Buying Organic

I buy organic products when I can...unbleached, unmodified, and underrepresented. And I've been worried about tampons recently. I mean, that's a lot of pesticide and dioxin to have next to such a gullible membrane. So, on my last shopping trip, I decided to head over the the hippie products and get meself a box of organics.

Now, normal tampons are sold in sizes - well, not sizes per se (um, guys, please), but capacity levels...depending on whether one is a dainty teaspoon of a girl, or a gushing river of womanhood. Why do you think they call them SUPER? (On a side note, if I had a tampon brand, the sizes would be "Piddlin," "Middlin," and "Yowza.")

So, imagine my surprise when the organic tampons only come in one size -

vegetarian.

I mean, these are some damn small tampons. These are tampons for the most anemic, Patchouli-scented, straw-pleated-skirt-wearin' among us. These are tampons for women who have not tasted the sweet copper tang of red meat in many, many years. These are tampons for women who bleed tiny, dense, iron-rich drops, and have to spend the rest of the week in a hammock mainlining kale smoothies. In short, these are not the tampons for me.

It sucks so much it's cool.

So, Audioblogging proves, definitively,

that I'M A DORK and I sound like an ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD with a SINUS INFECTION on the phone. Never call me again, I'm too ashamed.


Crap.


Unfortunately for you, I will be continuing to try this medium until I sound half-way decent. It could be a rocky few months for us all.

On the up side, John gave me a set of fruit plates with witty sayings on them - about fruit!

Those of you who know my deep spiritual and emotional connection with fruit will realize the appropriateness of this gift. And, yes, I do love fruit that much, and thank you, I think I will marry it, and yes, it will be a group wedding (Shana love all de fruit).

Holy crap, Technology is Cool

Mashed many, many ways

We have a million potatoes left over from Shanukah. Alexis cleaned up mostly by freezing everything she could get her hands on (including several types of frozen olives and the Shanukah Huppah)...Mushy and creamy, they're good for one thing - mashing.

Bet you didn't know there were multiple kinds of mashed potatoes, didya? All of these have a base of potatoes with milk, butter, salt and pepper - and the recommended method of serving is in a bowl with a well of melted butter at the top...

Champ (from Ireland) - potatoes and scallions
Colcannon (from Ireland) - potatoes and kale or cabbage
Clapshot (from Scotland) - potatoes and rutabaga (good with bacon fat, but what isn't?)
Kailkenny (from Scottish Highlands) - Colcannon with more cream
Rumbledethumps (from the Scottish Borders) - potatoes and cabbage are thumped (mashed) and rumbled (with pepper and butter), topped with cheese, and broiled
Punchnep (from Wales) - potatoes and turnips (neps), studded with hollows, which are then filled with cream

Satadru humors me.

(Also, please let me know if you want me to send you the boob shots that were taken of me in this shirt...)
A. Notice the point of cropping.
B. The homeless men in Georgetown would have approved heartily.

Not Yet

I've been cleaning up my desk, and yesterday I came across a set of keys I don't travel with. Old house keys, old car keys I can't get rid of, and the phillips-head key to my dad's lock box.

"What's in it," Alexis asked.

Oh, you know, birth certificates, the deed to the house, important stuff like that.

"Do we have a deed?"

...Well, we *should*.


So we dragged out the huge folder I astutely called "House" from the file cabinet under my desk. It has everything in it - all our mortgage payments, all the receipts from work we've had done, estimates for other work we wish we could get done. Also, lots of paint swatches and several folders on installing toilets and other bathroom appliances.


But. No. Deed.

"What does it look like? Is it going to be labeled?"

Look, here's something saying we have insurance on the title. Isn't a title for a car?


Finally, we near the end of the folder, and tucked in the back is our last hope for proof of our responsibility - a folded piece of yellow paper. We unfold it and stare in disbelief at the note I left Alexis years ago:

Complex Commands

Overheard on my couch while watching Alien VS Predator (most. underrated. movie. ever.):

(Alexis commands Crisfield)
Hot chocolate, then tea. Then ice cream. Then more hot chocolate.

The back forty

It's been a little bit since the lawn got mowed. Like, oh, say, 10 weeks.

There are unforseen consequences of not mowing - beyond the scraggle, the blooming, the reseeding, and the pissy neighbors - there's the dog shit and toads.

Crisfield the dog, evidently, does not appreciate the sensation of having her butt tickled as she poops. Therefore, she carefully places traps on the new flagstone pathway that we just got in this spring. Oryx heads to the back, by the fence, where she always has...but Crisfield likes to stay safe and unmolested by nodding grasses.

In spite of this (or perhaps because of it), our overgrown lawn has become a haven for toads. So much so that you must scuffle along slowly to avoid squashing them. As the grass is disturbed, toads of all sizes leap away and into the safer parts of the underbrush.

So...no mowing for us. The scattering of dog poop I could handle. The scattering of toad parts, I could not.

More than I deserve

Somehow, someway, these three girls from Watkins grew up. Sometimes together, sometimes at odds. Sometimes tortured, sometimes in raw flight. And somehow, someway, years pass and pass and we find ourself on a couch at three am in a Virginia suburb. We discuss flour wars and Casios and the time that Kris defended my honor. We circle and prod our common memory, shaping and patching and filling in gaps. It's so very funny and yet not at all - that we have this thing so precious between us.

Sharkey's Day

Running outside first thing in the morning is the most disgusting, horrible thing I can imagine.

I hate it more than I can express in phrases that don't contain fist shaking and spitting.

Even at 6:30 it is hot. Well, not hot, but *wet*...the air is opaque, and I begin sweating immediately. I wander through the back parts of Georgetown and Foxhall and every minute seems like five. Time? Relative.

I make my way to one of the wooded parks hidden around this area - ill kempt and overgrown - and I pause at the entrance to wonder: "Is 0630 very early Sunday, or very late Saturday?" Perhaps the park denizens will reveal which.

Again, time: human made, human watched, human defined. It's relative and mutable according to our whims and perspectives. But we knew that.

Ghosts in the Water

Afternoon pool is still and vast. Water flows over skin like music and I watch my hands before me. Kick hard, now, to stay under as long as possible, drawing wide hearts in the deep of it. One stroke, then two, then three then four. The bubbles stop and with reluctance rise to air again. Yogic abdominal breathing = more air = more time under the surface = the thick, close world of water. Such a relief, those moments away.

And as the strength of me increases, the ripple effect expands. No splasher, I. Rather, send my intent down and back, pressure sliding like thunderbolts from fingertips. And as they shoot by, I feel their passage on my thighs and hips, as if my hand was there and not there, as if the strength of me was everywhere.

If you've ever wondered what it was like being Alexis...

http://www.shmaltz.com/shtick/images/doctor.mov

With the beer.
Without the Jewish.
Also, more talk of bowel movements.

Asleep at the mouse

So, Tufte also feels that powerpoint contributed to the poor decisions that led to the Columbia disaster. Eep.

Mmmm, Tufte

The Cognitive Style of Powerpoint - Edward R. Tufte
In it he suggests that audience members should speak up when forced to sit through vacuous presentations:

"Why are we having this meeting? The rate of information transfer is asymptotically approaching zero."

Indeed.

A sweet reminder

Just in case you've forgotten -



The table, me drunk already, and the killing crew off doing their dirty work.


**************

A hush will fall, all over the world,

As all good people gather together to celebrate...

Shanukah.


FSQ (The Four Questions of Shanukah):
WHY IS THIS NIGHT DIFFERENT FROM ALL OTHER NIGHTS?

First Question: On all other nights, we may eat lobster mixed with other foods if we're lucky (like in a nice cream sauce over pasta) why on this night do we all get our own lobster?

On this night, we acknowledge that we are all of us deserving of luxury and abandon. We use this time to celebrate ourselves in the most ostentatious and over-the-top way possible. There can be no mistake when we scream to the world and to each other: "I am worth everything you can imagine and more. I am priceless, I am resplendent. Rejoice that I am here with you and give me lobster for it is my right!"


Second Question: On most nights, we avoid dipping our foods into melted butter even once. Why is it that tonight we may double-dip our food and our fingers and ourselves into bowls of melted butter?

Tonight we forget the smothering burden society has placed over us in trying to control our health and our bodies. We forget that we are supposed to be stoic before cholesterol, and instead revel in the wonder of being freed from pseudo scientific nutrition quackery (remember always that the mystical food pyramid was created to prop up American agribusiness).


Third Question: On most nights, I am responsible for feeding myself. What can I
bring tonight?

Vodka, Pickles, Soft French Cheeses...all are acceptable, however, I will be providing most of these things myself. If you are planning on eating a lobster, we will ask you to chip in for him (I will try to spend around $10-$13 per).


Fourth Question: On most nights, I eat dinner on my couch in my own home, basking in the flickering glow of "Friends" reruns. Where will we eat tonight?

In our home, of course!

*************

Next year in Jerusalem!

(Google it, you goy.)

Running faster, running longer

To this new speed of my life, I say:

welcome, welcome, welcome, WELCOME.

The danger of taking things literally...

BEND, Ore. - A state board voted to publicly reprimand a Central Linn High School teacher and football coach for licking the bleeding wounds of several student athletes.

The Oregon Teacher Standards and Practices Commission Wednesday placed Scott Reed on two years' probation.

Reed must attend a class on the risks of blood-borne pathogens within the next two months and furnish the commission with written verification of his attendance.

Reed agreed to "stipulated facts" that included him licking blood from wounds on a track team member's knee, a football player's arm, and a high school student's hand.

It was not clear why he licked the wounds.

********

In other news:

Health risk to first generation Americans: herniated disks from pulling hard on own bootstraps
DC woman arrested for attempted child disposal with water from recent bath

Cephalopods on TRL?

I'm obsessed with this video - it's just not a right sort of squid. Plus I really like the word bathypelagic.

http://www.mnh.si.edu/cephs/vetal01/50MagnapinnidaeQ01.mpg

(No, I can't create links when I'm using Safari. Just copy and paste if you want and leave me alone about it.)

The Marge Mobile

I am now, as many of you know, driving a new car. Stephan finally gave it up in June (the mechanic said that if I hit a pothole, my front wheels might fall off), and I dropped him off at the glue factory for fifty bucks.

The new car, known in Inuit drug-running circles as "Uimayartok Kadzait ," or, "Peppy Walrus," is learning to come to her new name: "The Marge-Mobile." This after my aunt Margie who gifted the car to my dad who gifted the car to me. I have never driven a car that did not belong to at least two people before me. I prefer it this way - the car is always a little hurt from the rejections, a little unsure and a little desperate. I can treat it like crap and it won't do anything. It's just happy to be larger than a 3 by 3 cube of metal and upholstry. I don't baby them...keeps them in line.

Right now, my main concern is pimping out the Marge-Mobile. I'm vaccillating on how exactly to do it, and am open for suggestions. The plan that was making me giggle on the metro this morning is to cover the back with homemade bumper stickers. As per usual, my brain is just kicking out slight modifications of extant stickers - my favorite being "My other car is a teapot" (I find the idea of driving a teapot really, really funny. Or, maybe it's just the word teapot. Teapot. See?)

Other pimping options: plaid, skull-and-crossbones, hot pants and a tube top...(there are so many possibilities, but I'll probably just go with "rust")

If I had the choice...

I would control where and how sweat runs down my body...

Good Place: Under my arms
Bad Place: Under my breasts

Good Place: In my eyebrows.
Bad Place: Down my cheeks or in front of my ears.

Good Place: Down my calves.
Bad Place: Into my butt (I've been running commando.)

Best Possible Place: Directly down the center of my face - under my nose, over my lips, and dripping off of my chin or lower lip. Balanced, fair, not that ticklish.


There have to be ways to control the flow of liquid - perhaps strategically applied pre-run pencil denting, like pressing in irrigation ditches? (if I water-load, will I be edematous and therefore more dentable?)

Tell me something I don't know

I've found myself reading a lot of other people's blogs recently. Yes, yes, yes, I'm aware. Stalking behaviors - you've warned me already. The thing is, I end up consuming a million of them because they're so unsatisfying - it's like blog ramen.

Most people seem to create some combination of the following:

- boring accounts of their job and what they do at it
- boring accounts of school and what they should be doing (but are not)
- boring accounts of their predictable behavior and the predictable behavior of their friends - who they think is cute, how drunk they got, etc.
- whining
- song lyrics

Where is your inner life, people? Where is your mind? Where is my mind? Why can't you tell me how you feel without using an emoticon? Good lord, when did we begin to depend so heavily on the smiley face? Do you mean anything you say, or should I not take you seriously on account of your "giddiness"?



With that in mind, here's my attempt at a normal blog entry.

Erin and I went out last night. Of course, I got totally lost, and was looking like a total idiot tourist with a map in my lap or in front of my face as I drove (insert "dizzy" or "embarrassed" emoticon here). Was okay though, listening to Joanna Newsome makes it all good. The third song has my favorite lyrics: "I killed my dinner with Karate. Kick it in the face, then taste the body" (insert "cannibal" or "carnivore" emoticon here). Well, in order to appreciate it fully, you have to sing it in a little girl voice and accompany yourself on the harp.

Somehow I managed to find this Pupusaria up near Takoma that I'd gone to with Alexis. It was hard to decide between Soul Food and Salvadoran...but the pork rind and cheese tortillas won out in the end. Don't they always?

Damn them - always out of the fried plantains...and, note to self, next time avoid deep fried Cassava balls (insert "nauseated" emoticon here).

Made our way South to Tryst in Adams Morgan. Since I was introduced to it, I'm always bringing people there. Chai was very, very weak, but waitress had really great hair. Plus, Erin enjoyed her birthday drink and we giggled for hours.

A Val-sized hole

has been left in DC.

Clarity and shards

I made the decision last night to finish the damn book once and for all. I'd been avoiding it. And it's never been this difficult for me.

I read and read and fell asleep reading and woke up three hours later and read some more. By the time I was done I was late for work, panicky, and accidentally wearing something that makes me look like a Cuban grandmother. My morning meeting was 4 hours and 45 minutes, and I took 50 minutes to talk when I should have taken 15. It gets like that for me when I'm sleepless.

I met V2 for Dim Sum in Chinatown (but they don't serve Dim Sum on weekdays, which is, frankly, scandalous). At the end of a truly terrible meal, I sat sleepily holding my glass - half to my lips and half dangling from my hand. I watched Val's face as I dropped it and it shattered - the glass and the ice becoming indistinguishable. An inch long shard stuck out of my arm, quivering like some recently thrown dagger. I plucked it out and made to brush the rest of the water and the ice off of my arm, and Vin grabbed my hand.

He told me to go wash my arm in the sink, and when I did glass clattered and ticked into the basin and I made small blooms of blood on the wet paper towel.