load of "Be THIS Way" books towering on the (beautiful) table. Maybe it was the fact that, while I will own up to "sometimes funny" and "knows some stuff" and "pretty nice" and "sorta weird," "insanely fabulous" does not now and never will describe me. No matter how many books I buy.
I didn't buy anything in Anthropologie todaythough I reserve the right to return on Monday especially if my arms somehow miraculously look like they might not appear ham-hock-like in something sleeveless.
My whole drive home I couldn't stop thinking about teenagers and how all the adolescent girls at the pool this summer look like clones of one another. Same straight, lanky hair. Same bathing suit. Same manicured hand on same canted and pointy hip. Same GD cell phone glued to their faces. Isn't it my jobthank you Jesus not during summer vacation just the other ten months of the year to help them see the value of being an individual...well, that and comma use?
I don't think that I am supposed to figure out how to dress and how to feed people and how to make a bed and how to smell by doing what someone else tells me to do.
Right?
That it's an accepted norm for adolescent girls to be parroting the behavior and the look of 40 year old women is scary enough. Shouldn't 40 year old women be running, screaming into the hills if need be, in order to NOT return to adolescence by seeking step by step instructions for how to be? I'm not going to read a book and figure out how to be Insanely Fabulous, nor am I going to learn how to be Audrey Hepburn-esque. And wouldn't it be weird if I suddenly were? My children would be bewildered and wonder who the hell was going to produce the mac and cheese - bright orange thank you very much and without any weird spices in it - and my husband would be at a complete loss. He still hasn't quite figured out what to do with the actual original version of ME and he's known me since I was 8.
For that matter, neither have I. And not for lack of trying. I would probably enjoy perusing Doonan's book, or one of the others, and someday I might. I reckon, though, that I'm just going to have to keep working at being me the old fashioned way, one potentially unflattering yet totally wonderful sleeveless shirt and one Kraft macaroni and cheese masterpiece at a time.
Or could have been. I wanted everything in the joint. Except for jeans made for people with normal, not stunted, leg length and anything sleeveless, which, truth be told, eliminated about 80% of the items in there...even the ones made of wool. I don't understand why everything cute is sleeveless. But that's for another day.
Today I wanted everything (minus jeans and sleeveless goods) in the store. I wanted the clothes, I wanted the jewelry, I wanted the housewares, I wanted the perfume, I wanted the shoes, I wanted the whole freaking vibe. I am fond, to say the least, of Anthropologie. And as I pondered the wisdom of purchasing all new linens in a gentle sage green woven from the odd numbered hairs from the underbellies of Himalayan jackelopes, and as I equivocated over vintage (old looking?) aprons with matching dishtowels, and as I contemplated the appropriate scented candles for the living room - $30 fig? Perhaps $27 french lavender and something called "cade" that I've never heard of and let's face it, I've heard of a lot of shit-, I also stumbled upon another collection of goodies available for the
BOOKS
Hmmm....what have we here?! My mind drifted away from vintage (old looking?) fixtures, dreams of waif-like upper arms, and a house that smells like at least one of the people living there has a clue about what she's doing, and I became mesmerized by the piles of books. The answers to life's great questions, you see, are all neatly and oh so prettily tucked away in stylish stacks at Anthropologie. Forget new clothes, new shoes, new scent, new home decor, here lay the potential for a New Me.
I began innocently enough: dream interpretation. I can even claim a prior legitimate interest in this...when I learn Greek or figure out how to make clocks run backwards so I have the time to actually read it, I'm going to invest in the Oneirocritica, the ancient Greek book of dream interpretation. It even had a shiny blue cover.
The Green Book. I like this! I can understand my whacked out dreams AND learn little tips and tricks to protect the earth for my children and my children's children.
And on and on it went...The Art of Simple Food by Alice Waters, Manners Can Be Fun, Anything But Chardonnay - a wine buying and drinking guide, Audrey Style - how to look, act, and project Audrey Hepburn, about ten different organizers, each more slick and cool than the one before. I could learn what to cook, what to eat, what to drink what to wear, how to talk, how to interpret my deepest desires, and how to organize them JUST SO as to be prepared when opportunity presented itself and, voilà, I could spin my own brand of wonderfulness into whatever fulfulling and rewarding magic form I so wished.
It was then I came upon Simon Doonan's Eccentric Glamour: Creating an Insanely More Fabulous You, prominently featured in a huge row of "How to be Stylish and Wonderful in Every Way" books on a long farmhouse table made of distressed wood from Maple trees exclusively harvested from the Putney, Vermont, region. And as my hand reached out to pick it up, I froze.
I have no beef with Simon Doonan. I'm pretty sure he was the Barney's window designer who became haute shit and I begrudge him absolutely nothing. Maybe it was the cover, maybe his book happened to be the straw on the back of the camel-load of "Be THIS Way" books towering on the (beautiful) table. Maybe it was the fact that, while I will own up to "sometimes funny" and "knows some stuff" and "pretty nice" and "sorta weird," "insanely fabulous" does not now and never will describe me. No matter how many books I buy.
I didn't buy anything in Anthropologie today
My whole drive home I couldn't stop thinking about teenagers and how all the adolescent girls at the pool this summer look like clones of one another. Same straight, lanky hair. Same bathing suit. Same manicured hand on same canted and pointy hip. Same GD cell phone glued to their faces. Isn't it my job
I don't think that I am supposed to figure out how to dress and how to feed people and how to make a bed and how to smell by doing what someone else tells me to do.
Right?
That it's an accepted norm for adolescent girls to be parroting the behavior and the look of 40 year old women is scary enough. Shouldn't 40 year old women be running, screaming into the hills if need be, in order to NOT return to adolescence by seeking step by step instructions for how to be? I'm not going to read a book and figure out how to be Insanely Fabulous, nor am I going to learn how to be Audrey Hepburn-esque. And wouldn't it be weird if I suddenly were? My children would be bewildered and wonder who the hell was going to produce the mac and cheese - bright orange thank you very much and without any weird spices in it - and my husband would be at a complete loss. He still hasn't quite figured out what to do with the actual original version of ME and he's known me since I was 8.
For that matter, neither have I. And not for lack of trying. I would probably enjoy perusing Doonan's book, or one of the others, and someday I might. I reckon, though, that I'm just going to have to keep working at being me the old fashioned way, one potentially unflattering yet totally wonderful sleeveless shirt and one Kraft macaroni and cheese masterpiece at a time.
Viva La Revolucion
My daughter loves to sing a song her grandmother taught her.
Feel free to sing along.
Make new friends
and keep the old
one is silver and the other gold.
This is a good place to go to drink mojitos and eat spicy food with the newly minted SILVER...especially the elusive Fun Couple Who Are Enough Like Us That We Can Relax and Enjoy the Rum type.
Feel free to sing along.
Make new friends
and keep the old
one is silver and the other gold.
This is a good place to go to drink mojitos and eat spicy food with the newly minted SILVER...especially the elusive Fun Couple Who Are Enough Like Us That We Can Relax and Enjoy the Rum type.
Strange Little Funny Man Hits One Out of the Park...Again
Once you've heard the voice of David Sedaris, you can't unhear it.
The experience of reading anything he writes is only improved for it, too, because nobody reads David Sedaris like David Sedaris. Even in my own head.
I kept waiting to think that any of the essays in When You Are Engulfed In Flames was a party trick, or that he was going through the motions. But he wasn't. Dude's just strange and funny. Who else can get away with a description of his chaffed butt, post-foam butt enhancer use, as looking like a "rusted coin slot"?
The worst thing about this collection is that I had to read it in the living room instead of in bed at night because I would start snorting and laughing and then I couldn't stop and then I'd wake TWGH up and then he'd want to know what was so funny and you just can't explain these things, they have to be read and I didn't want to share.
The best thing about the stories is that they are not just funny bits. They are more like the product of sociological excavation - a little Japan, a little France, a little family - all through an honest, and funny, though arguably a little unusual, lens.
I'm not going to say much more. Just read it. In the living room.
The experience of reading anything he writes is only improved for it, too, because nobody reads David Sedaris like David Sedaris. Even in my own head.
I kept waiting to think that any of the essays in When You Are Engulfed In Flames was a party trick, or that he was going through the motions. But he wasn't. Dude's just strange and funny. Who else can get away with a description of his chaffed butt, post-foam butt enhancer use, as looking like a "rusted coin slot"?
The worst thing about this collection is that I had to read it in the living room instead of in bed at night because I would start snorting and laughing and then I couldn't stop and then I'd wake TWGH up and then he'd want to know what was so funny and you just can't explain these things, they have to be read and I didn't want to share.
The best thing about the stories is that they are not just funny bits. They are more like the product of sociological excavation - a little Japan, a little France, a little family - all through an honest, and funny, though arguably a little unusual, lens.
I'm not going to say much more. Just read it. In the living room.
No Ad
Everything you need here, and you're not advertising for anybody...no big labels and logos.
OK...maybe not EVERYTHING you need. But basic gear, t shirts, shorts, etc...
If you buy these, though, you should know that I'm going to come to your house and mock you.
OK...maybe not EVERYTHING you need. But basic gear, t shirts, shorts, etc...
If you buy these, though, you should know that I'm going to come to your house and mock you.
Welcome to My Little House on the Prairie
What the?!!!
My kid has Scarlet Fever.
Next thing you know, the other one will develop scurvy.
In other news, I finally finished my research paper, but I haven't managed to wash my hair in three days.
One step forward, two steps back, people.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go procure some leeches and holy water.
p.s. Lest you think I am a totally heartless bitch for mocking my son's illness, Scarlet Fever isn't really that big a deal. It's just fun to write because the only person anyone ever knew who had Scarlet Fever was Mary Ingalls, the prissy blind big sister. That was pre-antibiotics.
My kid has Scarlet Fever.
Next thing you know, the other one will develop scurvy.
In other news, I finally finished my research paper, but I haven't managed to wash my hair in three days.
One step forward, two steps back, people.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go procure some leeches and holy water.
p.s. Lest you think I am a totally heartless bitch for mocking my son's illness, Scarlet Fever isn't really that big a deal. It's just fun to write because the only person anyone ever knew who had Scarlet Fever was Mary Ingalls, the prissy blind big sister. That was pre-antibiotics.
Filch it Friday - Summer Begins
Revision: Sometimes, just to screw with your head, strep throat does NOT get replaced by bug bites. Sometimes, just to screw with your head, the day after you write that strep throat is replaced by bug bites, someone in your house will actually get strep throat. You know, just to screw with your head.
Summer has begun for my kids. School is out, and they slipped into their new routine of day camp and swimming lessons and catching fireflies almost effortlessly.
I finished up my work this morningand except for the tiny detail of the massive research paper I still haven't been able to force myself to finish nay even LOOK AT, so my summer has begun as well. The end of the school year and the beginning of summer vacation brings with it a sea change. Grading papers gets replaced with house projects. Soccer and field trips get replaced with zoo outings and hikes in the woods. Strep throat gets replaced with bug bites. The "to do" list morphs to reflect all the tiny things that I can't manage during the hectic Spring: clothing returns, dentist appointments, renewing the driver's license that has been expired since November, strange but necessary household shopping, new sandals and swimsuits, mailing the package that's been sitting in trunk of my car for four months, cleaning my house...true, sad, but true.
Because I was working this week until noon, the hours between day camp and swimming lessons were crowded with errands. Post office - check. Shoe store - check. Appointments scheduled - check. Crossing items off of the list has the potential to be satisfying and liberating...unless you're doing these things with your kids in tow.
So I bring you, filched straight from her, and as a part of her Filch it Friday:
Things that make you want to drink gin straight from the cat bowl.
Telling your children IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS that they are to stand next to the cart away from the displays in the housewares section of Kohls where you are desperately seeking bamboo silverware drawer dividers, only to hear, within 1.25 minutes, a loud crash, a wail, and a tiny voice calling out, "SHE DID IT."
Parking your children in the dressing room next to yours at Macy's thinking that this would be a way to keep them isolated from the rest of society and out of trouble while you try on 2 bathing suits, only to sense movement, look down and see your daughter's head poking under the divider as she yells, "I see mommy's nipples!" at the top of her voice.
Your daughter, when asked by her father why she's lying on the living room floor, replying, "Making dirt angels."
Your 6 year old son, when allowed to talk on the phone to his friend whose mother happened to call regarding playdate plans, whispering, "Wait, I've got to go to my room and tell you what we did today at camp," then running into his room and slamming the door.
Now...where is that cat bowl???
Summer has begun for my kids. School is out, and they slipped into their new routine of day camp and swimming lessons and catching fireflies almost effortlessly.
I finished up my work this morning
Because I was working this week until noon, the hours between day camp and swimming lessons were crowded with errands. Post office - check. Shoe store - check. Appointments scheduled - check. Crossing items off of the list has the potential to be satisfying and liberating...unless you're doing these things with your kids in tow.
So I bring you, filched straight from her, and as a part of her Filch it Friday:
Things that make you want to drink gin straight from the cat bowl.
Telling your children IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS that they are to stand next to the cart away from the displays in the housewares section of Kohls where you are desperately seeking bamboo silverware drawer dividers, only to hear, within 1.25 minutes, a loud crash, a wail, and a tiny voice calling out, "SHE DID IT."
Parking your children in the dressing room next to yours at Macy's thinking that this would be a way to keep them isolated from the rest of society and out of trouble while you try on 2 bathing suits, only to sense movement, look down and see your daughter's head poking under the divider as she yells, "I see mommy's nipples!" at the top of her voice.
Your daughter, when asked by her father why she's lying on the living room floor, replying, "Making dirt angels."
Your 6 year old son, when allowed to talk on the phone to his friend whose mother happened to call regarding playdate plans, whispering, "Wait, I've got to go to my room and tell you what we did today at camp," then running into his room and slamming the door.
Now...where is that cat bowl???
Thursday Scary
Everything you need to know about this "lightening gel for sensitive areas" is revealed in the heading Daily Candy gave their review of the product: BungGlow 8.
The FAQ are not to be believed. I must not be as efficient a time manager as I thought, because I can't for the life of me imagine a scenario in which I'd have time to consider any of the recommended uses for this product as items on my "to do" list.
The FAQ are not to be believed. I must not be as efficient a time manager as I thought, because I can't for the life of me imagine a scenario in which I'd have time to consider any of the recommended uses for this product as items on my "to do" list.
Thursday Happy
She Who Will Not Be Fed ate it, and then she asked for more.
I didn't read the ingredients too carefully because I'm afraid that the first one will be crack or Ritalin, but this stuff is so good that I might have to move just so I can be closer to a Wegmans.
I didn't read the ingredients too carefully because I'm afraid that the first one will be crack or Ritalin, but this stuff is so good that I might have to move just so I can be closer to a Wegmans.
A Modest Proposal
Jonathan Swift wrote the quintessential satire, "A Modest Proposal," in which he recommended that the Irish eat their babies. This would be, he argued, a way to address the nutritional deficits brought on by the potato famine, as well as overpopulation.
Every high school student reads the essay, is grossed out, and thereby learns about satire.
I'm going to assume that THIS is the modern day interpretation of Swift's "proposal" in light of the nation's current economic downturn. Because, if it's not, I'm afraid. Very, very afraid.
Every high school student reads the essay, is grossed out, and thereby learns about satire.
I'm going to assume that THIS is the modern day interpretation of Swift's "proposal" in light of the nation's current economic downturn. Because, if it's not, I'm afraid. Very, very afraid.