Good news / Bad news

Good news: I got all my old files transferred off floppies and my old tank of a computer, without junking up my new one.  My desk is looking great.

Bad news:  I got nothing done on my dissertation this week.  Not a word.

Good news:  I made cupcakes last night!  Lemony delicious.

Bad news:  I’m going to eat half-a-dozen cupcakes in the next few days. 

Good news:  Our farm share is full of awesome, and I’ve found some great recipes.  Tonight, we’re having Soy-Glazed Bok Choy and Tofu, Pan-fried Daikon, and brown rice.  Does this make up for the cupcakes?

Bad news:  RB has no clue how to deal w/ fresh produce, so all these great recipes mean work for me.  Also, no, it doesn’t make up for the cupcakes.

Good news:  I had lunch with one of my college-age step-sisters last week.  I haven’t seen her for almost 2 years.

Bad news:  She was in town for a friend’s funeral, and she’s… uh…  I tried to talk politics, and her response was “wait, Obama’s from Chicago?”  (She was born in suburban Chicago and lived there until she was 14 or so.)

Good news:  I saw Sunday in the Park with George last week and ran into a couple of my colleagues.  The production was really pretty good.  Jenna Russell as Dot, particularly.

Bad news:  I realized I hate Sunday in the Park with George, and I left at intermission.

And to end on bad news:  It’s hot as balls.  I hate summer.

 

OMG Shoez.

Okay, everyone and their mammy has seen this, I think, but it’s appropriate (although why the sexy hula-hoopers are necessary, I don’t know):

I don’t actually like shoes.  I go barefoot as often as I reasonably can, and when that isn’t possible, I’m probably just wearing slippers or flipflops.  I don’t like to shop for shoes, I don’t want to spend a lot of money on shoes, I don’t even want to think about shoes  (this is one of the reasons that I never watched SATC, I’m sure).

I have bad feet for shoes.  They’re not ugly or gnarly or anything, but they are rather wide, and I have crazy high insteps and arches, which means I can’t wear a lot of styles–either my arch doesn’t fit, or I just walk right out of them.  Also, I refuse to wear shoes that hurt, which eliminates a lot of other styles.  I have been on a quest for X years now for a pair of black low heels that I can wear w/ a suit or a dress, and actually walk in.  These shoes have not been forthcoming.  My current compromise, like if I’m presenting at a conference, for example is to go about in my stocking feet or wear comfy shoes (that is, flipflops) until absolutely necessary, then switch.  It’s working out so far.  Fortunately, I’m in academia, and our standards are…shall we say… “different”?  That’s polite.

I do, however, like boots.  Rainboots, cowboy boots, fuck-me boots, army boots, work boots.  I realize that boots are shoes, technically, but play along, here.  I have had slightly better luck with boots not hurting, probably because I can find them with more reasonable heel heights (or sans heels), and because there are fewer edges to cut into my feet (strappy sandals, begone!).  But boots are not for summer, so I’m barefoot for now.

But friends, when it comes time to reward myself for finishing my next dissertation chapter (this is how I operate; when I finished the most recent chapter, I bought myself a new sorely needed new laptop), I will be buying myself these pretty babies:  Frye Harness 8R Boots.  Maybe the 12R, though.  In brown, either way.  They will be, by far, the most expensive shoes I will have ever bought (because I am cheap, remember?), and I intend to wear them for the rest of my life. 

Right now, I’m thinking I’ll be sporting them in September (you have to have new school shoes, right?).  Maude, I hope they fit…

 

Because I’m lazy, and this makes me snort.

I saw this at Jezebel, who apparently lifted it from FAIL Blog.

How to Destroy Nostalgia for your Youth: Look at It.

One night after dinner at the beach, Robot Boy and I decided to flip through the channels and see what we’re missing on cable.

It turns out that we’re missing the opportunity to realize how reallly offensive some of our favorite movies were.  I was not laboring under the impression that the John Hughes oeuvre was the last word in sophisticated film-making, but I didn’t recall how egregiously sexist, racist, and gay-bashing Sixteen Candles is (this was what we stumbled upon late Friday night).  This was one of those movies that I used to watch whenever the opportunity arose.  Never mind that I was about 9 when it came out, and never mind that my high school experience was nothing whatsoever like that depicted.  It was a movie about THE 80s, that blissful decade when I did a lot of growing up.

I don’t have the time or the stomach to catalog all the myriad ways it makes me want to hurl, but let me include a short, emblematic scene:

The movie is ostensibly about the Molly Ringwald character Sam, whose super sweet birthday goes largely unnoticed, right?  But if you pay attention to the film at all, Anthony Michael Hall, as The Geek (aka Farmer Ted), has as much if not more screen time, and it is he who Gets Things Done.  

Sam spends a lot of time sighing heavily and worrying about her appearance (her weight, her breasts, her complexion, etc.), egged on by he best friend.   Ted, who is far lower on the socially-attractive scale than Sam, relentlessly hounds her, profits both socially and financially from her loaning him her knickers, and eventually cashes them in to alpha-dog Jake for a shot at Jake’s blacked-out-drunk girlfriend Carolyn, who he says he “could violate…ten different ways if [he] wanted to,” but he’s not interested.  Only boredom is keeping him from raping her, and besides, he wants a “real relationship.”   Whatta champ of righteousness.  But Farmer Ted is interested.  “What are you waiting for?” he asks.   He eventually gets his hands on Carolyn’s panties too, even though he doesn’t have any recollection of the event.  But she “think[s she] liked it” too, so, you know, rape:  not so bad for girls.  Sex (which is a thing that boys get from girls), no matter how drunken, unconsensual, forgotten:  what boys gotta have.

And do I need to include a critique of Gedde Watanabe’s Long Duck Dong character?  I’m not blaming Watanabe, but really?  Hughes tries to get some slight critique out of his host family’s racial insensitivity, but it is completely obliterated by the chinky-chinky-chong-chong treatment that Hughes gives the character throughout the rest of the movie.  Asian men are nerdy and effeminate?  Check.  Asian men can’t hold their liquor?  Check.  Asian men + liquor = lusting for buxom white women?  Check.

Anyway, we couldn’t sit through the whole thing, but I’ve seen it enough to know that this is barely scraping the surface.  The Breakfast Club, Weird Science, Pretty in Pink…I can’t imagine that they’re any better.  Not that I’m going to find out.  My rose-colored glasses are off.

 

Home again, home again, bliggety-blog.

We’re back home.  It was a good vacation, in that we ate a lot, and got away from our routines, and breathed a lot of fresh sea air.  From Tuesday to Friday, my friend and I worked on our

dissertations and took long walks with the dogs, and once our lovelies joined us, we ran around and had more fun.

Some highlights:

*Homemade lemon ice cream at the Bridgehampton Candy Kitchen

*Seeing deer on the beach at 7 am on Wednesday

*Figuring out (more or less) the theoretical opening to my next chapter

*Fooling around with Robot Boy in the middle of the day

*Dog-wrasslin’

* Kayaking in Accabonac Harbor and losing a flip flop to Davy Jones

*Sweet corn and s’mores on the grill

I’m glad to see my kitties again, but it’s going to be hard to get back to the New York grind.

Bleg?

I understand that the term is a portmanteau of “blog” and “beg.”  Which is what I’m doing.

I’ve been here in the Hamptons since Tuesday, staying in a little house with friends who have rented it (at what cost I don’t know, but which I’m sure is far beyond my means).  Robot Boy will be here after lunch, and we will stay through the weekend. 

We already agreed to split the grocery bill, and there has been no mention of us pitching in towards the rental.  I don’t believe they expect it, of course, but I am feeling very indebted (due to consciousness of my own comparative poverty), and very thankful.  In general, have been excellent friends to us–for example,  shortly after our beloved Screamy Cat died back in October, they invited us out to spend the day at a fund raiser for our favorite animal shelter (where we adopted two of our own babies) and let us hug puppies and talk all we needed to about our sweet girl.

So, the bleg:  what sort of thank-you gift would be appropriate?  The two are smart, highly educated, cultured dog lovers who like mid-century modern furniture, vegetarian food, and silly movies.  Neither one drinks, so nice booze is out.  A good meal seems insufficient.  Gas card?  Helpful, but impersonal.  I’m sure RB and I will discuss this on the train back to the city, but I’d love suggestions.

How I’m Spending My Summer Vacation

I am being licked to death by gigantic pit bulls who think they’re kittycats.  My only protection:  a worn library copy of a collection on Whiteness.

I am also eating gummy bears and taking afternoon naps. 

I am in heaven.

 

 

 

 

 

Explain this to me.

At home, I get up around 8 or 8.30, because I am spoiled and work from home, mostly.  I would sleep later, but the cats insist on breakfast (jerks).

This week I am on vacation, at a little cottage overlooking a bay beach in the Hamptons, with a charming little white iron bed and a hand-pieced quilt all to myself. 

It is not yet 7 am and I have been up for an hour.  How can I sleep through garbage trucks and car alarms, but not birdsong?

 

A Hairy Conversation.

I’m going to the beach for a few days, and in anticipation of this totally awesome turn of events, I went to get my lower legs waxed, which I manage to do maybe 3 or 4 times a year.

Anyway, usually the waxer is a tiny, often older Vietnamese woman, and the talk is minimal (“oooh, so hairy!”  “Now turn over,” etc.).  Today was different, though.  Waxer was a woman maybe younger than me, maybe around my age, a brown-skinned American of indeterminate heritage.  She was very friendly and chatty, and we gabbed a bit as she was RIPPING THE HAIR OUT OF MY BODY.

We talked a little about my upcoming trip, but there was a little meta-talk about hair removal (how hard it is to wax yourself, etc.) and while I merrily noted how I was overdue, and the trip was my motivating factor, I was internally cringing about the fact that we both outwardly agreed that my legs were gross and unacceptable as-is.  And I don’t think that my legs/leg hair is gross, I just know that if I go about in shorts or a swimsuit or whatever without waxing or shaving or policing every fucking square inch of my body, I will be judged.  By men and women, who may or may not know me. 

I hate that I am asked to devote psychic energy to that policing; and even more, I hate that I capitulate to that policing; and most of all, I hate that I played along and vocally supported that policing.  Feminist FAIL.

Father’s Day/Vegetables.

Robot Boy is a great dad to our cats, so they always show their appreciation in mid-June.  This year, they got him a big bottle of Chimay Cinq Cents and a card.  For my part I made him an awesome breakfast: a fresh spinach and chevre omlette, roasted potatoes, toast, mimosas, and coffee.*  I made a broccoli and cheddar omlette for myself.  Yum.

All this after cooking up a storm last night, since we got our first load of produce from our CSA, which was mostly greens:  lettuce, spinach, arugula, swiss chard, and mustard greens, along with broccoli, radishes, and garlic scapes (what?).  For dinner we had roasted chard and fettucine with arugula, lemon and cream.  Yum.  We’ve still got tons of veg to get through.  Tonight we’re having a big salad and/or the leftover chard and broccoli with alfredo sauce, since we gotta use up the cream and I’ll be watching the Tony Awards tonight, not hanging out in the kitchen. trying to figure out what do with all this green stuff.

This afternoon I Skyped with my dad, and briefly with my brother, who is also a dad.  Weird thought:  if my dad were a vegetable, he would be a sweet potato: mellow and earthy.  My brother would be something like chard:  good and good for you, but requiring some special handing and not for all tastes. RB would be, um…asparagus?  Fresh and sweet and versatile, great dressed up or down, even if he makes your pee smell weird.  Yeah, scratch that last part.  What veggie (or fruit, I’m not biased) would your dad be?

*I’m also going to take him to see Jollyship the Whiz-Bang later this month, although that’s a teensy bit selfish on my part.