An episode of Antiques Roadshow is described in part in our TV on-screen directory, "Michael Aspel and the team marvel at an array of historic items."
I wonder if the powers that be who greenlighted the show see that, look at each other, and ask, "Did this always sound so bad on paper?" I mean, seriously: an hour of watching people say, "Oooh! It's a tiny silver pig, manufactured only between 1787 and 1789!" does not sound particularly riveting. But then you see an episode in which a cabinet housing a miniature Victorian parlor scene populated with anthropomorphized taxidermied squirrels is earnestly praised and valued at several thousand pounds, and you do indeed marvel along with Michael Aspel and the team.
FYI, a Google image search for "squirrels parlor scene taxidermy" yielded nothing close to the objet d'art in question to share with you. But I'm pretty sure it put me on some kind of government watch list.
21 February 2010
13 February 2010
Mind Warp: Complete
My dissertation research involves reading 150-year-old hospital records, which means I spend 40 to 50 hours a week reading about people suffering from horrible diseases and receiving often-horrible treatments (heavy metals: good for what ails ya!). This has apparently warped my conception of "funny" into what most of my friends and relations would place squarely under "morbid". Such as the 6-year-old with a tapeworm whose own history of his illness was taken in his mother's absence, and earnestly entered by the doctor: "[a piece of tapeworm] was like a broad riband and as long as his finger ... he [the boy] is fond of sugar and butter." (LHB1/129/2/12) Cute, right? I mean, sad, obviously, but a little bit funny? ... Anyone?
I think it's the kid's irrepressible-by-tapeworm enthusiasm sneaking through that cracks me up.
This leads to, I imagine, a general dread when people ask about my research and I start by saying, "Oh, this was funny!" But you have to find some reason to laugh, or all your free time is taken up trying to cry quietly in a public restroom stall and/or plotting exactly which powers-that-be (Social Darwinists? Hospital administrators? Doctors? The power-drunk and paternalistic bourgeois? That hospital clerk who can't write an intake record less than four pages long?) you will slap in the face, and how hard, when you finally get your time machine. Which is kind of my philosophy on dealing with heavy shit in general, when you get down to it, so there you go.
ETA: And now I'm imagining the effect in Victorian Britain if I were to appear from the future in my denim trousers and short haircut to deal massive and richly-deserved roundhouse face slaps to, like, dudes saying disease decreases the surplus population, and then wink away back to the present. And it is hilarious. I say, "You just got slapped!" or, I don't know, "Slap justice!" to avoid copyright infringement on How I Met Your Mother and disappear, and they all stand around blinking and stunned for a while while one guy clutches his muttonchop whiskers. And then one dude finally says, "I say, that was taking the point a bit far, old chum; my mistress was diagnosed with consumption just a se'nnight past." I wish I could draw comics so you all could see it too.
I think it's the kid's irrepressible-by-tapeworm enthusiasm sneaking through that cracks me up.
This leads to, I imagine, a general dread when people ask about my research and I start by saying, "Oh, this was funny!" But you have to find some reason to laugh, or all your free time is taken up trying to cry quietly in a public restroom stall and/or plotting exactly which powers-that-be (Social Darwinists? Hospital administrators? Doctors? The power-drunk and paternalistic bourgeois? That hospital clerk who can't write an intake record less than four pages long?) you will slap in the face, and how hard, when you finally get your time machine. Which is kind of my philosophy on dealing with heavy shit in general, when you get down to it, so there you go.
ETA: And now I'm imagining the effect in Victorian Britain if I were to appear from the future in my denim trousers and short haircut to deal massive and richly-deserved roundhouse face slaps to, like, dudes saying disease decreases the surplus population, and then wink away back to the present. And it is hilarious. I say, "You just got slapped!" or, I don't know, "Slap justice!" to avoid copyright infringement on How I Met Your Mother and disappear, and they all stand around blinking and stunned for a while while one guy clutches his muttonchop whiskers. And then one dude finally says, "I say, that was taking the point a bit far, old chum; my mistress was diagnosed with consumption just a se'nnight past." I wish I could draw comics so you all could see it too.
04 February 2010
Speaking of Gnomes
It's vaguely related story hour!
I began agitating for a yard gnome soon after I moved in with my now-husband, what with having an actual house with an actual yard. Well, an actual house with a gravel-mulched xeriscaped plot surrounding it. Not that I dislike xeriscaping -- it can really be lovely, and God knows we can kill plants with the best of them -- but the builder's interpretation of it is sparse at best, and the neighborhood association was so taken with it that it's in the neighborhood covenants (do they keep them in a Neighborhood Ark?) that the front landscaping is not to be densely planted. For what it's worth, we've gone even sparser by killing our small tree and being scared to replace it lest we kill Tree 2.0.
Anyway. Imagine my surprise and delight (and shock and awe!) when my husband came home from Walgreen's bearing two yard gnomes. He saw them for like $5 each when he was picking up a prescription or something and took the plunge into gnome ownership, because he is awesome. Then the following conversation ensued:
Me: Yay! Where do you want to put them?
Him: Well, one's going in the garage. Which one do you want to put out?
Me: Garage?
Him: Some kid's going to steal our gnome, or break it! I got a spare!
This gnome-paranoia shouldn't have been a surprise, as he's been muttering dire warnings about how terrible things happen to yard gnomes ever since I first mentioned wanting one. He takes a dim view of the goodness of mankind. But, take heart! It's been over a year, and our gnome is mostly unmolested. We had to set him upright again after a cat rubbed up against him once, but that's all. It may be time to bring the second gnome into play.
Ooh, and we totally need this from Toscano next:
I began agitating for a yard gnome soon after I moved in with my now-husband, what with having an actual house with an actual yard. Well, an actual house with a gravel-mulched xeriscaped plot surrounding it. Not that I dislike xeriscaping -- it can really be lovely, and God knows we can kill plants with the best of them -- but the builder's interpretation of it is sparse at best, and the neighborhood association was so taken with it that it's in the neighborhood covenants (do they keep them in a Neighborhood Ark?) that the front landscaping is not to be densely planted. For what it's worth, we've gone even sparser by killing our small tree and being scared to replace it lest we kill Tree 2.0.
(Photo from this Telegraph story about gnome discrimination)
Me: Yay! Where do you want to put them?
Him: Well, one's going in the garage. Which one do you want to put out?
Me: Garage?
Him: Some kid's going to steal our gnome, or break it! I got a spare!
This gnome-paranoia shouldn't have been a surprise, as he's been muttering dire warnings about how terrible things happen to yard gnomes ever since I first mentioned wanting one. He takes a dim view of the goodness of mankind. But, take heart! It's been over a year, and our gnome is mostly unmolested. We had to set him upright again after a cat rubbed up against him once, but that's all. It may be time to bring the second gnome into play.
Ooh, and we totally need this from Toscano next:
31 January 2010
Perfect for Gnomes
I made a lovely Estonian lace shawl during my first few months here in Glasgow. It knit up amazingly quickly -- largely because I knew a total of zero people in town and had no internet at home, so spent all my free time knitting -- and I was epically pleased with it. Unfortunately, I finished it up to and including knitting and attaching the border before I could no longer delude myself that it was in no way possible it would block out to an appropriate size for an adult, unless that adult desired a knitted neckerchief:
Those are a tape measure and a copy of Charlotte Brontë's Villette, a trade-paperback sized book which incidentally is fantastic, shown for size. As well as my toes, shown because I couldn't be arsed to crop the photo before I posted this.
The tragic irony is that I actually DID knit a gauge swatch for it, which I often don't do for lace projects like shawls, where blocking can cover a multitude of ills and the specific size isn't all that important. Too bad there was a misprint in the swatch instructions, as far as I can tell, because there's essentially no correlation between the stitches and size as printed for the swatch and for the finished project.
The good news is that it provided another several evenings' worth of entertainment to rip the whole thing out, then steam and re-wind the yarn. Now I'm working on a different variation of the pattern. I enjoy Sisyphean make-work.
Those are a tape measure and a copy of Charlotte Brontë's Villette, a trade-paperback sized book which incidentally is fantastic, shown for size. As well as my toes, shown because I couldn't be arsed to crop the photo before I posted this.
The tragic irony is that I actually DID knit a gauge swatch for it, which I often don't do for lace projects like shawls, where blocking can cover a multitude of ills and the specific size isn't all that important. Too bad there was a misprint in the swatch instructions, as far as I can tell, because there's essentially no correlation between the stitches and size as printed for the swatch and for the finished project.
The good news is that it provided another several evenings' worth of entertainment to rip the whole thing out, then steam and re-wind the yarn. Now I'm working on a different variation of the pattern. I enjoy Sisyphean make-work.
23 January 2010
I Shall Call my Show, "The Human Mumbler"
This Fall, I was watching a lot of The Dog Whisperer -- it came on while I was generally eating dinner in an empty flat, is oddly hypnotic, and I like dogs better than reruns of Friends -- and I found that Cesar's Way can be applied to dealing with other humans. To wit:
2. If all else fails, get people on the ground with a knee on their chest.
You heard it here first. Feel free to direct book and TV show offers on this philosophy to the comments.
16 January 2010
Christianity: You're Doing it Wrong
"Just like what Nazi Germany did to the Jews, so liberal America is now doing to the evangelical Christians. It's no different. It is the same thing. It is happening all over again. It is the Democratic Congress, the liberal-based media and the homosexuals who want to destroy the Christians. Wholesale abuse and discrimination and the worst bigotry directed toward any group in America today. More terrible than anything suffered by any minority in history."
I'm sorry, what was that you said? I couldn't hear you; I was busy smashing up Christian-owned businesses and burning churches.
Pat Robertson: Feel free to read up on Nazi Germany, slavery, pogroms, colonialism, reservations, segregation, crusades, tenant-farm clearances, and hate crimes. And STFU.
While you work on that, I'll be over here, thinking about Pat Benatar in an effort to avoid flying into a knee-jerk berzerker rage upon hearing the word "Pat."
I'm sorry, what was that you said? I couldn't hear you; I was busy smashing up Christian-owned businesses and burning churches.
Pat Robertson: Feel free to read up on Nazi Germany, slavery, pogroms, colonialism, reservations, segregation, crusades, tenant-farm clearances, and hate crimes. And STFU.
While you work on that, I'll be over here, thinking about Pat Benatar in an effort to avoid flying into a knee-jerk berzerker rage upon hearing the word "Pat."
15 January 2010
Uncompelling Mysteries: Pound Foolish Edition
Q: Why doesn't everyone buy nine Christmas Crackers for one pound at the everything-costs-a-pound store?
(Click to Enlarge)
A: Because they saved money in production by only using one riddle. Also, the tissue-paper crowns (not shown) were toddler-sized.
17 September 2009
The Tag Cloud Cometh
Hi "all" (i.e., "one"),
If you get notifications that this blog has updated, you may have been inundated with them today and for the next day or so -- I started adding labels (see nifty tag cloud to the right), so have been going back and adding them to old posts. Bear with me.
xo
Maim
If you get notifications that this blog has updated, you may have been inundated with them today and for the next day or so -- I started adding labels (see nifty tag cloud to the right), so have been going back and adding them to old posts. Bear with me.
xo
Maim
15 September 2009
There Goes the Bride
For anyone who didn't know, I got married a couple of weeks ago. It was pretty awesome. Pros: lifetime commitment, friends and family, fantastic dress and shoes, confetti cannon shocker at send off. Cons: passing out. And no, not in the manner of a drunk-assed bride or frat partier, but in a Victorian lady, smelling-salts kind of way.
It happened thusly: I had a super time getting ready, then did the whole walk-down-the-aisle, lifetime-pledge bit, then balanced in pointy heels on a sunny, grassy slope for awhile while the photographer tried to get all four children involved in the ceremony both standing upright and looking pleasant simultaneously (not possible). Then I shooed my family, including my bridal-emergency-kit bearing sister away to the reception to take couple portraits. Then after a bit of that, I felt really dizzy, reportedly murmured, "I feel like I might pass out," and then kind of keeled over, dropped the water bottle the photographer had donated to the cause, and my new husband had to catch me to keep several hundred dollars' worth of dress (and my skull) off the UNM campus pavement. There was only one casualty:
I had a nice little dream about my alarm clock going off, then came to in the midst of drama, with the photographer running to get the limo, the limo driver and husband (mine, not the limo driver's) stowing me, somewhat like a mob corpse, in the backseat, and the photographer asking what I'd eaten that day (answer: clearly not enough and not recently enough for a hypoglycemic). We pealed off to the reception, and I pulled my sister's cell phone number out of the depths of pre-cell phone memory so the limo driver could call ahead for emergency snacks and hair assistance -- you know, to avoid making our entrance to the reception in a style less triumphant/joyous and more staggering/bedraggled, in much the same way a long-thought-dead foiler of plans totters into some early-20th-century murderer's party celebrating said murderer's ill-gotten inheritance. Not the tone in which one wants to kick off a lifetime together.
Where was my cell phone, you might ask, if you hadn't gotten distracted by that long digression? In my little wedding purse. Sitting next to the photographers bag 'o' expensive cameras and camera bits. Right in the middle of campus all by themselves, because in the midst of lady-catching/limo-moving/corpse-stowing, everyone forgot the bags. Which were missing by the time the photographer (the excellent Ginger Russell, by the way) realized they were gone and rushed back to get them.
Not to worry, though: after a charming wedding night of getting a friend to loan me her asthma inhaler, calling credit card companies and sending missed calls/texts to my missing phone (sample: "Do you have my stuff? I want it back."), some hotel and spa in Santa Fe called to say they had my purse, and after some shuffling around in the luggage room, found the photographer's bag, too. Apparently another limo driver picked them up -- possibly noticing they were left sitting there after the unconscious bride drama -- and unloaded them with his wedding's luggage in Santa Fe. So we took a little road trip to the fancy spa, found the limo company had collected it to bring back to Albuquerque, and I finally got everything back from the limo office on Monday ("It's a VERY cute purse," the limo company's desk people assured me). Yay!
It happened thusly: I had a super time getting ready, then did the whole walk-down-the-aisle, lifetime-pledge bit, then balanced in pointy heels on a sunny, grassy slope for awhile while the photographer tried to get all four children involved in the ceremony both standing upright and looking pleasant simultaneously (not possible). Then I shooed my family, including my bridal-emergency-kit bearing sister away to the reception to take couple portraits. Then after a bit of that, I felt really dizzy, reportedly murmured, "I feel like I might pass out," and then kind of keeled over, dropped the water bottle the photographer had donated to the cause, and my new husband had to catch me to keep several hundred dollars' worth of dress (and my skull) off the UNM campus pavement. There was only one casualty:
I had a nice little dream about my alarm clock going off, then came to in the midst of drama, with the photographer running to get the limo, the limo driver and husband (mine, not the limo driver's) stowing me, somewhat like a mob corpse, in the backseat, and the photographer asking what I'd eaten that day (answer: clearly not enough and not recently enough for a hypoglycemic). We pealed off to the reception, and I pulled my sister's cell phone number out of the depths of pre-cell phone memory so the limo driver could call ahead for emergency snacks and hair assistance -- you know, to avoid making our entrance to the reception in a style less triumphant/joyous and more staggering/bedraggled, in much the same way a long-thought-dead foiler of plans totters into some early-20th-century murderer's party celebrating said murderer's ill-gotten inheritance. Not the tone in which one wants to kick off a lifetime together.
Where was my cell phone, you might ask, if you hadn't gotten distracted by that long digression? In my little wedding purse. Sitting next to the photographers bag 'o' expensive cameras and camera bits. Right in the middle of campus all by themselves, because in the midst of lady-catching/limo-moving/corpse-stowing, everyone forgot the bags. Which were missing by the time the photographer (the excellent Ginger Russell, by the way) realized they were gone and rushed back to get them.
Not to worry, though: after a charming wedding night of getting a friend to loan me her asthma inhaler, calling credit card companies and sending missed calls/texts to my missing phone (sample: "Do you have my stuff? I want it back."), some hotel and spa in Santa Fe called to say they had my purse, and after some shuffling around in the luggage room, found the photographer's bag, too. Apparently another limo driver picked them up -- possibly noticing they were left sitting there after the unconscious bride drama -- and unloaded them with his wedding's luggage in Santa Fe. So we took a little road trip to the fancy spa, found the limo company had collected it to bring back to Albuquerque, and I finally got everything back from the limo office on Monday ("It's a VERY cute purse," the limo company's desk people assured me). Yay!
11 August 2009
(You Know How Mike Is)
I just came across this Thanksgiving OCD/passive-aggressive gem at the gift to the universe that is Awkward Family Photos -- now with awkward family stories!
The link to it is my gift to you. I think my favorite is Lisa, who as a married woman is required to contribute to Thanksgiving at an adult level.
The link to it is my gift to you. I think my favorite is Lisa, who as a married woman is required to contribute to Thanksgiving at an adult level.
08 August 2009
Breaking News
Have you heard that Obama's health plan will confiscate all puppies and bake them into a pie?
And that pie will be served a la mode.
And that pie will be served a la mode.
Psycho Phone, Qu'est-ce que c'est?
Imagine, if you will: you are sitting in a conference session next to one of your mentors, who happens to be the president of the organization holding the conference. Your phone is dutifully turned to silent. Then, out of nowhere, it ... rings. Loudly. Your ringtone. Which happens to be the Danny Elfman-composed theme to "Tales From the Crypt".
What do you do? What DO you do?
Here's what I did:
1. Picked up the phone
2. Dropped it on the floor
(UNH UNH was all I heard
Are we going to let the elevator bring us down
Oh no
Let's go crazy!)
3. Prince reenactment over, muttered "Jesus", and possibly also "Shit"
4. Turned volume down and noted it was already set to "sounds off"
5. Finally fumbled the phone off
Smooth.
My only saving grace is that my parents had the psychic impulse to call right between two talks. But that doesn't mean I didn't feel like an asshole. The mentor, fortunately, laughed and muttered, "Good timing." She rocks.
I preferred the psycho behavior of last week, when it was turning itself off and back on for no reason. Can't we go back to playing that game, phone? Please?
And don't think I didn't notice that you ate like three tweets today.
What do you do? What DO you do?
Here's what I did:
1. Picked up the phone
2. Dropped it on the floor
(UNH UNH was all I heard
Are we going to let the elevator bring us down
Oh no
Let's go crazy!)
3. Prince reenactment over, muttered "Jesus", and possibly also "Shit"
4. Turned volume down and noted it was already set to "sounds off"
5. Finally fumbled the phone off
Smooth.
My only saving grace is that my parents had the psychic impulse to call right between two talks. But that doesn't mean I didn't feel like an asshole. The mentor, fortunately, laughed and muttered, "Good timing." She rocks.
I preferred the psycho behavior of last week, when it was turning itself off and back on for no reason. Can't we go back to playing that game, phone? Please?
And don't think I didn't notice that you ate like three tweets today.
20 June 2009
07 June 2009
Films in Which Someone Yells, "Inappropriate Tank Top!"
...namely, me.
We saw the Wolverine movie this weekend, because I have an abiding affection for the X-Men, the fiancé has an abiding affection for comic book action movies, and the fiancé's father has an abiding affection for any movie, ever. And it was pretty good; even though no one yelled, "NOOO!", someone did yell, "Arrrghiiughhhhahhhhh!" which is animalistically comparable. I was glad the studio finally just knuckled under, cut the fat, and gave the people what they want from an X-Men movie, i.e., two hours of Wolverine, i.e., one hour of Hugh Jackman shirtless. Kudos to the wardrobe department for successfully walking the thin line between super-tight jeans and jeans the actor can still walk in at least somewhat normally, BTW.
But seriously, wardrobe department? The Canadian everyman/reluctant hero/misanthrope/lumberjack has a neverending supply of fashion-y wide-rib tanks? Compare and contrast:
A standard-issue undershirt:
Wolverine's undershirt:
Here's another look, in case you're not convinced yet.
SERIOUSLY? That is not a tank top you obtain while on the run, nude, from a secret government experimental superweapons program (spoiler!). That is not a tank top you wear to your lumberjacking job in the Canadian Rockies while trying to escape your mercenary past (spoiler!!!). That is not a tank top of which one has an endless supply wherever one happens to find oneself shirtless (which apparently happens A LOT if you are Wolverine) (SPOILER!!!!1!!1!). That is a $77 Swiss tank top.
I mean, I guess if you're a super-fancy lumberjack who is secretly 100 years old, you might have spent like 50 of those years squirrelling away $77 Swiss tank tops in various remote locations, you know, JUST IN CASE you find yourself on the run from a secret government experimental superweapons program, or whatever. And maybe his mutant accelerated healing power is somehow powerless in the face of minor fabric irritation, in which case he had plenty of time to find just the tank top that he could wear in his various mercenary-lumberjacking-fighting Sabretooth occupations without the heartbreak of chafing. But for those of us who don't choose to fanwank that kind of thing, but do choose to fixate on minor details of movies? It was SUPER DISTRACTING, producers.
But thanks for the elevator gag -- those never get old.
We saw the Wolverine movie this weekend, because I have an abiding affection for the X-Men, the fiancé has an abiding affection for comic book action movies, and the fiancé's father has an abiding affection for any movie, ever. And it was pretty good; even though no one yelled, "NOOO!", someone did yell, "Arrrghiiughhhhahhhhh!" which is animalistically comparable. I was glad the studio finally just knuckled under, cut the fat, and gave the people what they want from an X-Men movie, i.e., two hours of Wolverine, i.e., one hour of Hugh Jackman shirtless. Kudos to the wardrobe department for successfully walking the thin line between super-tight jeans and jeans the actor can still walk in at least somewhat normally, BTW.
But seriously, wardrobe department? The Canadian everyman/reluctant hero/misanthrope/lumberjack has a neverending supply of fashion-y wide-rib tanks? Compare and contrast:
A standard-issue undershirt:
Wolverine's undershirt:
Here's another look, in case you're not convinced yet.
SERIOUSLY? That is not a tank top you obtain while on the run, nude, from a secret government experimental superweapons program (spoiler!). That is not a tank top you wear to your lumberjacking job in the Canadian Rockies while trying to escape your mercenary past (spoiler!!!). That is not a tank top of which one has an endless supply wherever one happens to find oneself shirtless (which apparently happens A LOT if you are Wolverine) (SPOILER!!!!1!!1!). That is a $77 Swiss tank top.
I mean, I guess if you're a super-fancy lumberjack who is secretly 100 years old, you might have spent like 50 of those years squirrelling away $77 Swiss tank tops in various remote locations, you know, JUST IN CASE you find yourself on the run from a secret government experimental superweapons program, or whatever. And maybe his mutant accelerated healing power is somehow powerless in the face of minor fabric irritation, in which case he had plenty of time to find just the tank top that he could wear in his various mercenary-lumberjacking-fighting Sabretooth occupations without the heartbreak of chafing. But for those of us who don't choose to fanwank that kind of thing, but do choose to fixate on minor details of movies? It was SUPER DISTRACTING, producers.
But thanks for the elevator gag -- those never get old.
19 May 2009
Nephews are Pretty Awesome; David's Bridal is Not
The fiancé and I (oh, yeah, we're engaged) hosted my parents, sister, and nephew for an impromptu family reunion/wedding planning blitz last week, which was generally pretty cool. I'm gradually getting over my tendency to hyperventilate every time "wedding" and "planning" are mentioned in the same sentence, and have been vastly entertained by the wedding industry's infomarketing barrage and inability to design bridesmaid dresses without empire waists, as well as my inability to get the saleslady at David's Bridal to show me any wedding dress without an empire waist. As I am not pregnant, nor do I wish to look so at my wedding, I will not be buying my dress there.
But super fun was seeing my two-year-old nephew, who, as an excellent mimic, will validate all of your opinions for you, if you phrase your inquiry properly: "Wasn't the puppy cute?" "Puppy cute!" "Should we feed the goldfish?" "Feed goldfish!" "Isn't it tricky to walk in this gravel?" "Tricky!" As not my child, he was very fun to play with, too: we spent an enjoyable five minutes standing in front of the garden spout turning it on and off before returning him with soaked clothes to my fantastic sister. Later in the visit I took a turn "watching" him at a family party, which consisted of keeping track of him following the dogs around, making sure he didn't have a confrontation with the puppy, and occasionally setting down my drink to extract him feet-first from end tables the dogs could crawl through but he couldn't. I consider it a great childrearing success.
But super fun was seeing my two-year-old nephew, who, as an excellent mimic, will validate all of your opinions for you, if you phrase your inquiry properly: "Wasn't the puppy cute?" "Puppy cute!" "Should we feed the goldfish?" "Feed goldfish!" "Isn't it tricky to walk in this gravel?" "Tricky!" As not my child, he was very fun to play with, too: we spent an enjoyable five minutes standing in front of the garden spout turning it on and off before returning him with soaked clothes to my fantastic sister. Later in the visit I took a turn "watching" him at a family party, which consisted of keeping track of him following the dogs around, making sure he didn't have a confrontation with the puppy, and occasionally setting down my drink to extract him feet-first from end tables the dogs could crawl through but he couldn't. I consider it a great childrearing success.
22 February 2009
Valentine's Day Massacre
I work at a bakery to pay the bills while I'm in graduate school, which is usually pretty chill. Last week, however, all Hell broke loose due to everyone in Albuquerque deciding on February 13 that they wanted to get cupcakes for their significant others without having preordered them. We spent the day heaving new cupcakes into the gaping, sprinkle-strewn maw of the almost-empty display case and staring grimly at the acres of stuff still to be decorated. It was sort of like this:
only, you know, more tense.
only, you know, more tense.
03 February 2009
Open Letter to Everyone Wasting Money on Ziploc Zip 'n' Steam Bags
Dear Everyone Wasting Money on Ziploc Zip 'n' Steam Bags:
Get a damn casserole dish with a lid. Or, you know, a microwave-safe bowl with a plate on top of it. One-time investment, no waste.
Sincerely,
Auntie Maim
Get a damn casserole dish with a lid. Or, you know, a microwave-safe bowl with a plate on top of it. One-time investment, no waste.
Sincerely,
Auntie Maim
02 December 2008
Tag, I'm It!
I've been tagged! Thanks, Lisa!
The rules:
Link to the person who tagged you.
Post the rules on your blog.
Write six random things about yourself.
Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them.
Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.
Let the tagger know when your entry is up.
Here are six random things about me, in the order in which they occurred to me:
1. I adore really, really bad versions of Christmas carols. I blame a cassette tape my parents owned (or, indeed, probably still own), which we listened to endlessly on van trips to Steamboat Springs during the ski/Christmas season. It featured an instrumental version of, I think, "Oh Holy Night" apparently recorded by the Tinny Wavering Strings Ensemble, as well as a musical rendering of "Twas the Night Before Christmas" in which each phrase describing Santa Claus was rendered in a different US regional accent. The real show-stopper was the over-enthusiastic, fakey, corn-pone accent on "His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow!" As our mother has a beautiful and authentic Alabama accent, all three of us kids found it unbearably hilarious. This also relates to a van-borne trip as adults to see the city's best Christmas decorations -- frustrated by simultaneously attempting to drive, decipher a whimsically-scaled map printed by the newspaper, and discuss the route over the dulcet tones of the van's 1980s-era FM radio half-tuned to a station playing (terrible) Christmas music, my dad barked, to the rest of the family's hysterical amusement, "Will you turn that shit off? It just adds to the general irritation!"
2. The first concert I went to was Michael Jackson's Thriller tour in Denver. I think I was in fourth grade. The awesomeness began when my dad hopped the verge between the interstate and its frontage road in our van (for some reason, there's a lot about the van in this list so far) in order to get out of the traffic on I-25, and did not end until after first recess at school the next day, when I recounted the set list to my assembled friends. For a brief moment, I was ... kind of popular. Plus, it set off a show-going career that averaged one a week in my mid-twenties.
3. Two of my most prized possessions are black-and-white photos taken by my dad in the neighborhood of Princeton, NJ. I pulled them out of a collection of art pieces in my parents' basement because my it was my dad who first got me interested in photography, and we both went to Princeton. When I turned them over to put them into frames, I read the notes on date, exposure, and processing he had jotted on the back -- and found he had printed both on my birthdate, but three years before I was born! Spooky.
4. Every time I start a new knitting project, I think of my grandmother, who taught me how to cast on and do the basic stitches. During her final hospitalization, when she was drifting in and out of awareness, my mom showed her a pair of socks I'd made; a few days later, she reported to my aunt with perfect clarity, "Amy made socks on number one needles!" I didn't realize until then how much it meant to her that I had picked up her hobby.
5. My pet peeve surpassing all others is whistling. You will never see me fly into a seething rage faster than if someone is whistling in my vicinity. I have no idea why, but I can tell you that even typing about people whistling is putting me on edge.
6. I am kind of obsessed with Marilyn Monroe. Because of her looks, and the drugs, and the death, and the marriages, and the rumored affairs, and the media's (and public's) desire to fit her into a preconceived slot (dumb sexy blonde No. 357), a lot of people don't know how smart and talented she really was. For example: she wrote to her stepson with Arthur Miller about meeting Robert Kennedy for the first time, and said she asked him what his department was going to do for civil rights.
Tag, you're it (there are only three, because I don't know all that many blogs): Cari at Implosion Explosion, Stephanie at Dogs in the Moonlight (who probably won't respond, as she is in Madagascar), Maughta at Judge a Book by its Cover, and Stephanie at Natural/Artificial.
The rules:
Link to the person who tagged you.
Post the rules on your blog.
Write six random things about yourself.
Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them.
Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.
Let the tagger know when your entry is up.
Here are six random things about me, in the order in which they occurred to me:
1. I adore really, really bad versions of Christmas carols. I blame a cassette tape my parents owned (or, indeed, probably still own), which we listened to endlessly on van trips to Steamboat Springs during the ski/Christmas season. It featured an instrumental version of, I think, "Oh Holy Night" apparently recorded by the Tinny Wavering Strings Ensemble, as well as a musical rendering of "Twas the Night Before Christmas" in which each phrase describing Santa Claus was rendered in a different US regional accent. The real show-stopper was the over-enthusiastic, fakey, corn-pone accent on "His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow!" As our mother has a beautiful and authentic Alabama accent, all three of us kids found it unbearably hilarious. This also relates to a van-borne trip as adults to see the city's best Christmas decorations -- frustrated by simultaneously attempting to drive, decipher a whimsically-scaled map printed by the newspaper, and discuss the route over the dulcet tones of the van's 1980s-era FM radio half-tuned to a station playing (terrible) Christmas music, my dad barked, to the rest of the family's hysterical amusement, "Will you turn that shit off? It just adds to the general irritation!"
2. The first concert I went to was Michael Jackson's Thriller tour in Denver. I think I was in fourth grade. The awesomeness began when my dad hopped the verge between the interstate and its frontage road in our van (for some reason, there's a lot about the van in this list so far) in order to get out of the traffic on I-25, and did not end until after first recess at school the next day, when I recounted the set list to my assembled friends. For a brief moment, I was ... kind of popular. Plus, it set off a show-going career that averaged one a week in my mid-twenties.
3. Two of my most prized possessions are black-and-white photos taken by my dad in the neighborhood of Princeton, NJ. I pulled them out of a collection of art pieces in my parents' basement because my it was my dad who first got me interested in photography, and we both went to Princeton. When I turned them over to put them into frames, I read the notes on date, exposure, and processing he had jotted on the back -- and found he had printed both on my birthdate, but three years before I was born! Spooky.
4. Every time I start a new knitting project, I think of my grandmother, who taught me how to cast on and do the basic stitches. During her final hospitalization, when she was drifting in and out of awareness, my mom showed her a pair of socks I'd made; a few days later, she reported to my aunt with perfect clarity, "Amy made socks on number one needles!" I didn't realize until then how much it meant to her that I had picked up her hobby.
5. My pet peeve surpassing all others is whistling. You will never see me fly into a seething rage faster than if someone is whistling in my vicinity. I have no idea why, but I can tell you that even typing about people whistling is putting me on edge.
6. I am kind of obsessed with Marilyn Monroe. Because of her looks, and the drugs, and the death, and the marriages, and the rumored affairs, and the media's (and public's) desire to fit her into a preconceived slot (dumb sexy blonde No. 357), a lot of people don't know how smart and talented she really was. For example: she wrote to her stepson with Arthur Miller about meeting Robert Kennedy for the first time, and said she asked him what his department was going to do for civil rights.
Tag, you're it (there are only three, because I don't know all that many blogs): Cari at Implosion Explosion, Stephanie at Dogs in the Moonlight (who probably won't respond, as she is in Madagascar), Maughta at Judge a Book by its Cover, and Stephanie at Natural/Artificial.
18 November 2008
I'm Thankful for Flying J Travel Plaza
Imagine my surprise and delight when I noted the following two items on my gas station receipt this morning:
Yes, that's right, my neighborhood travel plaza has gas at $1.94 AND holiday pies available for preorder. This really solves our dilemma of what to bring as a secondary dessert to Thanksgiving this year. And, if we can only find a spare gas can, what to bring for a hostess gift.
Yes, that's right, my neighborhood travel plaza has gas at $1.94 AND holiday pies available for preorder. This really solves our dilemma of what to bring as a secondary dessert to Thanksgiving this year. And, if we can only find a spare gas can, what to bring for a hostess gift.
02 November 2008
Babies: "That High-Contrast Shit is Giving Us Headaches"
So, I recently found this awesome baby blanket pattern at Knitty that I would like to make, although I'm not sure for whom, since my fantastic nephew is over a year old now and my only friend with a new baby is an amazing knitter herself:
I especially like that it isn't annoyingly twee, and that it can be really high-contrast, since babies are supposed to like that. Which makes me wonder: how exactly do we know that babies love contrast? What if they don't, and only stare fixedly at it (or whatever makes us think they like it) because they're wondering how something so eye-poppingly fugly came to be? Or they're really gaping in horror? That would be kind of funny.
I especially like that it isn't annoyingly twee, and that it can be really high-contrast, since babies are supposed to like that. Which makes me wonder: how exactly do we know that babies love contrast? What if they don't, and only stare fixedly at it (or whatever makes us think they like it) because they're wondering how something so eye-poppingly fugly came to be? Or they're really gaping in horror? That would be kind of funny.
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