May 13, 2008

New York Sean

. . . on seeing American culture with fresh eyes, from drinking to our restaurants' odd notions about portion sizes. I handle the portion-size thing by always getting a takeout container (and very often keeping a small ice chest in the back of my car); I don't know how I'd cope if I lived in a city that depended on public transportation. I guess I'd get appetizers for dinner whenever I went out. Or maybe I'd just waste a lot of food.

There is something about New York City that's ridiculously invigorating. It's just so . . . city-like. Vaguely reminiscent of San Francisco or Chicago, but ever so much more so.

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Rupert's Back.

The Rachel Boyfriend has returned. Go say "hi."

He looked smokinÂ’ hot in his uniform. Oh lord. I was tempted to test social boundaries and fellow travelersÂ’ patriotism by jumping him right there at baggage claim - I mean, are people really going to say anything to a guy in uniform? - but I controlled myself.

The uniform did come in handy at one point, which is when while boarding that flight, the agent stopped him and said, “Would you like to sit in First Class, sir?” Well of course he would, thank you very much. So that was nice for him.

Yeah. A the H reports that flight attendants were always nice to him when he flew in uniform. I like the Glenn Reynolds approach (though at present I can't afford it): when you see a group of people in uniform, send them a round of drinks.

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Rupert's Back.

The Rachel Boyfriend has returned. Go say "hi."

He looked smokinÂ’ hot in his uniform. Oh lord. I was tempted to test social boundaries and fellow travelersÂ’ patriotism by jumping him right there at baggage claim - I mean, are people really going to say anything to a guy in uniform? - but I controlled myself.

The uniform did come in handy at one point, which is when while boarding that flight, the agent stopped him and said, “Would you like to sit in First Class, sir?” Well of course he would, thank you very much. So that was nice for him.

Yeah. A the H reports that flight attendants were always nice to him when he flew in uniform. I like the Glenn Reynolds approach (though at present I can't afford it): when you see a group of people in uniform, send them a round of drinks.

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Coco the Pit Bull

. . . seems more interested in the Obama gay sex murder scandal than she was in Hillary's alleged lesbian affair. Probably because of the "murder" part.


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I've Always Been Suspicious of Antibacterial Soaps

Not that it's to my credit: I think it comes from having lived with OCD Girl, whose compulsiveness was often in slightly different areas from my own—and whose passive-aggressive abilities were far superior.

But it's always nice to be proven right.

The fact is, soap is very effective in getting bacteria off of one's skin. It just <>is. Even water is very, very effective if one uses enough of it.

I've always suspected that a lot of these "antibacterial soap" users were the sort of people who go on antibiotics at the drop of a hat. I've even considered the possibility that some of 'em don't even know the difference between viruses and bacteria.

Which, by the way, is one of two data any given individual needs in order to successfully negotiate the modern world. (The other being the difference between its and it's.)

h/t: Glenn.


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She Passed for Jewish?

Hm. To me, she looks like my best Celtic friend (the guy we call "Count Linguist"), in drag.

In all seriousness, she really looks quite beautiful to me.

Thank you, Irene. And goodbye.


(And thanks to AoS's Krakatoa as well. It's nice to hear good news every now and then.)


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Joy Tries To See Matters from the Perspective of the Frustrated Male.

Joy:

I try to accept the woman-haters for what they are: guys who haven't been laid since high school, when they were embarrassed by the fact that one of their dates had to get out a magnifying glass to find their itty bitty
dicks.

Oopsie. Did I say that out loud?

Anonymous Cotillionite A:

LOL. Don't hold back, Joy. Tell us how you REALLY feel.

Anonymous Cotillionite B:

Yes, you did, Joy—and I find it so nice that you can restrain yourself and describe those guys so kindly. *snicker*

Little Miss Attila: a source of understanding, sweetness and light for misogynists since 2003 . . .

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Light Blogging for the Next Several Days.

We're packing things up for the move, which is a week from Monday. Meanwhile, the final walk-through on this place will occur on Sunday, so there are contradictory impulses going, here: the desire to get everything boxed up, vs. the need to keep things clean and tidy, because the female buyer is bringing her mother along, and the Buyer Mother will be seeing the house for the first time.

So it's crunch time. The practical-minded will tell me that it's okay if the house looks messy for the buyer's final walk-through. And they will be right.

I broke down yesterday in fear, and called the Clutter Lady. If she could stop by this week and bark out a few orders, that would be great.

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Just No.

I've made my peace with the McCain candidacy, despite his rather colorful past with respect to the Bill of Rights.

But if Huckabee is added to the ticket, all bets are off. And I will join AllahP and write Hillary in. Gladly.


UPDATE: Sean Hackbarth, wearing his political consultant / stupid grownup hat, concedes that he's unenthusiastic about the prospect, but points out that "politically, itÂ’s not a horrible idea," and talks about the energy, optimism, and web-savvy the Hucksters might bring to the McCain campaign.

All I know is that as economic conservative, civil liberties nut and populism-hater, I would be livid. After all, the GOP has already told me to "fuck off" once in this election cycle; I don't really care to hear it twice. And the idea that I might ever—even theoretically, even if McCain were Certified Immortal—hear the phrase "President Huckabee" scares me down to my size-five shoes.

Furthermore: (1) I doubt I'm the only one who feels this way. Also, (2) the Immigration Militants make me look like a softy.

If the Republicans want people to stay home on Election Day, they are making all the right moves.

And I ain't even the base. Not by a long shot.

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Just No.

I've made my peace with the McCain candidacy, despite his rather colorful past with respect to the Bill of Rights.

But if Huckabee is added to the ticket, all bets are off. And I will join AllahP and write Hillary in. Gladly.

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Light Blogging for the Next Several Days.

We're packing things up for the move, which is a week from Monday. Meanwhile, the final walk-through on this place will occur on Sunday, so there are contradictory impulses going, here: the desire to get everything boxed up, vs. the need to keep things clean and tidy, because the female buyer is bringing her mother along, and the Buyer Mother will be seeing the house for the first time.

So it's crunch time. The practical-minded will tell me that it's okay if the house looks messy for the buyer's final walk-through. And they will be right.

I broke down yesterday in fear, and called the Clutter Lady. If she could stop by this week and bark out a few orders, that would be great.

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May 12, 2008

Dollars to Doughnuts

. . . there's a right-wing equivalent to this movement.

And I'll bet they produce even less trash. And live better.


Of course, part of this has to do with the fact that everything is better with guns, including lifestyle choices. Firearms are to daily life what sprigs of cilantro are to a Thai or Mexican meal: necessary. Seductive. Worth, for a few irrational moments, trading one's soul for.

(Usually, one's conscience interferes before one does anything foolish. Usually.)

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May 11, 2008

Happy Mother's Day.

As I stopped by the supermarket, the woman at the checkout counter asked if I was a mom.

"Oh, no." I replied. "But I'm a daughter, and I'm cooking for my mother in a few minutes."

Please note that "cooking" is rather a grandiose term for throwing together some pasta, cut melon, and a green salad—and keeping the dog away from the table while my husband and mother were having dinner. (No, no: I ate, too. I'm not that codependent.)

Happy silly Hallmark holiday; kiss the folks you love.

RoseOf.JPG

Not bad for 72, huh?

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So, What Is Swift-Boating?

Baseball Crank is glad you asked.

h/t: Hot Air

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It's a MADD, MADD, MADD, MADD World . . .

We gots us an organization that's experiencing "mission creep."

I may start an organization called "Drunks Against Mothers (DAM)."

Or maybe one called "Busybodies Against Fun (BAF)." How about "Hermits Against Nearly Everyone (HANE)"? Or, "WhatEver You Are Doing Must Stop Abruptly, Right Now (WEYADMuSARN)"?

Naturally, I'm just trying to help. If we can stop just one person from being seduced by the logic of the neo-temperence forces, it will have been worth it.

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No, Not Jonah . . .

Jeffrey Goldberg is ready to ally himself with those crazy Muslims over the issue of eatin' ham and bacon. I think I might be able to give up bacon, but smoked ham is the ultimate meat-as-condiment. Life without navy bean and ham soup sounds dire. Not to mention ham and cheese, prepared every possible way and using every different kind of ham. And cheese.

This is without getting into the issue of pizza, and how it ideally is topped with pineapple and Canadian bacon . . . i.e., ham.


What I want to know, however, is whether Islam permits one to mix dairy products and meat at the same meal. Because I'm starting to think that I wouldn't be a much better Jew than I'd be as a Muslim.

And being vegan would be great most days, until I ran out of peanut butter and lentils—at which point I'd start Jonesing hard on milk, eggs, cheese, and . . . ham.

Thank you, thank you, Sam I am.

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May 10, 2008

I Just Looked Out the Window

. . . to see a faint yellow-orange glow that surely comes from the ambient lights over the town. Of course they wouldn't appear white at this range. And I know stark white lights went out of fashion in the late 70s/early 80s: I distinctly remember looking out at the view over the Whittier Hills from my grandparents' deck when the transition was almost complete—but you could still see some white lights mixed in with the off-yellow ones, all the way out to Catalina Island.

When the air is dirtier it hides Catalina, but it changes the light; that's why sunsets are prettiest on smoggy days. The contrast with my laptop screen makes good, virtuous city lights appear even more yellow, natch.

But I'm jittery; I just Google-Newsed "fire" to make sure Pasadena wasn't in flames all over again.

Once when A the H was in Cambodia I awoke in the big bed to the smell of smoke, and a faint bit of light over the hill. I threw on shoes and a T-shirt—a tight one, it turned out—and set out on the road. I felt that with my husband out of town I needed to be especially careful about protecting the homestead. Sure enough, one of the sheriff's deputies had blocked the road around the corner near the girl's school, and I had a brief conversation with him. Rather, I talked to him, and he talked to my chest, explaining to my breasts that there was a tiny brush fire on the slope below, but it was already contained, and the fire department was simply continuing to check that no embers remained that might spark and create problems later. He told my breasts that the neighborhood was surely safe, but if the fire re-sparked, they would certainly go door-to-door and wake everyone up to evacuate the area. It was okay for my breasts to go back to sleep.

I inferred from that that it was safe for the rest of me to sleep as well.

Back home, snuggled under a very light blanket—with the window still open, to awaken me if the smoke got worse or the fire went on the move—I dreamed about orange light, smoky air, and my husband far away in steamy Southeast Asia. I remember thinking that wasn't the most practical place for him, at that moment.

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May 09, 2008

Oh-Bama!

Aw, come on. It's the same as G.W. Bush not being able to recall the name of Pakistan's President--even if he was able to give a brief digest of the man's rise to power.

Exactly the same.

Stolen from AllahP at Hot Air.

And Chris swapped out his daily strip to accommodate this. I'm hoping he's going to run the one that was up earlier, though . . . I liked it.

And now someone is going to slam me on my numerical memory. Well, I don't usually conflate odd numbers with even ones. Though I did once compose a "sonnet" that was a full quatrain short, and in conversation at a party once in the middle of the night (and not the least bit tipsy), I suggested something about the "decade" between 1972 and 1980.

"Um. Aren't most decades ten years long?" I was asked.

"Not that one," I informed the questioner. "A lot was compressed into that particular one, so they cut it off by two years. No one wanted any more seventies than they absolutely had to put up with."

In my defense, I once knew a guy who balanced his checkbook in base-8. I feel that this was on the nerdy side.

UPDATE: Insty has a "57-gate*" roundup. We who cannot remember numbers are discriminated against! Though I do like the idea of someone asking him to name all 114 senators.


* "Fifty-seven-gate"? "57gate"? "57Gate"? LMA style generally uses words for numbers between one and nineteen, and numerals for 20 and larger. Except, of course, at the beginning of a sentence.

LMA style permits the vulgar use of -gate as a suffix for scandalous phrases. Its copy chiefs, however, have yet to reach an accord on whether these locutions should be hyphenated.

You know, my fierce OCD could be a powerful force if it were only used for good, instead of . . . compulsiveness.

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Please Buy Ads.

And send me money. It makes me even more brilliant.


(I was just looking at my stats, and noticed that they spiked last Friday, in a non-Insty kind of way. So I was happy at first, until I realized it was just because I had used the word "cunt." That's a silly, arbitrary reason to see an uptick in one's traffic.

It's as if people are just looking for the word cunt on the web, and if one were desperate enough for traffic, one could just drop it in and watch the hits roll in. Spam spam spam spam cunt cunt cunt cunt.

Please buy ads and save me from becoming the internet equivalent of a verbal coke-whore.

Or, to put it another way [channeling Blazing Saddles]: "one false move, and the cunt gets it."

Please, please, do what she says. [Eyes wide, chest heaving.] I think she means it!)

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More on the Eugene Marathon

. . . here. Just keep scrolling.

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