Can’t wait to see you! Did I mention we’ve rented out your room?
Again with the looming visit. My brother called last night when I was out and left a message—something about wanting to give me a pep talk before the visit.
He’s a great man, my brother. He knows this is the first visit with my parents since toad and I split up. And he knows that there are issues that I have with my parents that make visits more complicated than they might be otherwise. So nice and thoughtful of him to call me for a pep talk!
So I called him back.
Two more extended family members have been added to the list of attendees for the weekend, one of whom my mother and grandmother cannot stand for the singular reason that she is not “family.” She’s been married to their brother/son for 28 years. But not family. And I’d asked my mother not to include them for that very reason—the idea of spending a weekend listening to my mother and grandmother rant about her when she’s in the next room is really not my idea of fun. Mom invited them anyway.
But the actual news, the news that inspired my brother to use “Don’t freak out, Ter…” as an opener, is this: my mother has rented out my room on Saturday night. She rented out my brother’s, too.
Wait, did I mention that my parents own an inn? They do. It has seven guest rooms, one of which can split be split into two. Eight guest rooms. When I was figuring out when to visit, I specifically asked that it be on a “light” weekend—I need to do some furniture inventory while I’m there, and some of the furniture in question is in guest rooms. I can’t be in the rooms if they’re rented.
So we chose this weekend, when only one guest—the Ukrainian woman—would be there.
Plenty of rooms. Most of them empty. So some extended family was invited to join us. And more. And more. And guests called to rent rooms and rather than saying, “No, I’m sorry, we’re full that weekend,” my mother bumped her kids. I’m doubling up (though no one but my brother has bothered to tell me that, yet, much less call to find out whether that’s okay with me). My brother’s sleeping on the floor of my parents’ room.
“Come now, frog,” I hear you saying. “Surely, if doubling up is such a problem for you, you could sleep on the couch?”
Alas, I cannot. For my mother INVITED MORE EXTENDED FAMILY to sleep on the couches.
I’m sorely tempted to make a reservation elsewhere.
Friday, January 30, 2004
Thursday, January 29, 2004
The fam
I have a visit with my extended family looming before me and it’s funny how they’re all back in my subconscious—many after a fairly lengthy absence. It started slowly and quietly at the beginning of the week with random bits of conversation that would cause them to appear in my brain.
On Tuesday, it was the thing with the snowblower.
Today over lunch, I found myself talking about beef jerky and venison. I happen to know a fair amount about those things, despite being more or less vegetarian for about eight years, because I grew up in a family that hunted and raised cattle. I know things about hunting and butchering and what happens after those events in order to make food that’s edible and interesting. But I don’t think about it very often.
Today I was in an Indian restaurant for lunch with some colleagues. And I talked to them about beef jerky.
It’s just bizarre, the way I start to slip away from myself when I’m going to see everyone again. Who I am is subsumed by who they think I am, by who I was when they last knew me, by who they wish I was now. Or who they pretend that I am.
There’s a lot to look forward to during the visit. I’ll get to meet my cousin’s fiancé and her daughter for the first time. I’ll get to see my brother. I haven’t been to my hometown in a few years, and that’s always interesting. (I get more than a small thrill out of walking through my hometown mall—I look enough like a lesbian that people tend to gawk at me, which I think is hilarious. I like to wave at them. And sometimes blow them kisses.)
I’m sure there will be bunches of other people I’ll see during the short time that I’m there—childhood friends, parents of childhood friends, friends’ of my parents who they think that I know but I don’t. That’s just how my parents are—tons of people around at all times. In fact, when I booked my trip, it was just me going to see my parents. As of yesterday, five additional out-of-town family members have been confirmed. Four more are “maybes.” There’s also the Ukrainian woman my parents are hosting (I have no idea why, but she’s living with them for a month).
So I’ve been thinking about beef jerky and venison jerky and hunting shacks and frog catching and snowmobiling and the family land and how many layers I’ll need to wear to cope with the weather and what the hell I can buy for my dad for his birthday at this point and what dish I could make that I can eat and share that might go with borscht (made by the afore-mentioned Ukrainian woman) and a ham (my mother’s contribution to the meal) for dinner…no, that’s supper on Saturday night. Maybe something that’s pink?
No doubt the accent will be back full force by the time I come home.
I have a visit with my extended family looming before me and it’s funny how they’re all back in my subconscious—many after a fairly lengthy absence. It started slowly and quietly at the beginning of the week with random bits of conversation that would cause them to appear in my brain.
On Tuesday, it was the thing with the snowblower.
Today over lunch, I found myself talking about beef jerky and venison. I happen to know a fair amount about those things, despite being more or less vegetarian for about eight years, because I grew up in a family that hunted and raised cattle. I know things about hunting and butchering and what happens after those events in order to make food that’s edible and interesting. But I don’t think about it very often.
Today I was in an Indian restaurant for lunch with some colleagues. And I talked to them about beef jerky.
It’s just bizarre, the way I start to slip away from myself when I’m going to see everyone again. Who I am is subsumed by who they think I am, by who I was when they last knew me, by who they wish I was now. Or who they pretend that I am.
There’s a lot to look forward to during the visit. I’ll get to meet my cousin’s fiancé and her daughter for the first time. I’ll get to see my brother. I haven’t been to my hometown in a few years, and that’s always interesting. (I get more than a small thrill out of walking through my hometown mall—I look enough like a lesbian that people tend to gawk at me, which I think is hilarious. I like to wave at them. And sometimes blow them kisses.)
I’m sure there will be bunches of other people I’ll see during the short time that I’m there—childhood friends, parents of childhood friends, friends’ of my parents who they think that I know but I don’t. That’s just how my parents are—tons of people around at all times. In fact, when I booked my trip, it was just me going to see my parents. As of yesterday, five additional out-of-town family members have been confirmed. Four more are “maybes.” There’s also the Ukrainian woman my parents are hosting (I have no idea why, but she’s living with them for a month).
So I’ve been thinking about beef jerky and venison jerky and hunting shacks and frog catching and snowmobiling and the family land and how many layers I’ll need to wear to cope with the weather and what the hell I can buy for my dad for his birthday at this point and what dish I could make that I can eat and share that might go with borscht (made by the afore-mentioned Ukrainian woman) and a ham (my mother’s contribution to the meal) for dinner…no, that’s supper on Saturday night. Maybe something that’s pink?
No doubt the accent will be back full force by the time I come home.
University uses sex to recruit athletes
The news, here, isn’t that a woman’s complaints weren’t taken seriously, but that athletic officials at Colorado University “decided, after discussing the history, that they would not change anything because they could not afford to lose the competitive edge against universities such as Oklahoma (and) Nebraska,” according to County District Attorney Mary Keenan, in a deposition that she filed as part of a lawsuit from a woman who claims that she was sexually assaulted by two men at a “sex party” for football recruits in 2001.
Despite the fact that a university police office corroborates Keenan’s description of the “sex parties,” athletic officials at the school called Keenan a big liar. More or less.
The news, here, isn’t that a woman’s complaints weren’t taken seriously, but that athletic officials at Colorado University “decided, after discussing the history, that they would not change anything because they could not afford to lose the competitive edge against universities such as Oklahoma (and) Nebraska,” according to County District Attorney Mary Keenan, in a deposition that she filed as part of a lawsuit from a woman who claims that she was sexually assaulted by two men at a “sex party” for football recruits in 2001.
Despite the fact that a university police office corroborates Keenan’s description of the “sex parties,” athletic officials at the school called Keenan a big liar. More or less.
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Scoop!
I scooped CNN! Ha HA! I found a couple of weird referrals in my blog tracker, both for “watch cowboy monkey movie” and one referenced CNN, so I went to see what was up. And Whiplash the Cowboy Monkey is on their front page.
I just rock.
I scooped CNN! Ha HA! I found a couple of weird referrals in my blog tracker, both for “watch cowboy monkey movie” and one referenced CNN, so I went to see what was up. And Whiplash the Cowboy Monkey is on their front page.
I just rock.
Olfactory memory, or “Hey, this smells like 1977!”
I know we all have these, but I’m periodically startled by the strength of my memories that are tied to smell—not just tied to smell, but totally buried until the time is right and then, whammo.
Yesterday I had one of those moments. I was walking to my car and someone was using the small, oldish snowblower to clear the walks. Something about the temperature (because temperature does have a smell—don’t argue with me about this) combined with the probably-ozone-depleting fumes being spewed by the baby snowblower sent me hurtling back in time to my grandparents’ farm, circa 1977.
Much of my extended family on my mom’s side still lives on the plot of land that the family homesteaded when they first arrived in America. It’s a crappy piece of land, overall—way too much clay to grow much of anything—and served as a place for the very large family to eek out enough to survive. But it rolls gently and was cleared of many of the trees long ago in order to be planted so it’s an excellent place to snowmobile.
When I was small, my uncles would drive me through the fields. For some reason, it seems like it was almost always night when we did this. It was always cold. And I remember hunkering down behind one of my uncles, hanging on for dear life, laughing hysterically because I was just certain that I was going to fall off or that I would lose my mittens and loving every minute of it.
Maybe it was the freedom that appealed to me. Or the speed. I’m sure that it wasn’t the idea of traveling over land that sustained my family enough so I could have a shot at life, but that’s what’s most compelling to me, now, about that land and how we live on it and use it. Or how we don’t.
I know we all have these, but I’m periodically startled by the strength of my memories that are tied to smell—not just tied to smell, but totally buried until the time is right and then, whammo.
Yesterday I had one of those moments. I was walking to my car and someone was using the small, oldish snowblower to clear the walks. Something about the temperature (because temperature does have a smell—don’t argue with me about this) combined with the probably-ozone-depleting fumes being spewed by the baby snowblower sent me hurtling back in time to my grandparents’ farm, circa 1977.
Much of my extended family on my mom’s side still lives on the plot of land that the family homesteaded when they first arrived in America. It’s a crappy piece of land, overall—way too much clay to grow much of anything—and served as a place for the very large family to eek out enough to survive. But it rolls gently and was cleared of many of the trees long ago in order to be planted so it’s an excellent place to snowmobile.
When I was small, my uncles would drive me through the fields. For some reason, it seems like it was almost always night when we did this. It was always cold. And I remember hunkering down behind one of my uncles, hanging on for dear life, laughing hysterically because I was just certain that I was going to fall off or that I would lose my mittens and loving every minute of it.
Maybe it was the freedom that appealed to me. Or the speed. I’m sure that it wasn’t the idea of traveling over land that sustained my family enough so I could have a shot at life, but that’s what’s most compelling to me, now, about that land and how we live on it and use it. Or how we don’t.
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Snow-related tips from a cranky driver
When it’s a snowy day, things get a little iffy on the roads. If you live somewhere where pedestrians run the show, they can get a lot iffy. So here are some tips for those of you hoofing it about during snowy times. And a few tips in general.
1) Do not dart out into traffic. Yes, we’re only driving 2 MPH. But for the LOVE OF GOD don’t sneak out in front of us. We’re driving that slowly because of the ice and will not be able to stop to avoid you darters.
2) Use the damn crosswalks already. See #1.
3) No matter how big and fancy your SUV is, ice is still slippery. Dig?
3.5) Hang up the phone.
4) Brush off your car—including your blinkers. If you have not done so and I drive out in front of you because I have no idea you’re turning because your blinkers are covered in 8 inches of snow, you have no right to flip me off. Seriously.
5) Wear your boots! If you fall on your ass because you’re wearing open-backed, high-heeled shoes, I reserve the right to snicker in your general direction. I promise to do so quietly and with some discretion and I won’t point. But I’m going to blog about you later.
6) If you are a squirrel, just stay home, all right? Between the drifting, the blowing, the ice, and the darting pedestrians, your odds are not good, my little friend, and I’d just feeling better knowing that you’re tucked away in your nest.
When it’s a snowy day, things get a little iffy on the roads. If you live somewhere where pedestrians run the show, they can get a lot iffy. So here are some tips for those of you hoofing it about during snowy times. And a few tips in general.
1) Do not dart out into traffic. Yes, we’re only driving 2 MPH. But for the LOVE OF GOD don’t sneak out in front of us. We’re driving that slowly because of the ice and will not be able to stop to avoid you darters.
2) Use the damn crosswalks already. See #1.
3) No matter how big and fancy your SUV is, ice is still slippery. Dig?
3.5) Hang up the phone.
4) Brush off your car—including your blinkers. If you have not done so and I drive out in front of you because I have no idea you’re turning because your blinkers are covered in 8 inches of snow, you have no right to flip me off. Seriously.
5) Wear your boots! If you fall on your ass because you’re wearing open-backed, high-heeled shoes, I reserve the right to snicker in your general direction. I promise to do so quietly and with some discretion and I won’t point. But I’m going to blog about you later.
6) If you are a squirrel, just stay home, all right? Between the drifting, the blowing, the ice, and the darting pedestrians, your odds are not good, my little friend, and I’d just feeling better knowing that you’re tucked away in your nest.
Monday, January 26, 2004
Registry Opens for Same-Sex Couples
This morning, the first voter-created registry for unmarried partners opened for business in Cleveland Heights, OH. While this isn’t a bad thing, it’s only symbolic—no rights of any kind are tied to the registry.
From the end of the article: The opening of the Cleveland Heights registry comes less than a week after the Ohio Legislature passed one of the country's most far-reaching bans on gay marriage. Since the state legislation exempts municipalities, the registry itself won’t be abolished, but it will continue to be nothing more than symbolic, since the legislation forbids the state to acknowledge same-sex marriages or civil unions from other states and prevents the state from extending any benefits to same-sex partners of state employees (which, from the looks of it, is legislation that will be coming soon to a state near you, so dust of your protesting shoes).
It kills me that something so small, with no tangible benefits at all, is such good news to gay and lesbian people. It’s all relative, I suppose.
Or not, if W has anything to say about it.
This morning, the first voter-created registry for unmarried partners opened for business in Cleveland Heights, OH. While this isn’t a bad thing, it’s only symbolic—no rights of any kind are tied to the registry.
From the end of the article: The opening of the Cleveland Heights registry comes less than a week after the Ohio Legislature passed one of the country's most far-reaching bans on gay marriage. Since the state legislation exempts municipalities, the registry itself won’t be abolished, but it will continue to be nothing more than symbolic, since the legislation forbids the state to acknowledge same-sex marriages or civil unions from other states and prevents the state from extending any benefits to same-sex partners of state employees (which, from the looks of it, is legislation that will be coming soon to a state near you, so dust of your protesting shoes).
It kills me that something so small, with no tangible benefits at all, is such good news to gay and lesbian people. It’s all relative, I suppose.
Or not, if W has anything to say about it.
Kerry Waffles
After winning my admiration for referring to Bush’s statement on gay marriage during the State of the Union as “gay bashing” on prime-time television it seems that Kerry’s handlers have gotten their way. "I don't support marriage among gays," he (Kerry) said. "But I also don't support the United States Senate being used for gay-bashing."
He’s sounding more and more like a Presidential contender, sadly enough.
After winning my admiration for referring to Bush’s statement on gay marriage during the State of the Union as “gay bashing” on prime-time television it seems that Kerry’s handlers have gotten their way. "I don't support marriage among gays," he (Kerry) said. "But I also don't support the United States Senate being used for gay-bashing."
He’s sounding more and more like a Presidential contender, sadly enough.
A woman you should know
It recently came to my shocked awareness that not every single one of you knows who Urvashi Vaid is. In my never-ending quest to find soulmates in my general pissiness at the lot of women in this world, I believe it is my responsibility to make sure that you all know and love every single activist, performer and artist that I know and love.
Back to Vaid. She’s a lawyer and political activist who wrote the excellent book Virtual Equality (it’s interesting to note that the list of “customers who bought titles by Urvashi Vaid also bought titles by these authors” is ALL MEN). (Yet another aside: subvert the monopoly that is Amazon and order your book from The Original Amazon, aka Amazon Bookstore Collective in Minneapolis—the store on which Alison Bechdel originally based Dykes to Watch Out For [check out #6 in the FAQs here].)
You can read more about Vaid here. And here’s her speech at the 1993 March on Washington for Lesbian, Gay and Bisexual Rights and Liberation. Paid fellowships at the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force are named for her, in honor of her long-time activism and contributions.
She’ll be speaking in February at the 2004 Women’s Herstory Celebration at Miami University in Ohio, at an LGBT APA conference in New York City in March, and in April at Rhode Island College.
It recently came to my shocked awareness that not every single one of you knows who Urvashi Vaid is. In my never-ending quest to find soulmates in my general pissiness at the lot of women in this world, I believe it is my responsibility to make sure that you all know and love every single activist, performer and artist that I know and love.
Back to Vaid. She’s a lawyer and political activist who wrote the excellent book Virtual Equality (it’s interesting to note that the list of “customers who bought titles by Urvashi Vaid also bought titles by these authors” is ALL MEN). (Yet another aside: subvert the monopoly that is Amazon and order your book from The Original Amazon, aka Amazon Bookstore Collective in Minneapolis—the store on which Alison Bechdel originally based Dykes to Watch Out For [check out #6 in the FAQs here].)
You can read more about Vaid here. And here’s her speech at the 1993 March on Washington for Lesbian, Gay and Bisexual Rights and Liberation. Paid fellowships at the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force are named for her, in honor of her long-time activism and contributions.
She’ll be speaking in February at the 2004 Women’s Herstory Celebration at Miami University in Ohio, at an LGBT APA conference in New York City in March, and in April at Rhode Island College.
Update on the yoga sentence
Apparently, the first article I read didn't present the full story--in addition to yoga, the wife-slapping man was sentenced to probation and anger management classes.
That said, the interviewer, a woman, could clearly use some training in the definition of "abuse."
Apparently, the first article I read didn't present the full story--in addition to yoga, the wife-slapping man was sentenced to probation and anger management classes.
That said, the interviewer, a woman, could clearly use some training in the definition of "abuse."
Friday, January 23, 2004
It’s called misogyny
Did you see this headline from CNN? “Hearing to focus on Bryant accuser’s history.” If you’re not 12 kinds of pissed right now, read that again. Slowly. If you’re still not pissed, stop reading my blog. Seriously.
The hearing, which to the best of my knowledge is to determine whether or not Kobe Bryant raped a woman, to determine whether or not he is, in fact, a criminal, is going to “focus on…the accuser’s history.”
My God.
Last month, Bryant’s defense team was accusing the alleged victim of making “herself a victim” and questioning her mental health. As though a woman who has a mental illness could not possibly be raped.
And now this.
I’m sure that you’ve all seen this essay a million times, right? It’s that piece called “The Rape of Mr. Smith” in which it’s illustrated that rape victims are treated in ways we would never dream of treating victims of other crimes. I don’t know what the publication date on the essay is, but I know that I saw it for the first time when I was in college. So it’s been out for at least a decade.
And yet, here we are. It’s 2004 and women are still being treated like this by the legal system—and the media’s still reporting it “objectively.” Where’s the outrage about this? Where’s the anger? Where are the letters to the editor? Where are the op-ed pieces? I went to Common Dreams and didn’t find anything (if I missed something, email me a link, would you?). If the progressive community, which gets endless support and work from feminists far and wide, isn’t going to respond to this, who is?
Feminists would be a logical group, right? Again, I’m finding nothing about this. At NOW, to cite only one example, there are currently three pieces on Roe v. Wade, one on Moseley Braun, two on Bush, one on Title IX and one on marriage rights. All important issues, for sure. But nothing about how rape victims are treated in the courts and in the media (to say nothing of how they’re treated by medical professionals and law enforcement).
The same societal disdain for women causes this story (in which a judge has sentenced a man to yoga classes for slapping his wife) to be reported as part of news that’s “Out There”. And, in case you can’t access that article, the wife-slapper’s lone quote in the piece was that he hoped the yoga would “help him lose weight.” No contrition. No remorse.
We need a section of the paper to cover horrible treatment of women. It would be the biggest damn section of the newspaper.
(Edited 01/26/04 to remove link to CNN article with the headline in question, as they have changed the article (and the headline) at the link originally provided. --Terri)
Did you see this headline from CNN? “Hearing to focus on Bryant accuser’s history.” If you’re not 12 kinds of pissed right now, read that again. Slowly. If you’re still not pissed, stop reading my blog. Seriously.
The hearing, which to the best of my knowledge is to determine whether or not Kobe Bryant raped a woman, to determine whether or not he is, in fact, a criminal, is going to “focus on…the accuser’s history.”
My God.
Last month, Bryant’s defense team was accusing the alleged victim of making “herself a victim” and questioning her mental health. As though a woman who has a mental illness could not possibly be raped.
And now this.
I’m sure that you’ve all seen this essay a million times, right? It’s that piece called “The Rape of Mr. Smith” in which it’s illustrated that rape victims are treated in ways we would never dream of treating victims of other crimes. I don’t know what the publication date on the essay is, but I know that I saw it for the first time when I was in college. So it’s been out for at least a decade.
And yet, here we are. It’s 2004 and women are still being treated like this by the legal system—and the media’s still reporting it “objectively.” Where’s the outrage about this? Where’s the anger? Where are the letters to the editor? Where are the op-ed pieces? I went to Common Dreams and didn’t find anything (if I missed something, email me a link, would you?). If the progressive community, which gets endless support and work from feminists far and wide, isn’t going to respond to this, who is?
Feminists would be a logical group, right? Again, I’m finding nothing about this. At NOW, to cite only one example, there are currently three pieces on Roe v. Wade, one on Moseley Braun, two on Bush, one on Title IX and one on marriage rights. All important issues, for sure. But nothing about how rape victims are treated in the courts and in the media (to say nothing of how they’re treated by medical professionals and law enforcement).
The same societal disdain for women causes this story (in which a judge has sentenced a man to yoga classes for slapping his wife) to be reported as part of news that’s “Out There”. And, in case you can’t access that article, the wife-slapper’s lone quote in the piece was that he hoped the yoga would “help him lose weight.” No contrition. No remorse.
We need a section of the paper to cover horrible treatment of women. It would be the biggest damn section of the newspaper.
(Edited 01/26/04 to remove link to CNN article with the headline in question, as they have changed the article (and the headline) at the link originally provided. --Terri)
Word of the day
Flexitarian: "a vegetarian who occasionally eats meat." This WOTD brought to you by the American Dialect Society and the letters J and B.
Flexitarian: "a vegetarian who occasionally eats meat." This WOTD brought to you by the American Dialect Society and the letters J and B.
Not as cute as the bats, but still pretty darn cute
Baby hedgehogs! More stuff from the folks at B3TA, who are really quite a bit more bent than the cute animal links would lead you to believe.
Baby hedgehogs! More stuff from the folks at B3TA, who are really quite a bit more bent than the cute animal links would lead you to believe.
Ohio Bans Gay Marriage
I was going to write about this news story, but after reading this line: If you've got the religious conviction that gay marriage is wrong, then I strongly urge you not to marry a gay person, by Dawn Friedman over at This Woman’s Work, all I can think of to say is this: Yep. What Dawn said.
I was going to write about this news story, but after reading this line: If you've got the religious conviction that gay marriage is wrong, then I strongly urge you not to marry a gay person, by Dawn Friedman over at This Woman’s Work, all I can think of to say is this: Yep. What Dawn said.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Celebrate!
Fantabulous birthday wishes to Leigh Anne--head over to One Good Thing to wish her a happy birthday, then stop by The Honeysuckle Shop and place an order in her honor!
Fantabulous birthday wishes to Leigh Anne--head over to One Good Thing to wish her a happy birthday, then stop by The Honeysuckle Shop and place an order in her honor!
And they found common ground in recipes
I’m in the midst of a small argument in an online community. Something I said yesterday started it.
Today, I wanted to do nothing more than talk about food in that space. It’s what I do, both online and IRL, when the going gets tough. I think about food. I read cookbooks. I bake. I plan menus (teeny little menus for one or two people, but menus, nonetheless). I schedule meals with my friends. I devise new and interesting combinations of things for my sack lunches. Interesting only to me, but so what?
As a feminist, am I supposed to love to be in the kitchen as much as I do? Who cares? I love it. I love the chopping. The dicing. The planning. And the eating. Yes, I love the eating. Certainly, it’s not fine eating—my taste tends more toward comfort food. And, to me, comfort food usually means sweets. Baked goods—things with chocolate chips or crumbly tops or caramel. Or all three. When things get really bad, it means Double-Stuffed Oreos and tall glasses of cold milk.
Recently, Molly Wolf sent around a Sabbath Blessing that she wrote several years ago. Despite the fact that it was a “re-run,” it was new to me (nods to Sophia for the tip). In it, she writes about something she calls “Martha prayer”—the sweet silence, solace, and opportunity to let one’s mind wander that one finds in work that’s familiar to the hands.
Cooking is an opportunity for reflection for me. It’s also a means to community. One of my favorite things is sharing food with people I love—it doesn’t much matter to me what it is or who made it or where we do it. It can be as small as meeting for a cup of coffee or sharing a recipe with friends online.
How much of a step backward for women would it be to suggest alliance building via recipe exchange?
I’m in the midst of a small argument in an online community. Something I said yesterday started it.
Today, I wanted to do nothing more than talk about food in that space. It’s what I do, both online and IRL, when the going gets tough. I think about food. I read cookbooks. I bake. I plan menus (teeny little menus for one or two people, but menus, nonetheless). I schedule meals with my friends. I devise new and interesting combinations of things for my sack lunches. Interesting only to me, but so what?
As a feminist, am I supposed to love to be in the kitchen as much as I do? Who cares? I love it. I love the chopping. The dicing. The planning. And the eating. Yes, I love the eating. Certainly, it’s not fine eating—my taste tends more toward comfort food. And, to me, comfort food usually means sweets. Baked goods—things with chocolate chips or crumbly tops or caramel. Or all three. When things get really bad, it means Double-Stuffed Oreos and tall glasses of cold milk.
Recently, Molly Wolf sent around a Sabbath Blessing that she wrote several years ago. Despite the fact that it was a “re-run,” it was new to me (nods to Sophia for the tip). In it, she writes about something she calls “Martha prayer”—the sweet silence, solace, and opportunity to let one’s mind wander that one finds in work that’s familiar to the hands.
Cooking is an opportunity for reflection for me. It’s also a means to community. One of my favorite things is sharing food with people I love—it doesn’t much matter to me what it is or who made it or where we do it. It can be as small as meeting for a cup of coffee or sharing a recipe with friends online.
How much of a step backward for women would it be to suggest alliance building via recipe exchange?
Whoa
At the risk of offending whatever animal-rights folks have wandered by, I bring you Whiplash, the Cowboy Monkey.
It's a monkey kind of day. Go with it.
At the risk of offending whatever animal-rights folks have wandered by, I bring you Whiplash, the Cowboy Monkey.
It's a monkey kind of day. Go with it.
Happy New Year!
It’s the Year of the Monkey. Here’s some cool stuff to do/make/read in honor of the holiday. And, finally, here's the scoop on the Year and people who are/were/will be born in it.
What are you doing to celebrate?
It’s the Year of the Monkey. Here’s some cool stuff to do/make/read in honor of the holiday. And, finally, here's the scoop on the Year and people who are/were/will be born in it.
What are you doing to celebrate?
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Plugging a CourtTV movie
I know. I can’t really believe it, either. But someone I really respect has been raving about this movie. She hasn’t steered me wrong, yet, so I plan to check it out.
You can read a comprehensive summary of the movie here. Or you can read this mini summary I’m about to write right here: A young Afghan woman who flees her country after being discovered running an underground school for girls wants asylum in the United States. An attorney agrees to take the pro bono case, but is less than thrilled to do so. It’s based on a true story and, from all accounts, does an excellent job of portraying the experiences of women seeking asylum in the United States.
It premiered last night, but will run again January 24, January 27, and February 22. Check your local listings for times.
CourtTV. Who knew?
Read this
You can't go wrong with a blog entry that includes the brilliant line I carry a stuffed-animal Jesus in the back seat of my car—buckled in so he can’t get out of hand.
I know. I can’t really believe it, either. But someone I really respect has been raving about this movie. She hasn’t steered me wrong, yet, so I plan to check it out.
You can read a comprehensive summary of the movie here. Or you can read this mini summary I’m about to write right here: A young Afghan woman who flees her country after being discovered running an underground school for girls wants asylum in the United States. An attorney agrees to take the pro bono case, but is less than thrilled to do so. It’s based on a true story and, from all accounts, does an excellent job of portraying the experiences of women seeking asylum in the United States.
It premiered last night, but will run again January 24, January 27, and February 22. Check your local listings for times.
CourtTV. Who knew?
Read this
You can't go wrong with a blog entry that includes the brilliant line I carry a stuffed-animal Jesus in the back seat of my car—buckled in so he can’t get out of hand.
Can sleep make you smarter?
Despite the creepy photo, the irritating Atkins ad, the split infinitive in the last quote, and the fact that I continue not to sleep at night, I thought that this was interesting.
Despite the creepy photo, the irritating Atkins ad, the split infinitive in the last quote, and the fact that I continue not to sleep at night, I thought that this was interesting.
"Presidential Matchmaking"
Go to echidne's blog and follow the link to the quiz where you can find out which Presidential candidate matches your beliefs most closely.
Really. Do it. Right now.
Go to echidne's blog and follow the link to the quiz where you can find out which Presidential candidate matches your beliefs most closely.
Really. Do it. Right now.
Gay rights are human rights
"...At the last session of the United Nations Commission on Human Rights (UNCHR), Brazil proposed a resolution on 'human rights and sexual orientation' (E/CN.4/2003/L.92) which claims that sexual diversity is an integral part of Universal Human Rights as reflected in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. As a result, 53 nations will sit in Geneva next March to discuss, argue, vote and then publicly declare if they believe sexual orientation is a human right or not..."
The ILGA (International Lesbian and Gay Association) is asking for help please sign the online petition.
"...At the last session of the United Nations Commission on Human Rights (UNCHR), Brazil proposed a resolution on 'human rights and sexual orientation' (E/CN.4/2003/L.92) which claims that sexual diversity is an integral part of Universal Human Rights as reflected in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. As a result, 53 nations will sit in Geneva next March to discuss, argue, vote and then publicly declare if they believe sexual orientation is a human right or not..."
The ILGA (International Lesbian and Gay Association) is asking for help please sign the online petition.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
Bush to oppose gay marriage!
In other news, water: wet. Just confirmation of the decision I've made not to rush home from choir rehearsal to catch the SOTU address, despite the tempting SOTU drinking games that Pen-Elayne blogs about.
In other news, water: wet. Just confirmation of the decision I've made not to rush home from choir rehearsal to catch the SOTU address, despite the tempting SOTU drinking games that Pen-Elayne blogs about.
See, I really do listen!
Word of the day: aumbry or ambry. Use it in a sentence. People will think you're an Episcopalian.
Word of the day: aumbry or ambry. Use it in a sentence. People will think you're an Episcopalian.
The frogblog: A glimpse into my brain
AKA: Blogging drafts of things
Talking about our differences and identifying with our labels isn’t where the problem is.
That was my closing thought yesterday. And I’m not entirely sure that it makes much sense unless you’re in my head. And, lucky for you, you’re not. (And if you are, give me a break, already. Keeping me up from 3–6 a.m. ruminating about this stuff is really not funny.)
Yesterday evening, I spent some time with a good friend. And we were talking about the sermon we heard on Sunday in the context of MLK Day. And here’s what my wise friend (with credit to her wise friend) had to say (paraphrased): Token representatives on committees don’t work—a single person representing any one group has no voice within the larger group. There must be more than one person for representativeness to have any meaning.
My experience bears this out. Have you ever been the lone anything in a group charged with a specific goal? It’s a lonely, frustrating experience, most of the time.
Acknowledging that experience, thinking about the ways we differ from one another, identifying (with) our labels and signifiers, seeking others with whom we feel solidarity—none of these are the problem.
The problem, in my not-so-humble opinion, is that we’ve historically rejected the necessity of alliances. I know that I have, despite my best intentions and my belief that they’re imperative. When pressed, I don’t often trust people who don’t share whatever label I’m supposed to be representing at any given moment because I’ve been burned too many times in the past.
Not talking about issues on which we disagree, or ways in which we differ, doesn’t make those things go away. It does, though, serve to invisible (hello! Not a verb…) people who differ from the dominant group/thought process/belief system in a way that not only stigmatizes and marginalizes people, but sets the stage for anger and frustration. And further division.
And blaming lack of communication on those differences is just too easy, as well as being inaccurate.
The question, then, is how do we build alliances? How do we learn to trust the “other”? How do we learn not to cave in that moment of truth when we can either be an ally or take the easy road? What do we need to do in order to be a trusted ally?
How do radical feminists trust an alliance with the religious right? They’re both anti-porn for enormously different reasons, but they do have a shared goal. How do feminist lesbians reconcile the alliance with gay men while acknowledging the sexism in the GLBT “movement”? How do radical feminist women in intimate relationships with men reconcile those relationships with the tenets of radical feminism? How do feminist Christians reconcile the centuries of hierarchy that allowed no voice for women, much less clergy opportunities?
Yeah, you see where I’m going with this.
AKA: Blogging drafts of things
Talking about our differences and identifying with our labels isn’t where the problem is.
That was my closing thought yesterday. And I’m not entirely sure that it makes much sense unless you’re in my head. And, lucky for you, you’re not. (And if you are, give me a break, already. Keeping me up from 3–6 a.m. ruminating about this stuff is really not funny.)
Yesterday evening, I spent some time with a good friend. And we were talking about the sermon we heard on Sunday in the context of MLK Day. And here’s what my wise friend (with credit to her wise friend) had to say (paraphrased): Token representatives on committees don’t work—a single person representing any one group has no voice within the larger group. There must be more than one person for representativeness to have any meaning.
My experience bears this out. Have you ever been the lone anything in a group charged with a specific goal? It’s a lonely, frustrating experience, most of the time.
Acknowledging that experience, thinking about the ways we differ from one another, identifying (with) our labels and signifiers, seeking others with whom we feel solidarity—none of these are the problem.
The problem, in my not-so-humble opinion, is that we’ve historically rejected the necessity of alliances. I know that I have, despite my best intentions and my belief that they’re imperative. When pressed, I don’t often trust people who don’t share whatever label I’m supposed to be representing at any given moment because I’ve been burned too many times in the past.
Not talking about issues on which we disagree, or ways in which we differ, doesn’t make those things go away. It does, though, serve to invisible (hello! Not a verb…) people who differ from the dominant group/thought process/belief system in a way that not only stigmatizes and marginalizes people, but sets the stage for anger and frustration. And further division.
And blaming lack of communication on those differences is just too easy, as well as being inaccurate.
The question, then, is how do we build alliances? How do we learn to trust the “other”? How do we learn not to cave in that moment of truth when we can either be an ally or take the easy road? What do we need to do in order to be a trusted ally?
How do radical feminists trust an alliance with the religious right? They’re both anti-porn for enormously different reasons, but they do have a shared goal. How do feminist lesbians reconcile the alliance with gay men while acknowledging the sexism in the GLBT “movement”? How do radical feminist women in intimate relationships with men reconcile those relationships with the tenets of radical feminism? How do feminist Christians reconcile the centuries of hierarchy that allowed no voice for women, much less clergy opportunities?
Yeah, you see where I’m going with this.
gay? fine by me.
Some students at Duke University, recently rated as the most homophobic campus in the country, wanted to state publicly that not everyone at Duke is a big ol’ homophobe. So they whipped up some t-shirts. People loved them. Students at other campuses thought it was a great idea and tried it out. People loved them there, too. Now, you can be the first on your block to proclaim your utter lack of hatred and be hip while doing so.
Some students at Duke University, recently rated as the most homophobic campus in the country, wanted to state publicly that not everyone at Duke is a big ol’ homophobe. So they whipped up some t-shirts. People loved them. Students at other campuses thought it was a great idea and tried it out. People loved them there, too. Now, you can be the first on your block to proclaim your utter lack of hatred and be hip while doing so.
Monday, January 19, 2004
Labels v. signifiers
As happens periodically, the sermon at church yesterday addressed some of what I’ve been writing/thinking about of late. But as happens much more infrequently, it pissed me right off.
We had a guest preacher—he’s a member of the congregation who was celebrating the anniversary of his ordination to the priesthood. He’s not your typical priest—were such a thing to exist—in that he was raised Jewish and converted to Christianity and was ordained to the priesthood fairly late in life.
In any case, part of his sermon dealt with what he sees as unnecessary labels. He told a story about his former father-in-law asking him how many Jews were in his workplace, a question which he was unable to answer. His FIL was appalled that he couldn’t answer, but said priest saw it as a sign of progress that he just didn’t notice.
He went on to tell a story about a friend of his who he described as “an intelligent, ardent feminist.” He told about a conversation that they’d had in which she mentioned that when she serves on a board, she always looks around the room to see how many of “us” there are. He asked her who she meant when she said “us” and she replied, “Women, of course.” And he was saddened that she had “reduced herself to a gendered object, rather than embracing herself as a human being.”
As you might imagine, I found that to be a fat load of crap.
This morning I heard Lani Guinier speak. And she introduced me to the term “racial literacy.” It’s a phrase that she uses to talk about the way that we, as a society, need to consider race. We need to acknowledge it, to talk about it, but not to blame it for problems for which it does not bear responsibility. She talked about the necessary alliances between people of the same class, rather than (or in addition to) among people of the same race. She talked about the similarities in lack of access to higher education experienced by African Americans and poor and working-class whites.
Those poor and working-class whites—they’re my family. And I’ll tell you what—there’s not a chance in hell that the people living that reality, the reality of the poor rural white person, are going to see solidarity when presented with the plight of a person of color. It isn't that they're incapable, and it isn't that there aren't exceptions. But my family members are going to see their place in society as being challenged by any upward movement on the part of that person of color. They’re going to see their membership as part of the dominant class, of which they are not actually a part, as at risk.
But race is not where the problem is. And talking about our differences and identifying with our labels isn’t where the problem is, either.
As happens periodically, the sermon at church yesterday addressed some of what I’ve been writing/thinking about of late. But as happens much more infrequently, it pissed me right off.
We had a guest preacher—he’s a member of the congregation who was celebrating the anniversary of his ordination to the priesthood. He’s not your typical priest—were such a thing to exist—in that he was raised Jewish and converted to Christianity and was ordained to the priesthood fairly late in life.
In any case, part of his sermon dealt with what he sees as unnecessary labels. He told a story about his former father-in-law asking him how many Jews were in his workplace, a question which he was unable to answer. His FIL was appalled that he couldn’t answer, but said priest saw it as a sign of progress that he just didn’t notice.
He went on to tell a story about a friend of his who he described as “an intelligent, ardent feminist.” He told about a conversation that they’d had in which she mentioned that when she serves on a board, she always looks around the room to see how many of “us” there are. He asked her who she meant when she said “us” and she replied, “Women, of course.” And he was saddened that she had “reduced herself to a gendered object, rather than embracing herself as a human being.”
As you might imagine, I found that to be a fat load of crap.
This morning I heard Lani Guinier speak. And she introduced me to the term “racial literacy.” It’s a phrase that she uses to talk about the way that we, as a society, need to consider race. We need to acknowledge it, to talk about it, but not to blame it for problems for which it does not bear responsibility. She talked about the necessary alliances between people of the same class, rather than (or in addition to) among people of the same race. She talked about the similarities in lack of access to higher education experienced by African Americans and poor and working-class whites.
Those poor and working-class whites—they’re my family. And I’ll tell you what—there’s not a chance in hell that the people living that reality, the reality of the poor rural white person, are going to see solidarity when presented with the plight of a person of color. It isn't that they're incapable, and it isn't that there aren't exceptions. But my family members are going to see their place in society as being challenged by any upward movement on the part of that person of color. They’re going to see their membership as part of the dominant class, of which they are not actually a part, as at risk.
But race is not where the problem is. And talking about our differences and identifying with our labels isn’t where the problem is, either.
Friday, January 16, 2004
Being heard
In a conversation on a feminist bulletin board where I post, the question at hand is “What do you want from feminism?” Off the cuff, my answer was, “I want to be heard.” And I’ve been thinking a lot about that (with nods to Rajsh for pressing me oh-so-gently to do so). What does that mean, exactly, for me?
Maybe everyone feels like this, I don’t know, but I feel like there’s no space in my life where all of me fits quite right. As a lesbian, my experiences aren’t understood in that gut-level way by most people. I have fantastic friends who are straight (or bi in OS relationships), don’t get me wrong. They do get it, overall, but not in the everyday first-line-of-defense kind of way that other lesbians get it—why should they? They don’t live it. And I don’t expect them to get it in that way—at least not consciously. But every so often, I’m reminded that there is that gap in our experiences. It can be rather jarring.
To complicate matters, there’s the Christianity thing. There’s no lack of Christians ’round these parts, that’s for sure. And there’s no lack of Christians who aren’t intentionally homophobic and hostile, for which I’m grateful. But it’s not enough, anymore, to be around people who are just not homophobic and hostile. Why should it be?
And, frankly, my faith does complicate my life in terms of relating to others—not on its own, so much, but as part of the overall package, definitely. To paraphrase something that Magenta said at The Right Christians, my faith is viewed as suspect by a lot of people, at least in part due to history (personal and global) and the media.
So, if you’re keeping score at home, here’s where we are (whopping generalizations to follow):
- Feminists look askance at my Christianity.
- Christians are uncomfortable with my homosexuality.
- Lesbians don’t know what to make of my faith and (more often than one might assume) my feminism.
It’s this weird little space that I occupy. There are a few other women I know in similar spaces, but not all that many.
Maybe we all occupy these weird little spaces and the key is finding the places where we overlap with others? Maybe the best I can hope for is to find (and treasure those who I’ve already found) people who really understand part of my weird little space, and are willing to put up with/learn about/listen to the parts that they don’t share. And maybe that’s not settling—because, really, how boring would it be to hang out exclusively with people just like me?
Back to the question at hand: What do I mean when I say “I want to be heard” in the context of feminism? I want my experiences, input, and ideas valued by other feminists—not rejected on the basis of my religion, my age, my overall lot in life, etc. When we disagree, I want some sort of effort made to seek the places where we agree—the places where we overlap. I want that from other women, specifically. And I want to be able to offer that to them.
In a conversation on a feminist bulletin board where I post, the question at hand is “What do you want from feminism?” Off the cuff, my answer was, “I want to be heard.” And I’ve been thinking a lot about that (with nods to Rajsh for pressing me oh-so-gently to do so). What does that mean, exactly, for me?
Maybe everyone feels like this, I don’t know, but I feel like there’s no space in my life where all of me fits quite right. As a lesbian, my experiences aren’t understood in that gut-level way by most people. I have fantastic friends who are straight (or bi in OS relationships), don’t get me wrong. They do get it, overall, but not in the everyday first-line-of-defense kind of way that other lesbians get it—why should they? They don’t live it. And I don’t expect them to get it in that way—at least not consciously. But every so often, I’m reminded that there is that gap in our experiences. It can be rather jarring.
To complicate matters, there’s the Christianity thing. There’s no lack of Christians ’round these parts, that’s for sure. And there’s no lack of Christians who aren’t intentionally homophobic and hostile, for which I’m grateful. But it’s not enough, anymore, to be around people who are just not homophobic and hostile. Why should it be?
And, frankly, my faith does complicate my life in terms of relating to others—not on its own, so much, but as part of the overall package, definitely. To paraphrase something that Magenta said at The Right Christians, my faith is viewed as suspect by a lot of people, at least in part due to history (personal and global) and the media.
So, if you’re keeping score at home, here’s where we are (whopping generalizations to follow):
- Feminists look askance at my Christianity.
- Christians are uncomfortable with my homosexuality.
- Lesbians don’t know what to make of my faith and (more often than one might assume) my feminism.
It’s this weird little space that I occupy. There are a few other women I know in similar spaces, but not all that many.
Maybe we all occupy these weird little spaces and the key is finding the places where we overlap with others? Maybe the best I can hope for is to find (and treasure those who I’ve already found) people who really understand part of my weird little space, and are willing to put up with/learn about/listen to the parts that they don’t share. And maybe that’s not settling—because, really, how boring would it be to hang out exclusively with people just like me?
Back to the question at hand: What do I mean when I say “I want to be heard” in the context of feminism? I want my experiences, input, and ideas valued by other feminists—not rejected on the basis of my religion, my age, my overall lot in life, etc. When we disagree, I want some sort of effort made to seek the places where we agree—the places where we overlap. I want that from other women, specifically. And I want to be able to offer that to them.
Thursday, January 15, 2004
A plug
Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away (or so it seems, now), funnie turned me on to The Center For Progressive Christianity. I figured I'd give them a plug, given that my traffic from The Right Christians has spiked today, due to my supplying them with a memo regarding a movement that's afoot in the Episcopal Church (and you can read all about it at TRC, so I won't rehash it).
Anyway. TCPC. Check it out. In particular, read the 8 points.
Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away (or so it seems, now), funnie turned me on to The Center For Progressive Christianity. I figured I'd give them a plug, given that my traffic from The Right Christians has spiked today, due to my supplying them with a memo regarding a movement that's afoot in the Episcopal Church (and you can read all about it at TRC, so I won't rehash it).
Anyway. TCPC. Check it out. In particular, read the 8 points.
Random reflection on St. Kate’s
I’m a huge proponent of women’s colleges—mostly because I graduated from one. And when I’m asked about how I (a Lutheran girl raised in Wisconsin by parents who really, really believe in the U-W system) ended up attending a Catholic women’s college in Minnesota, I always start the story with: It’s the best decision that I almost didn’t make for myself. (How the Lutheran girl who attended a Catholic women’s college ended up an Episcopalian is another story for another time.)
Let’s be honest, here. How many teenage girls want to consider attending a college where there are no guys? And don’t let the promotional material fool you. There were no men at that college. Sure, there were men on staff. Men taught classes. And, as part of a consortium of colleges in the Twin Cities, men could take classes at Kate’s. And we could take classes at the other schools. But few of my friends took advantage of this opportunity (I didn’t), and I can count on one hand the number of men who were in any of my classes.
There’s a lot to be said for women’s colleges. Statistics show that despite only representing 2% of all female college graduates, alumnae of women’s colleges constitute more than 20% of women in Congress, and 30% of a Business Week list of rising women stars in Corporate America. One third (33%) of the women board members of the 1992 Fortune 1000 companies were women’s college graduates. One of every seven cabinet members in state government attended a women's college. (All statistics from the WCC website.)
There’s a lot to be said for the young women who buck tradition and choose a women’s college. There’s a lot to be said for the families in which attending a women’s college is a tradition passed down from mother to daughter, or from grandmother to grand-daughter.
I’m under no illusions about the necessity of co-ed higher education. Women’s colleges aren’t a good fit for every woman. But they’re an excellent choice for a lot of us.
A women’s college was a great choice for Pearl S. Buck, the first American woman to win the Nobel Prize for literature. And Rachel Carson. Nancy Pelosi is a women’s college alumna, and so are Hilary Rodham Clinton, Madeline Albright, Emily Green Balch, Dorothy L. Brown, Elaine L. Chao, Geraldine Ferraro, Charlotte Fox, Mary Garber, and Bernadine Healy. To name a few. (List culled from WCC website.)
And, no, I haven't seen Mona Lisa Smile, yet.
I’m a huge proponent of women’s colleges—mostly because I graduated from one. And when I’m asked about how I (a Lutheran girl raised in Wisconsin by parents who really, really believe in the U-W system) ended up attending a Catholic women’s college in Minnesota, I always start the story with: It’s the best decision that I almost didn’t make for myself. (How the Lutheran girl who attended a Catholic women’s college ended up an Episcopalian is another story for another time.)
Let’s be honest, here. How many teenage girls want to consider attending a college where there are no guys? And don’t let the promotional material fool you. There were no men at that college. Sure, there were men on staff. Men taught classes. And, as part of a consortium of colleges in the Twin Cities, men could take classes at Kate’s. And we could take classes at the other schools. But few of my friends took advantage of this opportunity (I didn’t), and I can count on one hand the number of men who were in any of my classes.
There’s a lot to be said for women’s colleges. Statistics show that despite only representing 2% of all female college graduates, alumnae of women’s colleges constitute more than 20% of women in Congress, and 30% of a Business Week list of rising women stars in Corporate America. One third (33%) of the women board members of the 1992 Fortune 1000 companies were women’s college graduates. One of every seven cabinet members in state government attended a women's college. (All statistics from the WCC website.)
There’s a lot to be said for the young women who buck tradition and choose a women’s college. There’s a lot to be said for the families in which attending a women’s college is a tradition passed down from mother to daughter, or from grandmother to grand-daughter.
I’m under no illusions about the necessity of co-ed higher education. Women’s colleges aren’t a good fit for every woman. But they’re an excellent choice for a lot of us.
A women’s college was a great choice for Pearl S. Buck, the first American woman to win the Nobel Prize for literature. And Rachel Carson. Nancy Pelosi is a women’s college alumna, and so are Hilary Rodham Clinton, Madeline Albright, Emily Green Balch, Dorothy L. Brown, Elaine L. Chao, Geraldine Ferraro, Charlotte Fox, Mary Garber, and Bernadine Healy. To name a few. (List culled from WCC website.)
And, no, I haven't seen Mona Lisa Smile, yet.
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
QOTD
(With a shout-out to the one reader who might remember that...)
If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children, I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life. --Rachel Carson
Isn't that just beautiful?
(With a shout-out to the one reader who might remember that...)
If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over the christening of all children, I should ask that her gift to each child in the world be a sense of wonder so indestructible that it would last throughout life. --Rachel Carson
Isn't that just beautiful?
Blogging about rabbits
Recently discovered excellent word: crepuscular. It’s the second definition that appeals to me.
Last night, I finished reading the source of the recently discovered excellent word, a book called Stories Rabbits Tell: A Natural and Cultural History of a Misunderstood Creature by Susan E. Davis and Margo DeMello. Well, that’s not entirely true. I read the first 2/3 of the book and the conclusion, but couldn’t bring myself to read the sections on the meat, fur, or vivisection industries. I just didn’t have the intestinal fortitude.
It’s a great book. My only complaint is that the topic is so broad that there wasn't enough depth (or enough of the authors’ voices) in certain sections—naturally, these were the sections in which I was most interested. In particular, I would have liked to read more about the authors’ takes on the rabbit/bunny as a cultural icon. There were lists and lists of examples, from Bugs Bunny to Hummel figurines with rabbits, but little comment on what the outcome of rabbit as icon is in terms of actual rabbits and our relationships to/with them.
Also, I would have liked to read more about the connections between derogatory words for women and rabbits—they touched on that only briefly. Actually, if there are feminist theorists and/or linguists (ahem) reading who are seeking a new topic, here it is. I’ve read little about it (beyond the obvious Playboy Bunny stuff) and it seems to be full of possibility.
The book is also a great introduction to the joys of keeping rabbits as house pets, something about which you can learn more at the House Rabbit Society’s website.
And, finally, the book enlightened me to the hilarity of popping binkies. And that, alone, is worth a read.
Recently discovered excellent word: crepuscular. It’s the second definition that appeals to me.
Last night, I finished reading the source of the recently discovered excellent word, a book called Stories Rabbits Tell: A Natural and Cultural History of a Misunderstood Creature by Susan E. Davis and Margo DeMello. Well, that’s not entirely true. I read the first 2/3 of the book and the conclusion, but couldn’t bring myself to read the sections on the meat, fur, or vivisection industries. I just didn’t have the intestinal fortitude.
It’s a great book. My only complaint is that the topic is so broad that there wasn't enough depth (or enough of the authors’ voices) in certain sections—naturally, these were the sections in which I was most interested. In particular, I would have liked to read more about the authors’ takes on the rabbit/bunny as a cultural icon. There were lists and lists of examples, from Bugs Bunny to Hummel figurines with rabbits, but little comment on what the outcome of rabbit as icon is in terms of actual rabbits and our relationships to/with them.
Also, I would have liked to read more about the connections between derogatory words for women and rabbits—they touched on that only briefly. Actually, if there are feminist theorists and/or linguists (ahem) reading who are seeking a new topic, here it is. I’ve read little about it (beyond the obvious Playboy Bunny stuff) and it seems to be full of possibility.
The book is also a great introduction to the joys of keeping rabbits as house pets, something about which you can learn more at the House Rabbit Society’s website.
And, finally, the book enlightened me to the hilarity of popping binkies. And that, alone, is worth a read.
Sixteen dogs. Four women. Two sleds. One dream.
A group of women from northern Minnesota is leaving this month for an Arctic expedition to raise money for low-income kids to experience outdoor adventures. You can read about them here.
And if you have a couple of bucks to spare, you can donate to the cause here. (My headline is actually theirs, from their website.)
A group of women from northern Minnesota is leaving this month for an Arctic expedition to raise money for low-income kids to experience outdoor adventures. You can read about them here.
And if you have a couple of bucks to spare, you can donate to the cause here. (My headline is actually theirs, from their website.)
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Monday, January 12, 2004
Which Muppet are you?
Thanks to Turtle for the link to the excellent quiz where you can find out which Muppet you are.
Turns out that I am Kermit the Frog. Who knew?
You are Kermit the Frog.
You are reliable, responsible and caring. And you
have a habit of waving your arms about
maniacally.
FAVORITE EXPRESSIONS:
"Hi ho!" "Yaaay!" and
"Sheesh!"
FAVORITE MOVIE:
"How Green Was My Mother"
LAST BOOK READ:
"Surfin' the Webfoot: A Frog's Guide to the
Internet"
HOBBIES:
Sitting in the swamp playing banjo.
QUOTE:
"Hmm, my banjo is wet."
What Muppet are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Thanks to Turtle for the link to the excellent quiz where you can find out which Muppet you are.
Turns out that I am Kermit the Frog. Who knew?
You are Kermit the Frog.
You are reliable, responsible and caring. And you
have a habit of waving your arms about
maniacally.
FAVORITE EXPRESSIONS:
"Hi ho!" "Yaaay!" and
"Sheesh!"
FAVORITE MOVIE:
"How Green Was My Mother"
LAST BOOK READ:
"Surfin' the Webfoot: A Frog's Guide to the
Internet"
HOBBIES:
Sitting in the swamp playing banjo.
QUOTE:
"Hmm, my banjo is wet."
What Muppet are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
A woman you should know
"A Woman's Place is in the Kitchen." Were anyone else the author of that book, I'd be pissed nine ways to Sunday. But Ann Cooper is the author, as well as the author of "Bitter Harvest," and the head chef at the Ross School. So I love the title and am impressed with the author.
Trained as a chef using classic European techniques, she long believed that all good food came from "somewhere else." But she's changed her tune, and is using all local produce. She believes that the method by which we'll change the way Americans eat is via the kids. And she lives what she believes.
I heard her speak a while back, and she told this great story about the fifth graders at the Ross School staging a bit of a sit in at her cafeteria. "The first words I learned in culinary school were, 'Yes, Chef,' and I carried that with me throughout my career. I wasn't used to anyone telling me 'No.'" The kids were upset because processed cheese and white bread weren't available. And Cooper stood firm on that. "What we did was held tastings. The kids tasted all kinds of cheese, none of which were processed. And we baked breads using different grain balances, none of which were white flour, and they chose which ones they liked the best."
And when the new crop of fifth graders arrived the following fall, she overheard a sixth grader telling them, "You're so lucky that you're here this year. We've changed everything."
She's taken her techniques and beliefs to the public school system in New York City, a much larger proposition than the Ross School, but one that I'm sure will benefit from her drive and ideas. She'll have the opportunity to impact thousands more kids every day. And that can only be good for all of us.
More on Cooper:
The Lunch Lady
Transforming the Way We Eat
"A Woman's Place is in the Kitchen." Were anyone else the author of that book, I'd be pissed nine ways to Sunday. But Ann Cooper is the author, as well as the author of "Bitter Harvest," and the head chef at the Ross School. So I love the title and am impressed with the author.
Trained as a chef using classic European techniques, she long believed that all good food came from "somewhere else." But she's changed her tune, and is using all local produce. She believes that the method by which we'll change the way Americans eat is via the kids. And she lives what she believes.
I heard her speak a while back, and she told this great story about the fifth graders at the Ross School staging a bit of a sit in at her cafeteria. "The first words I learned in culinary school were, 'Yes, Chef,' and I carried that with me throughout my career. I wasn't used to anyone telling me 'No.'" The kids were upset because processed cheese and white bread weren't available. And Cooper stood firm on that. "What we did was held tastings. The kids tasted all kinds of cheese, none of which were processed. And we baked breads using different grain balances, none of which were white flour, and they chose which ones they liked the best."
And when the new crop of fifth graders arrived the following fall, she overheard a sixth grader telling them, "You're so lucky that you're here this year. We've changed everything."
She's taken her techniques and beliefs to the public school system in New York City, a much larger proposition than the Ross School, but one that I'm sure will benefit from her drive and ideas. She'll have the opportunity to impact thousands more kids every day. And that can only be good for all of us.
More on Cooper:
The Lunch Lady
Transforming the Way We Eat
Thursday, January 08, 2004
Gay and gray
I love this idea. I want to live in one of these when I'm retired.
Also, apologies for the fairly lame blogging of today and yesterday. I've been sick--doing my best Kathleen Turner impression. Virtual cough drops and teas welcome.
I love this idea. I want to live in one of these when I'm retired.
Also, apologies for the fairly lame blogging of today and yesterday. I've been sick--doing my best Kathleen Turner impression. Virtual cough drops and teas welcome.
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
Gardening: The cold war, Part III
Peering rabbit never actually disappeared, I’m saddened to report. I just didn’t see it. Apparently, I have mastered the ability to block out that which I do not want to see.
Anyway, turns out it could be worse. She could have these in her yard.
Peering rabbit never actually disappeared, I’m saddened to report. I just didn’t see it. Apparently, I have mastered the ability to block out that which I do not want to see.
Anyway, turns out it could be worse. She could have these in her yard.
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
Flashbacks
The power of music in has always been profound to me. Certain hymns demand (quietly, of course) to be sung by candlelight on freezing cold nights when the sky is that deep, velvety purple. The first Pretenders album pulls me all the way back to the first time I heard it—at Camp Luther in my sleeping bag in the Treehouse Village.
But there’s this one song that takes me back to something I’m certain that I would have forgotten were it not for the fact that this song gets so much airplay on the classic rock stations that I favor. The song is Journey’s “Separate Ways.” And the event is the modeling class that I took at the Y with my friend Jenny when I was in sixth grade.
It seemed like a good idea at the time, though I can’t remember why, now. Maybe it was the fact that I’d grown more than half a foot the previous year and I couldn’t get my limbs under control and thought that “learning to walk” would help. Maybe it was the undue pressure that girls feel to look and act a certain way (something that I don’t think I ever did quite accomplish—which is fine with me, now, but a horrifying possibility back then). Or maybe it was just an excuse to spend a weekend day doing something interesting with my very best friend. She was two years older than me. And painfully more hip and wonderful than me.
In any case, we went to the modeling class. I don’t know of any models who grew up anywhere near my hometown, though some guys I went to high school with were in an LL Bean catalog once and it’s rumored that Cindy Crawford’s uncle owns the local pizza joint. We learned how to hold our heads, how to move our arms (and when), how to walk, and how to turn. Well, everyone learned how to turn but me. I just couldn’t get it. I kept on trying. The woman running the class kept on working with me. I got more embarrassed. Steve Perry kept singing. The instructor got more frustrated. She finally said, curtly and with great volume, “It’s not a PIVOT. This is not a BASKETBALL COURT.”
She should have stated that clearly at the beginning. Jenny and I could have spent our afternoon working on free throws.
The power of music in has always been profound to me. Certain hymns demand (quietly, of course) to be sung by candlelight on freezing cold nights when the sky is that deep, velvety purple. The first Pretenders album pulls me all the way back to the first time I heard it—at Camp Luther in my sleeping bag in the Treehouse Village.
But there’s this one song that takes me back to something I’m certain that I would have forgotten were it not for the fact that this song gets so much airplay on the classic rock stations that I favor. The song is Journey’s “Separate Ways.” And the event is the modeling class that I took at the Y with my friend Jenny when I was in sixth grade.
It seemed like a good idea at the time, though I can’t remember why, now. Maybe it was the fact that I’d grown more than half a foot the previous year and I couldn’t get my limbs under control and thought that “learning to walk” would help. Maybe it was the undue pressure that girls feel to look and act a certain way (something that I don’t think I ever did quite accomplish—which is fine with me, now, but a horrifying possibility back then). Or maybe it was just an excuse to spend a weekend day doing something interesting with my very best friend. She was two years older than me. And painfully more hip and wonderful than me.
In any case, we went to the modeling class. I don’t know of any models who grew up anywhere near my hometown, though some guys I went to high school with were in an LL Bean catalog once and it’s rumored that Cindy Crawford’s uncle owns the local pizza joint. We learned how to hold our heads, how to move our arms (and when), how to walk, and how to turn. Well, everyone learned how to turn but me. I just couldn’t get it. I kept on trying. The woman running the class kept on working with me. I got more embarrassed. Steve Perry kept singing. The instructor got more frustrated. She finally said, curtly and with great volume, “It’s not a PIVOT. This is not a BASKETBALL COURT.”
She should have stated that clearly at the beginning. Jenny and I could have spent our afternoon working on free throws.
Okay, now I get it
Just received an email from a college friend. She and her husband are divorcing. They've been together for 16 years. I was their maid of honor. So I'm here to report that I have the smallest glimmer of how my break up has been for some of you. And I'm sorry.
Just received an email from a college friend. She and her husband are divorcing. They've been together for 16 years. I was their maid of honor. So I'm here to report that I have the smallest glimmer of how my break up has been for some of you. And I'm sorry.
Re-entry
Alas, it sucks. No more staying up until 11:30 and sleeping until 9, lounging around with the cat until 10, watching Martha Stewart and drinking coffee until 11, and then considering showering and maybe MAYBE leaving the house.
Every year I take a break from everything from around Christmas until sometime after the New Year. No web, no email, no bulletin boards, no checking work voicemail, no activities that I don’t want to do. It’s my break and those are my rules—and my rules include unwanted traveling and unwanted guests. Neither occurred during my break.
I never get to do everything that I’d hoped to do because of all of the time I spend doing other things. So, this year I did not clean that spot off of the ceiling where the tree left a mark. Nor did I rewrap my flowering dogwood before the snow came. I did not get to sled with some little friends, as there was no snow. I didn’t read several novels/biographies. I didn’t attend any movies during the day.
But I did do some amazing things. I had dinner with friends. I played Boggle on New Year’s Eve (alas, not with my traditional NYE family, but Boggle, nonetheless). I saw a Wienermobile. I went to a basketball game with out-of-town friends (and our team won). I spent time with most of my small friends. I gave gifts that people loved. I received gifts that I love. I took a magical walk in the snow on Christmas night. I watched the moon rise.
And I took a lot of time to savor the moments. I hope that you did, too.
Alas, it sucks. No more staying up until 11:30 and sleeping until 9, lounging around with the cat until 10, watching Martha Stewart and drinking coffee until 11, and then considering showering and maybe MAYBE leaving the house.
Every year I take a break from everything from around Christmas until sometime after the New Year. No web, no email, no bulletin boards, no checking work voicemail, no activities that I don’t want to do. It’s my break and those are my rules—and my rules include unwanted traveling and unwanted guests. Neither occurred during my break.
I never get to do everything that I’d hoped to do because of all of the time I spend doing other things. So, this year I did not clean that spot off of the ceiling where the tree left a mark. Nor did I rewrap my flowering dogwood before the snow came. I did not get to sled with some little friends, as there was no snow. I didn’t read several novels/biographies. I didn’t attend any movies during the day.
But I did do some amazing things. I had dinner with friends. I played Boggle on New Year’s Eve (alas, not with my traditional NYE family, but Boggle, nonetheless). I saw a Wienermobile. I went to a basketball game with out-of-town friends (and our team won). I spent time with most of my small friends. I gave gifts that people loved. I received gifts that I love. I took a magical walk in the snow on Christmas night. I watched the moon rise.
And I took a lot of time to savor the moments. I hope that you did, too.
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