After the Oscars, somehow this seems tonic. Also, anyone interested should check out dooce.com's post on same. This may not be up your alley--I certainly have never had much patience with Britney--but all the same. Thanks to Amelia for making sure I saw this.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
The glory, blah blah blah.
The Oscars are over now. We had something of a reprise of last year's Oscar debacle, with many of the same folks over for the viewing. This year, we had another DVR episode, with my daughter accidentally brushing the remote with her foot, thus interrupting our delayed Oscar experience, then adding insult to injury by accidentally changing the channel! This meant we missed the announcement of the Best Supporting Actress award (no great loss, according to nearly everyone there). Other than that, and other than the fact that Bruiser threw up early on, we had a pretty good, if noisy and kibitzing, time.
There's always weird stuff at the Oscars. What about that weird guy behind the scenes who kept talking about all the surprises? And what about the Pilobolus dance troupe--on the one hand, kind of cool, on the other hand, as my daughter pointed out, what about the ass that comprised, basically, the heel of the The Devil Wears Prada shoe? Huh?
I had seen nearly all the films with nominations in the major categories this year. (Despite a number of documentaries viewed, I had only seen An Inconvenient Truth. Can't figure out if that's because the docs didn't come to SLC or if I was lazy.) Still haven't seen Pan's Labyrinth, trying to ascertain ahead of time if I'm going to feel too lacerated by the degree of violence, and my scouting has given me conflicting data. Still haven't seen Dreamgirls, can't decided if it will delight or annoy me (on the one hand, Eddie Murphy, whom I stoutly believe still has acting and comedic chops; on the other hand, sorry to say, Beyonce and honestly, probably Jennifer Hudson). I will probably see both.
And why is it that when a film I really, really loved, such as The Departed, gets awards that I feel personally gratified and vindicated? Did I make the movie? Did I write its terrific screenplay, direct, edit, or produce it? Was I one of the big fat movie stars that did the acting that, taken together, comprised a seminar in film acting? I think we all know the answers to these questions. And yet I felt so very pleased that it won Best Picture. So very, very pleased.
Well, that's it--I have no answers except that my over-investment in the fate of films at the Oscars puzzles even me. The show's too, too long, and watching it with anyone but my own self reminds me uncomfortably of everything that's wrong with the entire experience--how stupid the whole award thing is, how it trivializes one of my most reliable and deep aesthetic experiences. Yet I was pleased to see Scorsese finally win his directing award, pleased that his longtime editor won the award and moved that both he and she were visibly moved. Sorry that Peter O'Toole, who surely is one of the great actors, didn't win for his very moving performance.
And so on. Next year, I'm sure I will be doing the same thing, watching the stupid show with lots of chatter and food and dogs, simultaneously critiquing it and taking it in.
There's always weird stuff at the Oscars. What about that weird guy behind the scenes who kept talking about all the surprises? And what about the Pilobolus dance troupe--on the one hand, kind of cool, on the other hand, as my daughter pointed out, what about the ass that comprised, basically, the heel of the The Devil Wears Prada shoe? Huh?
I had seen nearly all the films with nominations in the major categories this year. (Despite a number of documentaries viewed, I had only seen An Inconvenient Truth. Can't figure out if that's because the docs didn't come to SLC or if I was lazy.) Still haven't seen Pan's Labyrinth, trying to ascertain ahead of time if I'm going to feel too lacerated by the degree of violence, and my scouting has given me conflicting data. Still haven't seen Dreamgirls, can't decided if it will delight or annoy me (on the one hand, Eddie Murphy, whom I stoutly believe still has acting and comedic chops; on the other hand, sorry to say, Beyonce and honestly, probably Jennifer Hudson). I will probably see both.
And why is it that when a film I really, really loved, such as The Departed, gets awards that I feel personally gratified and vindicated? Did I make the movie? Did I write its terrific screenplay, direct, edit, or produce it? Was I one of the big fat movie stars that did the acting that, taken together, comprised a seminar in film acting? I think we all know the answers to these questions. And yet I felt so very pleased that it won Best Picture. So very, very pleased.
Well, that's it--I have no answers except that my over-investment in the fate of films at the Oscars puzzles even me. The show's too, too long, and watching it with anyone but my own self reminds me uncomfortably of everything that's wrong with the entire experience--how stupid the whole award thing is, how it trivializes one of my most reliable and deep aesthetic experiences. Yet I was pleased to see Scorsese finally win his directing award, pleased that his longtime editor won the award and moved that both he and she were visibly moved. Sorry that Peter O'Toole, who surely is one of the great actors, didn't win for his very moving performance.
And so on. Next year, I'm sure I will be doing the same thing, watching the stupid show with lots of chatter and food and dogs, simultaneously critiquing it and taking it in.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
My funeral.
Once, I opined to my brother in an e-mail that, at my funeral, I would like to have the song "Sit Down, You're Rocking the Boat" from Guys and Dolls, with full cast and costume. (My son--singing son--feels that's inappropriate, but I don't--check out the lyrics. I also want parts of the Brahms German Requiem, with a big old choir. I'm going to leave it to others to work out the details of that.)
However, when I suggested to my brother that he should help secure the choir, costumes, etc. for the musical portion of my funeral, he had this to say:
"I already have your funeral planned out. Your casket will be next to the slurpee and popcorn machines. We will be listening to Slaughter and Twisted Sister from the CD "Monster Ballads" available from K-Tel."
I like my idea better, but I'm open, I guess. Not that I'll be around to, you know, eat popcorn or tear up at Slaughter or anything. I'm going to have to think about whose hands into which I should entrust this sacred matter. I do, however, like the idea of an event that I have sort of planned but that I'm not actually in charge of anymore--when you're dead, you actually do have to let go of things. Well, some things, anyway. We'll see how good I am at letting go when I'm dead.
But I'm telling you, that song from Guys and Dolls would make a hell of a send-off.
However, when I suggested to my brother that he should help secure the choir, costumes, etc. for the musical portion of my funeral, he had this to say:
"I already have your funeral planned out. Your casket will be next to the slurpee and popcorn machines. We will be listening to Slaughter and Twisted Sister from the CD "Monster Ballads" available from K-Tel."
I like my idea better, but I'm open, I guess. Not that I'll be around to, you know, eat popcorn or tear up at Slaughter or anything. I'm going to have to think about whose hands into which I should entrust this sacred matter. I do, however, like the idea of an event that I have sort of planned but that I'm not actually in charge of anymore--when you're dead, you actually do have to let go of things. Well, some things, anyway. We'll see how good I am at letting go when I'm dead.
But I'm telling you, that song from Guys and Dolls would make a hell of a send-off.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
300 extra miles, the hard way.
Well, we're back from our anniversary trip (happy anniversary, honey!) which was fun, but in an ordeal kind of way. That's because the template for this trip was set when the historian and I ran down to San Bernardino-ish for running son's race in December. It was surprisingly not an ordeal--we drove just to Cedar City late on a Thursday, to Walnut the next day, which took us only till about 2 p.m., and without any kind of unearthly early wakeup, I might add. That gave us the afternoon and evening in Walnut, the morning at the race, half the afternoon poking around Claremont and environs, a drive to St. George, and an easy drive back home on Sunday. It was so fun!
So we decided that a SoCal trip through the hi-des (I saw this as a bumper sticker) would be cool, but that this time we'd go to the coast. It was only about 150 more miles each way. The plan was, we'd drive through the area of the high desert where I spent some growing up years (Edwards AFB), which seemed cool, then down through a mountain valley to Ventura and up the 101 just 30 miles from there to Santa Barbara.
Okay, but it turned out that those 150 miles were slow miles. There were some fast parts through the mountains, but some slow parts in the desert, which made the trip feel laden with anxiety for an already anxious person. (Hint: I'm not talking about the historian.)
Still:
ring of fire in the Whiskey Pete's swimming pool
miles outside of sin city
palm shadows in the pool
pier
Santa Barbara evening sky
evening sky 2
orange grove (we bought a box of just-picked oranges)
blizzard-ish in Utah on the way home
So we decided that a SoCal trip through the hi-des (I saw this as a bumper sticker) would be cool, but that this time we'd go to the coast. It was only about 150 more miles each way. The plan was, we'd drive through the area of the high desert where I spent some growing up years (Edwards AFB), which seemed cool, then down through a mountain valley to Ventura and up the 101 just 30 miles from there to Santa Barbara.
Okay, but it turned out that those 150 miles were slow miles. There were some fast parts through the mountains, but some slow parts in the desert, which made the trip feel laden with anxiety for an already anxious person. (Hint: I'm not talking about the historian.)
Still:
ring of fire in the Whiskey Pete's swimming pool
miles outside of sin city
palm shadows in the pool
pier
Santa Barbara evening sky
evening sky 2
orange grove (we bought a box of just-picked oranges)
blizzard-ish in Utah on the way home
Friday, February 16, 2007
Confessions.
1. I took down my Christmas tree just yesterday.
2. I was in an escalating rage about work-related stuff for much of the day yesterday. It did not make me a nicer person. I had to cry and then walk around in the cold at the dog park at 6 p.m., plus eat Indian food, to simmer down.
3. I'm behind in my work.
4. I'm often gripped by a venal envy and also I often see slights where they are not intended.
5. A three-day weekend will save me from myself (I hope).
2. I was in an escalating rage about work-related stuff for much of the day yesterday. It did not make me a nicer person. I had to cry and then walk around in the cold at the dog park at 6 p.m., plus eat Indian food, to simmer down.
3. I'm behind in my work.
4. I'm often gripped by a venal envy and also I often see slights where they are not intended.
5. A three-day weekend will save me from myself (I hope).
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Love and play. And a mouse update.
Love: Happy Valentine's Day to the people.
Play: I sure do get a gigantic charge out of the little techno-toys. Thanks to middlebrow for putting a del.icio.us thingie on his blog, thus inciting me to explore it myself. It's good, though, don't you think? Just to play with stuff like this as the amateur that I most certainly am?
It feels analogous to the fun running son is having in his film-making class, which he's taking for the second time--bright boy, who's maybe really having a joy-of-learning experience for the first time in a long while (again, except for basketball class). To bring everyone down by citing a poem, it's also like Yeats said:
"Labour is blossoming or dancing where
The body is not bruised to pleasure soul.
Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil."
("Among School Children")
Mouse update: Seven (maybe eight--see chart below) mice later, each released unharmed into the wilds of the field behind the house, we seem to be slowing down, perhaps meaning that for now, we are statistically mouse-free.
Incidence of Mouse Collection
Using Humane Mouse Trap
Methodology
Or else that the mice are plotting their revenge.
Play: I sure do get a gigantic charge out of the little techno-toys. Thanks to middlebrow for putting a del.icio.us thingie on his blog, thus inciting me to explore it myself. It's good, though, don't you think? Just to play with stuff like this as the amateur that I most certainly am?
It feels analogous to the fun running son is having in his film-making class, which he's taking for the second time--bright boy, who's maybe really having a joy-of-learning experience for the first time in a long while (again, except for basketball class). To bring everyone down by citing a poem, it's also like Yeats said:
"Labour is blossoming or dancing where
The body is not bruised to pleasure soul.
Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil."
("Among School Children")
Mouse update: Seven (maybe eight--see chart below) mice later, each released unharmed into the wilds of the field behind the house, we seem to be slowing down, perhaps meaning that for now, we are statistically mouse-free.
Incidence of Mouse Collection
Using Humane Mouse Trap
Methodology
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
I don't have no money, but baby I'm rich in personality.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Mouse heaven.
One day this week, while I was making my lunch, I saw a small mammal streak across the back of the counter against the backsplash. I shrieked--a bonafide, girlish shriek. I managed to locate the critter--his long tail gave him away--and I had managed to get my mouse-trapping towel in hand. The wee bastard looked up at me. Face to face. The cheek! The nerve! Brazen, shameless, clearly without a clear sense of his place in the scheme of things, i.e., not allowed in my kitchen while I am making lunch!
After several fruitless sallies with the towel at the very bold mouse --alas, to no avail!, hence the term "fruitless"--I gave up. The mouse leapt from the counter, across the floor, and to parts unknown, i.e., parts invisible to me, in the crazy mouse-lair that is apparently my kitchen. The thought of it made me a little twitchy. I called the historian to announce this mouse activity, information which he absorbed with his customary equanimity.
Our cat has done a fair degree of mouse-killing this winter, as well. It's because we live on the verge of a big field, and it's been a very cold winter. That's what I'm telling myself, anyway. Luckily I had, with a fair degree of prescience, ordered this, in a very prudent set of four:
Humane Mouse Trap!
You bait it with a cracker smeared with peanut butter, which, in the fiendishly clever ("humane," they say in the ad--HA!) design of the trap, the mouse cannot ever reach, but can only smell! Thus, when the mouse enters the trap, driven mad by the divine aroma of roasted and ground nuts, the back door snaps and the mouse pounds the perforated walls with its little paws, saying "Attica! Attica!"
At this point, you take the contraption outside and release the rodent, preferably with a little blessing. "Vaya con dios, wee bastard," for instance.
Three mousies so far, and it's been only twenty-four hours since we set the traps. Tomorrow, we start the mad disinfecting. Like, forever.
After several fruitless sallies with the towel at the very bold mouse --alas, to no avail!, hence the term "fruitless"--I gave up. The mouse leapt from the counter, across the floor, and to parts unknown, i.e., parts invisible to me, in the crazy mouse-lair that is apparently my kitchen. The thought of it made me a little twitchy. I called the historian to announce this mouse activity, information which he absorbed with his customary equanimity.
Our cat has done a fair degree of mouse-killing this winter, as well. It's because we live on the verge of a big field, and it's been a very cold winter. That's what I'm telling myself, anyway. Luckily I had, with a fair degree of prescience, ordered this, in a very prudent set of four:
Humane Mouse Trap!
You bait it with a cracker smeared with peanut butter, which, in the fiendishly clever ("humane," they say in the ad--HA!) design of the trap, the mouse cannot ever reach, but can only smell! Thus, when the mouse enters the trap, driven mad by the divine aroma of roasted and ground nuts, the back door snaps and the mouse pounds the perforated walls with its little paws, saying "Attica! Attica!"
At this point, you take the contraption outside and release the rodent, preferably with a little blessing. "Vaya con dios, wee bastard," for instance.
Three mousies so far, and it's been only twenty-four hours since we set the traps. Tomorrow, we start the mad disinfecting. Like, forever.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
I'm sorry it hurts so much.
Here is a picture of running son's foot, as he unbandages it:
Once he got it unwrapped, there was a five-inch long bruise along the outside of the foot which is at the moment purple and which will, no doubt, turn all the colors of the bruise rainbow over the next few days. (In consideration of the exquisite sensibilities of my readers, I am sparing you an actual photo of the actual bruise.) He rolled/sprained his ankle in basketball class and has been icing, elevating, and, as you can see, wrapping it.
He took off the wrap in order to take a shower, but the unwrapping was quite an ordeal. For some reason, he believed that athletic tape would not hurt to remove, but of course, there he was wrong. "Coach White told me I should shave it," he said, with an "as if!" snicker in his voice.
That was before the hurting started in earnest. "Do you think this is actually pulling out hair?" he said. I told him I thought so, probably yes. He had to rest in between pulls. After one particularly huge ouch, he said, "What IS hair, anyway? What is its alibi?" Such a good question.
Once he got it unwrapped, there was a five-inch long bruise along the outside of the foot which is at the moment purple and which will, no doubt, turn all the colors of the bruise rainbow over the next few days. (In consideration of the exquisite sensibilities of my readers, I am sparing you an actual photo of the actual bruise.) He rolled/sprained his ankle in basketball class and has been icing, elevating, and, as you can see, wrapping it.
He took off the wrap in order to take a shower, but the unwrapping was quite an ordeal. For some reason, he believed that athletic tape would not hurt to remove, but of course, there he was wrong. "Coach White told me I should shave it," he said, with an "as if!" snicker in his voice.
That was before the hurting started in earnest. "Do you think this is actually pulling out hair?" he said. I told him I thought so, probably yes. He had to rest in between pulls. After one particularly huge ouch, he said, "What IS hair, anyway? What is its alibi?" Such a good question.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Eaten by dogs.
After a hectic Friday, involving work at school in the morning, a dash home to let the dogs out, and a dash back to school for tenure meetings, I hopped in the car and dashed up to Logan to visit college daughter. We had a whirlwind 24 hour nonstop fun-fest, including the viewing of three (3) films; the consumption of dinner, breakfast, and lunch; a spot of shopping; a swapping of certain music files; and chatter, klatsching, and catching up.
The movies were The Queen (second viewing for me--held up well); The Last King of Scotland (I asked the guy at the Logan Art Cinema what the film was like. He hadn't seen it, so he inspected the rating notes on the poster. "Strong violence and gruesome images," he announced. "You'll have to tell me after you see it." For the record, I concur with the official ratings notes. ); and Because I Said So, which is every bit as not-good as all the reviews say, and yet, go figure, I somehow still enjoyed it.
The big dining news in Logan is the Crumb Brothers bakery, where you can have a lovely breakfast of truly inspired pastries, and you can also have a lovely lunch. We had breakfast. College daughter is considering transferring someplace closer to home, so this may be my last trip up to visit her in Logan. But it might be worth going there sometime just for the bread, I kid you not. Anyway, if you're in Logan, you should go there. The only sad part of this story is that the loaf of wonderful whole wheat bread I brought home was mysteriously eaten--two-thirds of it, anyway--by dogs while the historian and I were out tonight.
Shopping moratorium update: I bought college daughter a new pair of jeans and a few shirts, a belt and some gloves. Myself I bought a red undershirt (see necessary underwear exception clause of moratorium below). Otherwise, nothing. The photographic record:
Shopping but not buying (dressing rooms at Old Navy, where college daughter is trying on clothes)
Who doesn't need orange and ochre leather gloves? On clearance? For $7 a pair? I put these back, though.
The movies were The Queen (second viewing for me--held up well); The Last King of Scotland (I asked the guy at the Logan Art Cinema what the film was like. He hadn't seen it, so he inspected the rating notes on the poster. "Strong violence and gruesome images," he announced. "You'll have to tell me after you see it." For the record, I concur with the official ratings notes. ); and Because I Said So, which is every bit as not-good as all the reviews say, and yet, go figure, I somehow still enjoyed it.
The big dining news in Logan is the Crumb Brothers bakery, where you can have a lovely breakfast of truly inspired pastries, and you can also have a lovely lunch. We had breakfast. College daughter is considering transferring someplace closer to home, so this may be my last trip up to visit her in Logan. But it might be worth going there sometime just for the bread, I kid you not. Anyway, if you're in Logan, you should go there. The only sad part of this story is that the loaf of wonderful whole wheat bread I brought home was mysteriously eaten--two-thirds of it, anyway--by dogs while the historian and I were out tonight.
Shopping moratorium update: I bought college daughter a new pair of jeans and a few shirts, a belt and some gloves. Myself I bought a red undershirt (see necessary underwear exception clause of moratorium below). Otherwise, nothing. The photographic record:
Shopping but not buying (dressing rooms at Old Navy, where college daughter is trying on clothes)
Who doesn't need orange and ochre leather gloves? On clearance? For $7 a pair? I put these back, though.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
A brief history of my life (in pictures).
As a result of my new whirlwind of winnowing, straightening, and reshuffling, otherwise known as "I'm not buying new clothes or books" behavior, I have culled a fat pile of photos that I've been scanning in and uploading to Flickr. I may be the only one having fun, but on the other hand, I certainly am having fun, and that's at least a good part of the point.
Here are some of the artifacts from my past that I have found:
I.D. Card
At eighteen
Make-up artist daughter and running son in dinosaur blanket
Here are some of the artifacts from my past that I have found:
I.D. Card
At eighteen
Make-up artist daughter and running son in dinosaur blanket
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Be it resolved.
It was the historian's birthday a couple of days ago, and I had the pleasure of piling up the presents around him when he first woke up. And cooking him a favorite breakfast. Also sending a couple of birthday-ish e-mails during the day. The real news is, however, that when I was buying the presents, I was buying only presents for him. Rather than the sad but pervasive, 'one present for him, a couple for me' strategy that I happen to know other people besides me practice.
And that's because (throat clearing, drum rolling, a hush falls over the room) I have made a resolution not to buy any more (a) clothes or (b) books until June.
(small print: 1. the book buying retrenchment does not count the redeeming of gift certificates at Sam Weller's. 2. the book buying retrenchment allows for one exception, to wit: attendance at academic conferences where there is a book fair, such as AWP. 3. clothes buying retrenchment includes a moratorium on accessories purchases, to wit: shoes, handbags, jewelry. 4. clothes buying retrenchment allows for purchase of necessary underclothing. 5. clothes buying retrenchment may allow for symbolic clothing purchase in vacation situations, to wit: over President's Day holiday, when historian and megastore are on a little trip to Santa Barbara for anniversary, which may call for shopping of a symbolic nature, really, you know, just to be able to say, "I got that [clothing item of a symbolic nature] in Santa Barbara when the historian and I were celebrating our X anniversary." We'll just have to see.)
In the meantime, I am engaging in furious amounts of replacement behavior, such as organizing, sorting, and discarding all sorts of stuff that has crowded into all sorts of spaces. The sheer amount of floor space in my at-home study is breathtaking, and not just to me. I bring people around to show it to them. Bruiser and Betty can scarcely believe that they are allowed in, because there's room for them, and all the things they might have heretofore chewed up are put away in a tidy fashion.
The historian has hardly indicated any disbelief in my sincerity nor my ability to carry out this resolution. Friends, however, have openly scoffed. My daughter said, "That's a ridiculous resolution," but relented when I explained that if I kept on bring new stuff home, it was harder to see what old stuff I needed to give away.
In the meantime, I have allowed that I may still download (legally!) music and buy an occasional cd. I have been called by the allure of several items of clothing recently, but have talked myself off the ledge, as it were, and gone home with nothing more than toothpaste and magazine-sized file boxes to show for it. We're at about two weeks and counting, and I think it's going to stick.
And that's because (throat clearing, drum rolling, a hush falls over the room) I have made a resolution not to buy any more (a) clothes or (b) books until June.
(small print: 1. the book buying retrenchment does not count the redeeming of gift certificates at Sam Weller's. 2. the book buying retrenchment allows for one exception, to wit: attendance at academic conferences where there is a book fair, such as AWP. 3. clothes buying retrenchment includes a moratorium on accessories purchases, to wit: shoes, handbags, jewelry. 4. clothes buying retrenchment allows for purchase of necessary underclothing. 5. clothes buying retrenchment may allow for symbolic clothing purchase in vacation situations, to wit: over President's Day holiday, when historian and megastore are on a little trip to Santa Barbara for anniversary, which may call for shopping of a symbolic nature, really, you know, just to be able to say, "I got that [clothing item of a symbolic nature] in Santa Barbara when the historian and I were celebrating our X anniversary." We'll just have to see.)
In the meantime, I am engaging in furious amounts of replacement behavior, such as organizing, sorting, and discarding all sorts of stuff that has crowded into all sorts of spaces. The sheer amount of floor space in my at-home study is breathtaking, and not just to me. I bring people around to show it to them. Bruiser and Betty can scarcely believe that they are allowed in, because there's room for them, and all the things they might have heretofore chewed up are put away in a tidy fashion.
The historian has hardly indicated any disbelief in my sincerity nor my ability to carry out this resolution. Friends, however, have openly scoffed. My daughter said, "That's a ridiculous resolution," but relented when I explained that if I kept on bring new stuff home, it was harder to see what old stuff I needed to give away.
In the meantime, I have allowed that I may still download (legally!) music and buy an occasional cd. I have been called by the allure of several items of clothing recently, but have talked myself off the ledge, as it were, and gone home with nothing more than toothpaste and magazine-sized file boxes to show for it. We're at about two weeks and counting, and I think it's going to stick.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Very superstitious.
The Jazz won last night, which was great, a fitting marker for a night in which running son moved back in for a two month stint. He also showed me the ropes of iMovie, expertise in which is a result of what appears to be his favorite high school class of all time, Film Making (it's possible that Fundamentals of Basketball might be the true best class of all time, but besides that). Thus, a tiny film-making exercise I gave myself in Final Cut Pro, he turned into an actual finished film in iMovie in about ten minutes. Of course, it's about 40MB too big for YouTube, so we'll have to figure out some other way to publishing it to the world.
But back to the Jazz: at the beginning of the season I was exultant and couldn't get enough--enough writing about basketball, enough actual games, enough talk about it, etc. But I find myself shying away from it these days. If they lose, I don't go near the sports pages. That's not all: I find myself reluctant to actually watch games. I find myself more listening to the historian and/or running son watch the games. Preferably from an adjacent room. As I mentioned to a friend this morning, I might go in to watch a few minutes of the end of a game it appears the Jazz have completely sewed up.
Will I jinx the Jazz with my amateur love, a love that has too many highs and lows? Can I just not bear even the thought of the crushing disappointment if they lose?
All I know is, with me not watching, they still have the fourth best record in the league.
But back to the Jazz: at the beginning of the season I was exultant and couldn't get enough--enough writing about basketball, enough actual games, enough talk about it, etc. But I find myself shying away from it these days. If they lose, I don't go near the sports pages. That's not all: I find myself reluctant to actually watch games. I find myself more listening to the historian and/or running son watch the games. Preferably from an adjacent room. As I mentioned to a friend this morning, I might go in to watch a few minutes of the end of a game it appears the Jazz have completely sewed up.
Will I jinx the Jazz with my amateur love, a love that has too many highs and lows? Can I just not bear even the thought of the crushing disappointment if they lose?
All I know is, with me not watching, they still have the fourth best record in the league.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Car wash.
Today, the historian and I were all over creation. To wit:
1. His office to pick up more files about the socialists in Utah.
2. Les Madeleines, for Saturday pastries.
3. Chad's, to pick up vegetables (Kale, spring mix, chard, carrots, plus farm eggs; alas, no collards or parsnips!)
4. Jr. Jazz b-ball game (we missed the tragic first quarter, where they got way behind, so that even playing even meant they lost by, well, a lot)
5. the car wash.
At the car wash, we chose the bay where the lady with the white SUV was just starting--we figured, one car, then it'll be our turn. The historian's car wash philosophy is, rinse off the grit and salt periodically. (My car wash philosophy is more geological, as in geological time, as in, this car will get dirty as soon as I wash it, and dirt is really the natural state of affairs, so why bother? This is why the historian is in charge of pretty much all car washing at our house.)
As it turned out, the lady with the white SUV had what amounted to a psychological disorder with regard to her car. Basically, she wanted to wash it, and wash it, and wash it, and then spank its shiny pink bottom (metaphorically speaking). I said to the historian, "she's gonna need to bag it and carry it home, otherwise it will just get dirty." (see my car wash philosophy above)
We watched helplessly, but with some amusement too, as the cars came and went, streaming almost-frozen car wash water from their shiny exteriors, while our white SUV lady kept scrubbing, and scrubbing, and scrubbing. Her car was fluffy with fluffy pink soap suds. Then the rinsing, which was impressively thorough.
"She won't wax, though, will she?" I wondered, hopefully, "because it's too cold, right?"
Then the waxing.
We managed to rinse our car off lickety-split, after the waiting. Here's what car washing looks like when the historian does it and you, car wash slacker, are on the inside:
1. His office to pick up more files about the socialists in Utah.
2. Les Madeleines, for Saturday pastries.
3. Chad's, to pick up vegetables (Kale, spring mix, chard, carrots, plus farm eggs; alas, no collards or parsnips!)
4. Jr. Jazz b-ball game (we missed the tragic first quarter, where they got way behind, so that even playing even meant they lost by, well, a lot)
5. the car wash.
At the car wash, we chose the bay where the lady with the white SUV was just starting--we figured, one car, then it'll be our turn. The historian's car wash philosophy is, rinse off the grit and salt periodically. (My car wash philosophy is more geological, as in geological time, as in, this car will get dirty as soon as I wash it, and dirt is really the natural state of affairs, so why bother? This is why the historian is in charge of pretty much all car washing at our house.)
As it turned out, the lady with the white SUV had what amounted to a psychological disorder with regard to her car. Basically, she wanted to wash it, and wash it, and wash it, and then spank its shiny pink bottom (metaphorically speaking). I said to the historian, "she's gonna need to bag it and carry it home, otherwise it will just get dirty." (see my car wash philosophy above)
We watched helplessly, but with some amusement too, as the cars came and went, streaming almost-frozen car wash water from their shiny exteriors, while our white SUV lady kept scrubbing, and scrubbing, and scrubbing. Her car was fluffy with fluffy pink soap suds. Then the rinsing, which was impressively thorough.
"She won't wax, though, will she?" I wondered, hopefully, "because it's too cold, right?"
Then the waxing.
We managed to rinse our car off lickety-split, after the waiting. Here's what car washing looks like when the historian does it and you, car wash slacker, are on the inside:
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Jam and cake.
December and January are the Birthday Blitz around here--it starts mid-December and doesn't quit till mid-February, with soccer coach son's birthday, which takes place in Kansas, so I don't bake a cake for that one. However, so far I've baked three cakes since mid-December, and will bake at least a couple more before it's all done, and that doesn't include the tiny cupcakes I baked for the big family dinner.
This year, I have ventured forth with new, untested recipes. While I was poring over cake recipes on Sunday for singing son's chocolate cake
(ME: What kind of cake would you like?
HIM: Whose birthday did you make a chocolate cake for?
ME: College daughter's
HIM: like that one, only chocolatier. Chocolate-y chocolate.)
I ran across a recipe that I thought would be good. In another cookbook, I read a recipe for a Blackberry Jam cake, not appropriate for this occasion, but I thought of the blackberry jam I made during my jam-making mania a few months ago, and it seemed like a good idea to fill the chocolate cake with blackberry jam.
So, cut to the layers coming out of the oven, me deftly turning them over, still in their pans, onto clean-towel-covered racks, then hightailing it to the dog park. An hour and fifteen minutes later: the cake layers refused to come out of their pans except in raggedy, sorry-looking parts. Mostly they came out. Mostly. I could tell from the clumps that didn't fall right out that the cake tasted good, though. So we had that going for us. Which was good, I guess, except that I had to do some plastic surgery on the cake, using ganache as the smoother/filler. And the sides just didn't get iced, that was that.
I decided to fill half the cake with blackberry jam and half with the ganache. I drew a thin line with the knife down the center of the cake where the Mason-Dixon line was for jam and not-jam. Then, on the point of serving the pretty-on-the-inside cake, I announced: "I filled half the cake with blackberry jam and half not, so tell me if you want a jam piece." Immediately, running son and his dad said, "No jam!" Everyone else wanted some of the jam half, and everyone thought it was good, and it was good. Even if the cake had a small tendency to fall apart. We all fell into a cake-eating daze.
My daughter thoughtfully opined that having "clumps" of jam--aka actual berries--was weird, though singing son and his wife disagreed. Her husband asked for another piece. "A jam piece?" I asked. "Jam it up, sister," he said.
Running son let out a shriek--"Jam bite!" Ineffective jam quarantine, I guess.
This year, I have ventured forth with new, untested recipes. While I was poring over cake recipes on Sunday for singing son's chocolate cake
(ME: What kind of cake would you like?
HIM: Whose birthday did you make a chocolate cake for?
ME: College daughter's
HIM: like that one, only chocolatier. Chocolate-y chocolate.)
I ran across a recipe that I thought would be good. In another cookbook, I read a recipe for a Blackberry Jam cake, not appropriate for this occasion, but I thought of the blackberry jam I made during my jam-making mania a few months ago, and it seemed like a good idea to fill the chocolate cake with blackberry jam.
So, cut to the layers coming out of the oven, me deftly turning them over, still in their pans, onto clean-towel-covered racks, then hightailing it to the dog park. An hour and fifteen minutes later: the cake layers refused to come out of their pans except in raggedy, sorry-looking parts. Mostly they came out. Mostly. I could tell from the clumps that didn't fall right out that the cake tasted good, though. So we had that going for us. Which was good, I guess, except that I had to do some plastic surgery on the cake, using ganache as the smoother/filler. And the sides just didn't get iced, that was that.
I decided to fill half the cake with blackberry jam and half with the ganache. I drew a thin line with the knife down the center of the cake where the Mason-Dixon line was for jam and not-jam. Then, on the point of serving the pretty-on-the-inside cake, I announced: "I filled half the cake with blackberry jam and half not, so tell me if you want a jam piece." Immediately, running son and his dad said, "No jam!" Everyone else wanted some of the jam half, and everyone thought it was good, and it was good. Even if the cake had a small tendency to fall apart. We all fell into a cake-eating daze.
My daughter thoughtfully opined that having "clumps" of jam--aka actual berries--was weird, though singing son and his wife disagreed. Her husband asked for another piece. "A jam piece?" I asked. "Jam it up, sister," he said.
Running son let out a shriek--"Jam bite!" Ineffective jam quarantine, I guess.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Friday, January 05, 2007
Reliving my life.
Today, my daughter decided it was time to venture out into the world with two children and a stroller. Or a 'buggy,' as it's called over here, a two-seater, one in front of the other. A mother with her two children leading the way while she propels them forward. And a grandmother tagging along.
As we walked to the post office and the library (a Carnegie library, so there you are--the Scotland-U.S. connection in a building) with small stressor after another (was that just me?), she and I had a chance to reminisce about taking multiple children out into the world to do errands. Hers is a small village, so she has become accustomed to doing errands on foot, and more power to her. In my day, we lived way the hell away from everyone, and if I were to go out, I needed a car. I had access to our car for much of that period of our lives, but not always. Also, our cars were sorry affairs some of the time, so you had to factor that in. I remember a period of my life when my persistent nightmare, waking and sleeping, was a car wreck in which one of my children died.
Miriam, the two and a half year old, could not understand why we thought it would be desirable that she keep her shoes on in the library, and had a little tantrum about it. The infant Evie was very patient, with only one small squawking period. We planned for treats for the youngster, bought another treat, and got home fairly tuckered out.
I mentioned--and not in a cautionary way, just a reminiscitory (word? should be--) way--that when I was in her shoes, I tried not to take all the kids out when I had errands to run. What did I do? I suppose I traded kid-minding with neighbors, or waited until the evening, maybe? Or Saturday? My daughter said, 'I have very fond memories of when you would take all of us to Reams--we always got a treat, an ice cream cone or a fruit roll-up . . .'
Well, there you have it. One woman's ordeal is another kid's shangri-la.
As we walked to the post office and the library (a Carnegie library, so there you are--the Scotland-U.S. connection in a building) with small stressor after another (was that just me?), she and I had a chance to reminisce about taking multiple children out into the world to do errands. Hers is a small village, so she has become accustomed to doing errands on foot, and more power to her. In my day, we lived way the hell away from everyone, and if I were to go out, I needed a car. I had access to our car for much of that period of our lives, but not always. Also, our cars were sorry affairs some of the time, so you had to factor that in. I remember a period of my life when my persistent nightmare, waking and sleeping, was a car wreck in which one of my children died.
Miriam, the two and a half year old, could not understand why we thought it would be desirable that she keep her shoes on in the library, and had a little tantrum about it. The infant Evie was very patient, with only one small squawking period. We planned for treats for the youngster, bought another treat, and got home fairly tuckered out.
I mentioned--and not in a cautionary way, just a reminiscitory (word? should be--) way--that when I was in her shoes, I tried not to take all the kids out when I had errands to run. What did I do? I suppose I traded kid-minding with neighbors, or waited until the evening, maybe? Or Saturday? My daughter said, 'I have very fond memories of when you would take all of us to Reams--we always got a treat, an ice cream cone or a fruit roll-up . . .'
Well, there you have it. One woman's ordeal is another kid's shangri-la.
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