Or more accurately, sunlight. I have a continual quest on sunny days to find a clean, well-sun-lighted place to enjoy the warmth and general sense of well-being that only the sun can provide--along with a tasty beverage and possibly a small bit to eat. In San Diego, we have a lot of sunny days. This seems like a very easy task.
However, it seems that the bar/coffee shops/restaurant owners of San Diego have concocted a conspiracy (I'll call it THE PLAN here for simplicity's sake) to situate their establishments in such a way that direct sunlight never actually reaches their outdoor patios. Whether it is a northeast facing deck or ridiculous awnings, these potentially pleasant places of respite are perpetually in the shade. In my extremely researched and objective estimation, at least 95% of places with outdoor seating in San Diego are participating in THE PLAN.
There are a few notable exceptions to THE PLAN (all of which I cannot list). Two of the consistently good sun spots are British pubs: Shakespeare's in Mission Hills and The Princess Pub in Little Italy (Two other notables: Red's coffee shop in Point Loma has a back patio that faces an unseemly parking lot yet gets beautiful sun. And for a more pleasant coffee shop view to accompany your sun, try Cafe Carpe Diem in Banker's Hill). Perhaps it is the fact that these are British establishments that explain why their owners do not conform to THE PLAN. Britain does seem to get significantly less sun than we do in Southern California, so maybe the owners of these pubs realize the vital aspect that direct sunlight fulfills in our lives. Like preventing rickets or suicide.
Seriously, in this day and age of either the extreme of leatherneck tanning or of vampire-fear-of-sun, the benefits and simple pleasures of that golden orb go largely unnoticed. Our good friend gets vilified as the accomplice of the shallow or source of cancer-causing mutations. But there is nothing like the wrapping of warmth and glowing sense of well-being one can attain while sipping an appropriate beverage, book in hand, basking in those golden rays. It's pure joy.
Feeling the sun after an eon of storm clouds and marine layer is like giving blood to an anemic. Suddenly, you have energy, zest for life. Things taste better, look better, feel better, sound better, smell better when swathed in sunlight.
Yet throughout San Diego are fine places of mastication, imbibition, and comraderie that deny us this simple pleasure. Are they hoping that their participation in THE PLAN will cause us to spend more money there because we have to drink more to feel happy? Are they in cahoots with clothing stores that are trying to clear their overstock of winter sweaters? Are they just sadists that get some sort of twisted pleasure from creating wild and delightful hopes at the sight of outdoor seating on a gorgeous day only to dash them when we are exposed to the extreme chill of a shaded dining area?
Whatever the cause, this tyranny of THE PLAN must. stop. now. We must fight for our right to sunlight. Just twenty years ago, 40% of San Diego had sun. Now we are down to a mere 5%. We must fight to preserve those places that serve as altars to the sun sprites. It is no coincidence that the vicious rumor is flying around that the Princess has been bought by a condo company and will be replaced by a tall building with plenty of shaded area; this bastion of the combination of chilled beer and glorious sun is bucking THE PLAN. Of course there are consequences.
People of San Diego--people around the world!--fight back. Seize the day. Seize the sun. Make a note of those places that allow sun to support the growth of your mind, body, and soul. Go to these places. Drink. Eat. Read. Talk. Bask.
Seize the warmth of pure unadulterated joy.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Quote Archive
2010:
Lost really has two disparate meanings. Losing things is about the familiar falling away, getting lost is about the unfamiliar appearing. There are objects and people that disappear from your sight or knowledge or possession; you lose a bracelet, a friend, the key. You still know where you are. Everything is familiar except that there is one item less, one missing element. Or you get lost, in which case the world becomes larger than your knowledge of it. Either way there is a loss of control. Imagine yourself streaming through time shedding gloves, umbrellas, wrenches, books, friends, homes, names. This is what the view looks like if you take a rear-facing seat on the train. Looking forward you constantly acquire moments of arrival, moments of realization, moments of discovery. The wind blows your hair back and you are greeted by what you have never seen before. The material falls away in an onrushing experience. It peels off like skin from a molting snake. Of course to forget the past is to lose the sense of loss that is also memory of an absent richness and a set of clues to navigate the present by; the art is not one of forgetting but letting go. And when everything else is gone, you can be rich in loss. (Solnit A Field Guide to Getting Lost 22-23)
2007:
The real marriage of true minds is for any two people to possess a sense of humor or irony pitched in exactly the same key, so that their joint glances at any subject cross like interarching searchlights.----Edith Wharton
When love and duty are one, grace is with you.
2008:
In a world of disorder and disaster and fraud, sometimes only beauty can be trusted [...] To devote yourself to the creation and enjoyment of beauty, then, can be a serious business--not always necessarily a means of escaping reality, but sometimes a means of holding on to the real when everything else is flaking away into . . . rhetoric and plot.--Elizabeth Gilbert
Love loves the smell of wine, of cooking. --Turiddu, Cavalleria Rusticana by Pietro Mascagni
Lost really has two disparate meanings. Losing things is about the familiar falling away, getting lost is about the unfamiliar appearing. There are objects and people that disappear from your sight or knowledge or possession; you lose a bracelet, a friend, the key. You still know where you are. Everything is familiar except that there is one item less, one missing element. Or you get lost, in which case the world becomes larger than your knowledge of it. Either way there is a loss of control. Imagine yourself streaming through time shedding gloves, umbrellas, wrenches, books, friends, homes, names. This is what the view looks like if you take a rear-facing seat on the train. Looking forward you constantly acquire moments of arrival, moments of realization, moments of discovery. The wind blows your hair back and you are greeted by what you have never seen before. The material falls away in an onrushing experience. It peels off like skin from a molting snake. Of course to forget the past is to lose the sense of loss that is also memory of an absent richness and a set of clues to navigate the present by; the art is not one of forgetting but letting go. And when everything else is gone, you can be rich in loss. (Solnit A Field Guide to Getting Lost 22-23)
2007:
The real marriage of true minds is for any two people to possess a sense of humor or irony pitched in exactly the same key, so that their joint glances at any subject cross like interarching searchlights.----Edith Wharton
When love and duty are one, grace is with you.
2008:
In a world of disorder and disaster and fraud, sometimes only beauty can be trusted [...] To devote yourself to the creation and enjoyment of beauty, then, can be a serious business--not always necessarily a means of escaping reality, but sometimes a means of holding on to the real when everything else is flaking away into . . . rhetoric and plot.--Elizabeth Gilbert
Love loves the smell of wine, of cooking. --Turiddu, Cavalleria Rusticana by Pietro Mascagni
Only One More Year Left To Wear Those Glasses With the 00 as the Eyeholes
Another year has begun. And no matter how much I say that I won't do a resolution (or resolutions), I find that I always make an internal list of things I'd like to do, do differently, or do better in the coming year.
The biggest "do differently" came from an NPR article in November of last year. I learned about a group of people in San Francisco who decided to say no to consumerism, calling this decision The Compact. Essentially, they've decided to buy nothing new for a certain time period (for some it was six months, for others a year, for still others it is ongoing).
I didn't get to hear the entire article because (oddly enough) I was busy selling some books and clothes back to a second-hand store, but what I heard really got my attention. This partial article plus my son's response to a broken toy earlier that week ("It's okay, Mommy. We can just buy a new one") motivated me to do a mini-compact of my own for the year of '08.
As soon as I decided this (in November), I went on a major spending spree.
I panicked. A whole year without buying anything new?!! What about gifts for others? What about gift cards from people to me? What if I see those brown boots I want? What about all of those cute skirts that will come out in the spring? What about new music? What about new books? My mind was spinning because once I decided to cut out all of the mindless things I buy on a--if not day to day--weekly basis, I realized just how much I participate in this consumer culture.
Part of this participation comes from the fact that everyone is bombarded by ads for goods almost every second of the day. I don't even watch TV (honestly, I don't. I only watch movies), but I am well aware of the new iPod or new clothing line at that high end department store or new album released by that hot new band. We seem to soak up the need to buy stuff from the very air.
Part of this participation comes from the fact that gift-giving and -receiving is the primary way my family expresses love. We all love love love to get and give gifts. I am a kick-ass gift giver because that is how I tell people I care for them. I am a kick-ass stuff-buyer because that is how I tell myself I care for me. In fact, when my girlfriends all tried to stop giving each other gifts at birthdays, I refused to participate in their madness--oh I gave gifts. I gave great gifts. And when my birthday came around you can bet I received gifts too (thank you, my good friends, for loving me my way).
So giving up buying is not only about giving up shopping, it is also a bit like giving up my best way of saying "I love you." (I am not super proud of the previous statement, but it is the truth.) I would have to essentially learn a whole new way of showing that I care for others and myself.
But when I decided all of this, it was still November. . .
So I am not proud to admit I did a bit of stock-piling in my last month of consumerism. This Christmas, everyone in my family got a kick-ass gift. In the last few days after Christmas, I took every gift card I received and shopped my heart out. I bought cds, books, clothes, etc . . . to a ridiculous extent. I even pre-ordered a cd that won't be released until later this month and toyed with the idea of pre-ordering a book that is going to be released until this summer.
However, I don't really think my purchases are going to be "new" for much longer. I've already listened and pretty much memorized all of my new cds. I've read about half of the books I've bought. And I've worn all of my new clothes. It's only a week into my compact and my items that brought me such joy in their newness are no longer new. Already, seven days seems like a long time to not have made any purchases. The maw of the consumer beast is starting to gape.
I think this year might be hard. Not just because I won't be able to shop, but because I am going to have to seriously examine how I used to spend my money and time as well as what truly has priority in my life. Where is my treasure? Where is my heart? As one friend has half-jokingly claimed: I am a cavern of want. The question is: do I put worthwhile things into that cavern? Perhaps if I change my priorities, I could be sated.
We shall see.
So the following are my mini-compact rules (and a lot of this, I got off of the original Compact blog). The biggest thing will be to use common sense about any purchase:
1. Nothing new unless it is food, beverages, underwear, necessities (like soap, deodorant, medical supplies, etc . . .).
*A notable exception I am making to the above is original art.*
2. Experiences can be bought (e.g. plays, trips, dining out, museum tickets) but must not be too excessive. Also, subscriptions to magazines and museum/zoo passes can be renewed
3. I can buy things used, but I am going to try to avoid buying anything. Honestly, I don't need anything. This avoidance to buy anything will include downloaded music (gulp).
4. Some caveats: My son can have new clothes if he needs them. My husband can have new running shoes. I can have school supplies if I need them (like pens and texts) but I have to look for used first. Anything my lab buys for me for my research, I can have new (It would be really hard to do biology research with, say, used pipette tips).
People have asked what I'll do if my computer crashes or my car fails or my house burns down. Those things would indeed stink, but all of that stuff can be replaced without buying into the consumer trap. Besides, those things most likely won't happen (they didn't this year), so it is sort of pointless to worry about them until they come up. Again common sense.
A year is a long time, but as I sit on my couch, typing on my Vaio, listening to Trance Party Volume 1 on my iTunes, drinking Witch Creek Barbera out of my Crate and Barrel red wine glasses, facing my 19-inch TV and Kenwood stereo topped with piles of books, cds, and movies, in clothing that is sassy and has no holes, I think I can do this. I have been blessed with wonderful friends and family, a good career, and lots and lots of STUFF. A year with nothing new in the stuff department isn't surmountable.
Wow. This blog has come a long way from what I envisioned it to be when I started a year and a half ago. I am still doing the CSA but it isn't that hard anymore. The only thing I have moldering in my fridge is lettuce (still can't figure that one out but at least I compost), but I have learned to cook and handle a variety of produce. I even like chard now (to an extent).
I am still cooking vegetables every night (that never seems to change), but it doesn't seem to be the challenge it once was. Here's the fried rice I cribbed from Veg Times after coming home from a New Year's trip to Mammoth and finding "nothing" in my fridge:
1 c. dried rice, cooked
sesame oil
peanut oil
onion, diced
garlic, minced
ginger, minced
bok choy, stems chopped, leaves chopped, separated
carrots, chopped and blanched
dried shitake mushrooms, soak in hot water for 30 minutes, chop, save liquid for something else
beet greens, chopped
frozen and shelled edamame, rinsed in hot water
soy sauce
spicy chile and garlic sauce
Saute the onion, garlic, and ginger until soft. Add the bok choy stems and carrots. Saute a few minutes more. Add the mushrooms. When everything looks done, add the greens and the edamame. Saute for a minute. Add the rice, a splash of soy sauce, and a tiny bit of the garlic sauce. Saute until everything is uniform in color and a little brown from the pan. Top with sliced, roasted almonds.
Yummy New Year. . . .
The biggest "do differently" came from an NPR article in November of last year. I learned about a group of people in San Francisco who decided to say no to consumerism, calling this decision The Compact. Essentially, they've decided to buy nothing new for a certain time period (for some it was six months, for others a year, for still others it is ongoing).
I didn't get to hear the entire article because (oddly enough) I was busy selling some books and clothes back to a second-hand store, but what I heard really got my attention. This partial article plus my son's response to a broken toy earlier that week ("It's okay, Mommy. We can just buy a new one") motivated me to do a mini-compact of my own for the year of '08.
As soon as I decided this (in November), I went on a major spending spree.
I panicked. A whole year without buying anything new?!! What about gifts for others? What about gift cards from people to me? What if I see those brown boots I want? What about all of those cute skirts that will come out in the spring? What about new music? What about new books? My mind was spinning because once I decided to cut out all of the mindless things I buy on a--if not day to day--weekly basis, I realized just how much I participate in this consumer culture.
Part of this participation comes from the fact that everyone is bombarded by ads for goods almost every second of the day. I don't even watch TV (honestly, I don't. I only watch movies), but I am well aware of the new iPod or new clothing line at that high end department store or new album released by that hot new band. We seem to soak up the need to buy stuff from the very air.
Part of this participation comes from the fact that gift-giving and -receiving is the primary way my family expresses love. We all love love love to get and give gifts. I am a kick-ass gift giver because that is how I tell people I care for them. I am a kick-ass stuff-buyer because that is how I tell myself I care for me. In fact, when my girlfriends all tried to stop giving each other gifts at birthdays, I refused to participate in their madness--oh I gave gifts. I gave great gifts. And when my birthday came around you can bet I received gifts too (thank you, my good friends, for loving me my way).
So giving up buying is not only about giving up shopping, it is also a bit like giving up my best way of saying "I love you." (I am not super proud of the previous statement, but it is the truth.) I would have to essentially learn a whole new way of showing that I care for others and myself.
But when I decided all of this, it was still November. . .
So I am not proud to admit I did a bit of stock-piling in my last month of consumerism. This Christmas, everyone in my family got a kick-ass gift. In the last few days after Christmas, I took every gift card I received and shopped my heart out. I bought cds, books, clothes, etc . . . to a ridiculous extent. I even pre-ordered a cd that won't be released until later this month and toyed with the idea of pre-ordering a book that is going to be released until this summer.
However, I don't really think my purchases are going to be "new" for much longer. I've already listened and pretty much memorized all of my new cds. I've read about half of the books I've bought. And I've worn all of my new clothes. It's only a week into my compact and my items that brought me such joy in their newness are no longer new. Already, seven days seems like a long time to not have made any purchases. The maw of the consumer beast is starting to gape.
I think this year might be hard. Not just because I won't be able to shop, but because I am going to have to seriously examine how I used to spend my money and time as well as what truly has priority in my life. Where is my treasure? Where is my heart? As one friend has half-jokingly claimed: I am a cavern of want. The question is: do I put worthwhile things into that cavern? Perhaps if I change my priorities, I could be sated.
We shall see.
So the following are my mini-compact rules (and a lot of this, I got off of the original Compact blog). The biggest thing will be to use common sense about any purchase:
1. Nothing new unless it is food, beverages, underwear, necessities (like soap, deodorant, medical supplies, etc . . .).
*A notable exception I am making to the above is original art.*
2. Experiences can be bought (e.g. plays, trips, dining out, museum tickets) but must not be too excessive. Also, subscriptions to magazines and museum/zoo passes can be renewed
3. I can buy things used, but I am going to try to avoid buying anything. Honestly, I don't need anything. This avoidance to buy anything will include downloaded music (gulp).
4. Some caveats: My son can have new clothes if he needs them. My husband can have new running shoes. I can have school supplies if I need them (like pens and texts) but I have to look for used first. Anything my lab buys for me for my research, I can have new (It would be really hard to do biology research with, say, used pipette tips).
People have asked what I'll do if my computer crashes or my car fails or my house burns down. Those things would indeed stink, but all of that stuff can be replaced without buying into the consumer trap. Besides, those things most likely won't happen (they didn't this year), so it is sort of pointless to worry about them until they come up. Again common sense.
A year is a long time, but as I sit on my couch, typing on my Vaio, listening to Trance Party Volume 1 on my iTunes, drinking Witch Creek Barbera out of my Crate and Barrel red wine glasses, facing my 19-inch TV and Kenwood stereo topped with piles of books, cds, and movies, in clothing that is sassy and has no holes, I think I can do this. I have been blessed with wonderful friends and family, a good career, and lots and lots of STUFF. A year with nothing new in the stuff department isn't surmountable.
Wow. This blog has come a long way from what I envisioned it to be when I started a year and a half ago. I am still doing the CSA but it isn't that hard anymore. The only thing I have moldering in my fridge is lettuce (still can't figure that one out but at least I compost), but I have learned to cook and handle a variety of produce. I even like chard now (to an extent).
I am still cooking vegetables every night (that never seems to change), but it doesn't seem to be the challenge it once was. Here's the fried rice I cribbed from Veg Times after coming home from a New Year's trip to Mammoth and finding "nothing" in my fridge:
1 c. dried rice, cooked
sesame oil
peanut oil
onion, diced
garlic, minced
ginger, minced
bok choy, stems chopped, leaves chopped, separated
carrots, chopped and blanched
dried shitake mushrooms, soak in hot water for 30 minutes, chop, save liquid for something else
beet greens, chopped
frozen and shelled edamame, rinsed in hot water
soy sauce
spicy chile and garlic sauce
Saute the onion, garlic, and ginger until soft. Add the bok choy stems and carrots. Saute a few minutes more. Add the mushrooms. When everything looks done, add the greens and the edamame. Saute for a minute. Add the rice, a splash of soy sauce, and a tiny bit of the garlic sauce. Saute until everything is uniform in color and a little brown from the pan. Top with sliced, roasted almonds.
Yummy New Year. . . .
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Clearing the Air
As I write, I am sitting in one of my favorite bars in San Diego: The Aero Club. I have been coming to this bar ever since I got my fake id in 1998 (actually, it wasn't fake. It belonged to another girl who sort of looked like me if I didn't wear glasses, were 6 inches taller, and about 15 pounds thinner. She had lost it, replaced it, and passed the now extraneous id on to me.). At first, I came because it was seedy and dark and the bartenders really didn't care whether I was 21 or not. Then my reasons for going morphed as my tasted for alcohol matured. I then started going because they served good beer and the crowd was an excellent mix of socially awkward college misfits like myself and aging locals.
Plus their jukebox freaking rocks!
Nine years later, not much has changed. The bar is cleaner and they have free wifi (two things I appreciate more and more as I get closer to thirty), but the beer is still good, the crowd still solid . . .
and their jukebox freaking rocks!
I am not kidding. This place is located on busy and awkward one-way India Street, so it's been able to maintain a sort of bar purity mostly because almost all who pass it are either whizzing their way to the 5 north or to Washington Street to get to Hillcrest. This is not the neighborhood for breezy tourists or uber-yuppies. This is an inbetweenplace. And like all inbetweenplaces, it remains a place of rejuvenation.
A place to celebrate the literal clearing of the air as the marine layer marches in and chases off the ash and smoke that have coated all San Diegans' lungs since Sunday night.
There's a feeling of celebration in the air as the fires start be more and more contained and the event that continues to dominate the TVs is the second game of the World Series rather than pictures of burning homes.
I'm not in any way stating that the fact that the fires still are burning--that people are still displaced, that many have lost homes and a few have lost loved ones--is trivial. But to have the oppressive air that has hung over this area of the city for fully five days to lift is a moment to celebrate.
We are emerging from our homes and shelters after days of avoiding "bad air," shaking our heads, wondering where we've been all week. And though for many this isn't the case, life is starting to "get back to normal" as businesses and schools talk about opening again.
I am blessed in that I don't know anyone who lost a home in the fire. All of my friends were merely displaced for a few short days and returned to their safe and whole houses. This situation is also a blessing in that all of us (me and my friends) were left free to help others who had suffered loss. To be able to cheerfully aid others is indeed a true blessing.
I truly mourn the losses of so much for so many people. Yet I also celebrate how we, as a city--a community, supported each other. Those who had shared with those who had lost. It kind of makes you think that maybe the human species isn't quite so bad as we usually seem.
And as I write this, I look up and see the local bartendress. She gives me a smile, sharing with me the relief of spirit at the cleared air and the joy that we can still be kind to each other.
Wedding in the Ashes
On Sunday, 21 October, I went to a wedding.
This wedding was interesting for two reasons.
a) It was my first wedding where kids aren't invited, and
b) I caused a glorious scene by coughing through the bride's maids' entrances.
I'm serious about a. I've never been invited to a wedding where my wonderful, so well-behaved, absolutelythecutestkidontheplanet son hasn't been welcomed with open arms. Apparently, childless weddings are all the rage. And who can blame people? I love dancing a sober jig with my darling boy, but I love dancing a slightly buzzed jig without him all the more. Leaving baby behind does have a touch of that date night, devil-may-care excitement--except I am still waking up at 6am to a whiny toddler.
What is so odd about this childless wedding is that apparently the bride and groom didn't realize they didn't want rug rats cutting capers until after the invitations had been sent and RSVPs had been returned. In short, we were given a two-week (Lynn Truss, eat your heart out) notice to find a sitter for this wedding via a slightly abashed call from the groom, clarifying that the RSVP was for two not three.
At first my motherly ire rose and I railed about how my gift to this blessed couple would be the $10-an-hour sitter I would have to find. However, I was quickly set straight by all of my more wedding savvy friends about the normality and propriety of this exclusion by my son. And more importantly, my grandparents came down that weekend and watched my sweetest one for a whopping free dollars.
Lucky couple. They still got their gift certificate to Crate and Barrel (to which I had happily found out at the wedding they had actually registered at).
Now on to part b. As many of you already know, I am prone to ridiculous coughing fits. However, no matter how ridiculous they are, these fits are no laughing matter. These moments of extreme cough-dom can last for as long as 30 minutes, in which I am literally gasping and retching. I simply can't control them.
They've happen when I've been teaching. All I could do was wave a weak hand at my horrified students as they watch me hack up a lung with horrified expressions on their faces. Happily, they've all left the classroom with minimal fuss (since I am in no shape to argue with them), and I've recovered after agonizing minutes of searing explosions and possibly a little pee leakage (I'll never tell . . . but I did have a baby. Mommies everywhere can attest that your bladder is never the same).
They've also happened during important interviews. One of which I failed to mention was when I interviewed to be in the lab I currently am performing research in. Yes indeed, I did begin a coughing fit. For about five or six awful minutes, I frantically scanned my no PI's desk for any type of device to swab my watering eyes and running nose with. To no avail. He finally noticed my plight and gave me permission to flee to the ladies' room where I proceeded to streak my linen shirt with tears and snot. Oh yes, I walked back into my no PI's office to continue that interview, red nose, eyes, face, and all.
However, in both of the above situations, I have had the option to flee when such fits start. Not so with this wedding. The fit started when the ash from the then unremarkable southern fire (Harris for all of you in the know now) became lodged in my throat. The air was already bad because of the smoke, and this particular ash was merely the straw that broke my civilized throat's back.
I erupted into hacks and gasps . . . just as the bride's maids began their sssssssssssllllllllllllloooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwww march down the aisle to Pachelbel's Canon. Now this bride and groom are very lovable which was evident by the mass of people who attended their wedding. Seating was at a premium and very cramped. I happened to be four rows from the front of the action and two seats from the center aisle, crammed in so tight that to exit right then would have entailed a mess of "excuse me's" and chair shifting (we were outdoors) and people standing and calling a lot of attention to myself.
I was faced with a quandary: which is the greater disturbance? Poorly suppressed coughs or clumsy evacuation of wedding. I choose the former as being the most discrete. My thoughts were that if I didn't breathe for a bit, I could refrain from coughing too loudly until people stood for the bride and then in the jubilant confusion I could make my escape.
Unfortunately for my plan, I didn't have enough breath for the bride's TEN FREAKING BRIDESMAIDS! All marching as slowing and inexorably as time does to tasteful classical music. These lovely ladies (and they were lovely) were followed by TWO ring bearers and a flower girl.
I was in agony. My breath-holding had turned into a sort of beached whale gasping, snot and tears soaking my newlypurchasedforthisevent sassy dress.
Finally, the bride appeared, and I booked it for the nearest watering hole. I ended up watching the wedding from a discreet distance. The bride was indeed beautiful. The wedding indeed touching. And ultimately, I am thankful for the kid ban. I don't know how I would have wrestled my kid along with my errant bronchi.
So, what do you serve grandparents (also great-grandparents) when they are watching your kid for free? Goat-cheese stuffed burgers.
hamburger meat
goat cheese
buns
lettuce
tomato
onion
pickle
avocado
Roll hamburger meat into small balls (about half the size you would for a regular patty). Pat the small balls flat (yes, I know how that sounds . . . you think of a better way to say it). Place goat cheese slices on top of one flat patty. Top with another. Seal. Repeat.
Grill.
Assemble a burger.
Enjoy a wedding without your kid.
This wedding was interesting for two reasons.
a) It was my first wedding where kids aren't invited, and
b) I caused a glorious scene by coughing through the bride's maids' entrances.
I'm serious about a. I've never been invited to a wedding where my wonderful, so well-behaved, absolutelythecutestkidontheplanet son hasn't been welcomed with open arms. Apparently, childless weddings are all the rage. And who can blame people? I love dancing a sober jig with my darling boy, but I love dancing a slightly buzzed jig without him all the more. Leaving baby behind does have a touch of that date night, devil-may-care excitement--except I am still waking up at 6am to a whiny toddler.
What is so odd about this childless wedding is that apparently the bride and groom didn't realize they didn't want rug rats cutting capers until after the invitations had been sent and RSVPs had been returned. In short, we were given a two-week (Lynn Truss, eat your heart out) notice to find a sitter for this wedding via a slightly abashed call from the groom, clarifying that the RSVP was for two not three.
At first my motherly ire rose and I railed about how my gift to this blessed couple would be the $10-an-hour sitter I would have to find. However, I was quickly set straight by all of my more wedding savvy friends about the normality and propriety of this exclusion by my son. And more importantly, my grandparents came down that weekend and watched my sweetest one for a whopping free dollars.
Lucky couple. They still got their gift certificate to Crate and Barrel (to which I had happily found out at the wedding they had actually registered at).
Now on to part b. As many of you already know, I am prone to ridiculous coughing fits. However, no matter how ridiculous they are, these fits are no laughing matter. These moments of extreme cough-dom can last for as long as 30 minutes, in which I am literally gasping and retching. I simply can't control them.
They've happen when I've been teaching. All I could do was wave a weak hand at my horrified students as they watch me hack up a lung with horrified expressions on their faces. Happily, they've all left the classroom with minimal fuss (since I am in no shape to argue with them), and I've recovered after agonizing minutes of searing explosions and possibly a little pee leakage (I'll never tell . . . but I did have a baby. Mommies everywhere can attest that your bladder is never the same).
They've also happened during important interviews. One of which I failed to mention was when I interviewed to be in the lab I currently am performing research in. Yes indeed, I did begin a coughing fit. For about five or six awful minutes, I frantically scanned my no PI's desk for any type of device to swab my watering eyes and running nose with. To no avail. He finally noticed my plight and gave me permission to flee to the ladies' room where I proceeded to streak my linen shirt with tears and snot. Oh yes, I walked back into my no PI's office to continue that interview, red nose, eyes, face, and all.
However, in both of the above situations, I have had the option to flee when such fits start. Not so with this wedding. The fit started when the ash from the then unremarkable southern fire (Harris for all of you in the know now) became lodged in my throat. The air was already bad because of the smoke, and this particular ash was merely the straw that broke my civilized throat's back.
I erupted into hacks and gasps . . . just as the bride's maids began their sssssssssssllllllllllllloooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwww march down the aisle to Pachelbel's Canon. Now this bride and groom are very lovable which was evident by the mass of people who attended their wedding. Seating was at a premium and very cramped. I happened to be four rows from the front of the action and two seats from the center aisle, crammed in so tight that to exit right then would have entailed a mess of "excuse me's" and chair shifting (we were outdoors) and people standing and calling a lot of attention to myself.
I was faced with a quandary: which is the greater disturbance? Poorly suppressed coughs or clumsy evacuation of wedding. I choose the former as being the most discrete. My thoughts were that if I didn't breathe for a bit, I could refrain from coughing too loudly until people stood for the bride and then in the jubilant confusion I could make my escape.
Unfortunately for my plan, I didn't have enough breath for the bride's TEN FREAKING BRIDESMAIDS! All marching as slowing and inexorably as time does to tasteful classical music. These lovely ladies (and they were lovely) were followed by TWO ring bearers and a flower girl.
I was in agony. My breath-holding had turned into a sort of beached whale gasping, snot and tears soaking my newlypurchasedforthisevent sassy dress.
Finally, the bride appeared, and I booked it for the nearest watering hole. I ended up watching the wedding from a discreet distance. The bride was indeed beautiful. The wedding indeed touching. And ultimately, I am thankful for the kid ban. I don't know how I would have wrestled my kid along with my errant bronchi.
So, what do you serve grandparents (also great-grandparents) when they are watching your kid for free? Goat-cheese stuffed burgers.
hamburger meat
goat cheese
buns
lettuce
tomato
onion
pickle
avocado
Roll hamburger meat into small balls (about half the size you would for a regular patty). Pat the small balls flat (yes, I know how that sounds . . . you think of a better way to say it). Place goat cheese slices on top of one flat patty. Top with another. Seal. Repeat.
Grill.
Assemble a burger.
Enjoy a wedding without your kid.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
An Eye for a Well-Turned Phrase
I know a person who can turn a perfect phrase. It’s an art really. One that so many of us have lost in this day and age of anticipatory texting, smileys, weird shorthand (e.g. “lol”), and “you know”’s.
Taylor Mali in “Totally like whatever, you know?” laments that “actually our disarticulation... ness/ is just a clever sort of... thing/ to disguise the fact that we've become/ the most aggressively inarticulate generation/ to come along since.../ you know, a long, long time ago!”
And while Mali focuses more on our lack of conviction in our speech, his poem (and poems) so nicely outline that we are continuing to raise generations of people who will never learn to truly express themselves. It’s sad really. Millions of people who are trapped inside themselves, frustrated they do not have the words to relate to others and unable to figure out how to change this sad state of affairs. Unable to communicate and unable to understand one another. For even though this or that smiley might adequately express a surface emotion (much like that pain chart at the doctor’s office where a 1 for pain is a happy face whose smile gets more and more linear until level 5 where it begins the downward slope to a full frown at 10), there really isn’t a yellow visage that can truly represent the soul.
Someone might argue with me that language is just as inadequate as a smiley. Language is just a continued and always delayed representation of the real thing—the real I. But I argue, try having a thought without language. Try to gauge how you feel, react, or interact in the world without some sort of symbolic representation. Impossible? Exactly.
Jacques Lacan calls this pursuit of language as a method of defining ourselves and the world around us the manifestation of the absence of the petit a. The little a (which is “autre” in French and “other” in English—so I guess it would translate the “little o”) is the center of ourselves we can never express or define. This inability to access our other makes us split souls (or subjects in Lacan’s speech). We are incomplete. We know this fact. We strive to pursue that which will make us complete—our petit a—and in that striving, create language. We can never actually access our other center-self, yet we can have terrifyingly beautiful moments when we come ever so close.
Why terrifyingly beautiful? Because to come so close to accessing our other leaves us terribly exposed, yet, at the same time, beautifully whole. We become intimate.
In Sex/God, Rob Bell writes about the human condition of lost intimacy with each other and the world itself. He discusses physical intimacy as an important component becoming whole. However, this intimacy is also couched in language. He distinguishes between animal sex, human sex, and angel non-sex. What is important to note is that humans, according to Bell, occupy a realm that is neither solely physical (animal) nor solely intellectual (angel). We occupy the middle realm. A space between pure physicality and transcendent ethereality. A space of spirituality that is mediated by language.
Because our entire perception of reality is based on our language system, to not have a grasp on said system is tantamount to putting oneself into solitary confinement and throwing away the key. Isolating. Destructive.
Someone else might argue that because language and meaning is so subjective, we can never truly have a grasp on it. Never truly master it. Never truly master ourselves. However, think of the time you’ve been struck by a poem or a story or a spoken phrase. One that slices through the meat of you to the core and leaves you exposed and gasping. In that moment, language was mastered.
For a person, like the one I know, who makes a point to master language—who more often than not refuses to just blather away as many of us do to fill that void of silence in our souls—there are amazing “aha” moments. But there is a darker side to these moments as well. With the ability to expose the soul with True words, comes the ability to wound as well as reveal the beauty within. With a mastery of language, one can build the soul up or break it down.
I have words that will reverberate forever through my being. Some leave me joy-full. Others continue to rend and tear through my heart until it weeps tears of blood. Both types, because they are True, establish intimacy even if painfully so.
This person I know knows that language is an art: the art of expressing exactly the way our souls feel at that moment. This person knows the importance and power of the-perfectly-right-grouping-of-sounds. The “aha” moment of “that’s just what I was feeling.” This person also knows seemingly smaller language details like the difference between “i.e.” and “e.g.” Yet in these details is also power.
In Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass, Humpty Dumpty understood this power. He articulates that the real question in life is who is to be the master: the words or the speaker. Dumpty elaborates, “They’ve a temper some of them—particularly verbs: they’re the proudest—adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs—however, I can manage the whole lot of them! Impenetrability! That’s what I say!” I love how nicely (if a bit pompously and circumambagiously) Dumpty explains the problems with mastering language. Sure we can all come up with filler. But when we have to get concrete—depict actions, motivations, Truth—word-use gets tricky.
But we still have to try. We need to speak confidently but also Truly. We need to stop filling silence with talk. Rather, we need to construct intimacy with language. We must be brave enough like the person I know to be exposed and to expose. We must take the time to turn a perfect phrase. As Dumpty puts it, “When I use a word […] it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”
Exactly so.
Taylor Mali in “Totally like whatever, you know?” laments that “actually our disarticulation... ness/ is just a clever sort of... thing/ to disguise the fact that we've become/ the most aggressively inarticulate generation/ to come along since.../ you know, a long, long time ago!”
And while Mali focuses more on our lack of conviction in our speech, his poem (and poems) so nicely outline that we are continuing to raise generations of people who will never learn to truly express themselves. It’s sad really. Millions of people who are trapped inside themselves, frustrated they do not have the words to relate to others and unable to figure out how to change this sad state of affairs. Unable to communicate and unable to understand one another. For even though this or that smiley might adequately express a surface emotion (much like that pain chart at the doctor’s office where a 1 for pain is a happy face whose smile gets more and more linear until level 5 where it begins the downward slope to a full frown at 10), there really isn’t a yellow visage that can truly represent the soul.
Someone might argue with me that language is just as inadequate as a smiley. Language is just a continued and always delayed representation of the real thing—the real I. But I argue, try having a thought without language. Try to gauge how you feel, react, or interact in the world without some sort of symbolic representation. Impossible? Exactly.
Jacques Lacan calls this pursuit of language as a method of defining ourselves and the world around us the manifestation of the absence of the petit a. The little a (which is “autre” in French and “other” in English—so I guess it would translate the “little o”) is the center of ourselves we can never express or define. This inability to access our other makes us split souls (or subjects in Lacan’s speech). We are incomplete. We know this fact. We strive to pursue that which will make us complete—our petit a—and in that striving, create language. We can never actually access our other center-self, yet we can have terrifyingly beautiful moments when we come ever so close.
Why terrifyingly beautiful? Because to come so close to accessing our other leaves us terribly exposed, yet, at the same time, beautifully whole. We become intimate.
In Sex/God, Rob Bell writes about the human condition of lost intimacy with each other and the world itself. He discusses physical intimacy as an important component becoming whole. However, this intimacy is also couched in language. He distinguishes between animal sex, human sex, and angel non-sex. What is important to note is that humans, according to Bell, occupy a realm that is neither solely physical (animal) nor solely intellectual (angel). We occupy the middle realm. A space between pure physicality and transcendent ethereality. A space of spirituality that is mediated by language.
Because our entire perception of reality is based on our language system, to not have a grasp on said system is tantamount to putting oneself into solitary confinement and throwing away the key. Isolating. Destructive.
Someone else might argue that because language and meaning is so subjective, we can never truly have a grasp on it. Never truly master it. Never truly master ourselves. However, think of the time you’ve been struck by a poem or a story or a spoken phrase. One that slices through the meat of you to the core and leaves you exposed and gasping. In that moment, language was mastered.
For a person, like the one I know, who makes a point to master language—who more often than not refuses to just blather away as many of us do to fill that void of silence in our souls—there are amazing “aha” moments. But there is a darker side to these moments as well. With the ability to expose the soul with True words, comes the ability to wound as well as reveal the beauty within. With a mastery of language, one can build the soul up or break it down.
I have words that will reverberate forever through my being. Some leave me joy-full. Others continue to rend and tear through my heart until it weeps tears of blood. Both types, because they are True, establish intimacy even if painfully so.
This person I know knows that language is an art: the art of expressing exactly the way our souls feel at that moment. This person knows the importance and power of the-perfectly-right-grouping-of-sounds. The “aha” moment of “that’s just what I was feeling.” This person also knows seemingly smaller language details like the difference between “i.e.” and “e.g.” Yet in these details is also power.
In Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass, Humpty Dumpty understood this power. He articulates that the real question in life is who is to be the master: the words or the speaker. Dumpty elaborates, “They’ve a temper some of them—particularly verbs: they’re the proudest—adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs—however, I can manage the whole lot of them! Impenetrability! That’s what I say!” I love how nicely (if a bit pompously and circumambagiously) Dumpty explains the problems with mastering language. Sure we can all come up with filler. But when we have to get concrete—depict actions, motivations, Truth—word-use gets tricky.
But we still have to try. We need to speak confidently but also Truly. We need to stop filling silence with talk. Rather, we need to construct intimacy with language. We must be brave enough like the person I know to be exposed and to expose. We must take the time to turn a perfect phrase. As Dumpty puts it, “When I use a word […] it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”
Exactly so.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
A Spoonful of Sugar. . .
At this moment, I am watching Mary Poppins for the fifth time in two days.
I do love this movie. The songs are like a magic ticket back to childhood for me; however, I am feeling that 5 times in two days is a bit excessive.
My son does not agree.
Now, I am not one of those moms who parks her kid in front of the TV for a few moments peace. I am not one for three primary reasons: a) my husband often takes the role of entertainer with our son; b) I have a gift for being able to tune out my son's whines for me to play with him, causing him to have learned to play by himself; and c) I regard movies as a secret weapon for when I really really really need him to be quiet and relax.
Because of his lack of TV viewing, my son thinks the television is truly magical. You can put on almost any movie, and he will be transfixed in front of the magic screen of color moving pictures. This power of fixation is key when I am in situations that my son has to be still and quiet (i.e. the airplane, meetings, a pub).
So I rarely indulge his pleas for movie time at our house let alone watching movies over and over again ad nauseum. However, my son has chosen to sport a fever of 104F as his newest accessory. And I have a rule about TV viewing and sickness: when you are sick, there are no rules (okay maybe a few little ones here and there but virtually no rules). If you want to eat cold mac and cheese nonstop throughout the day, you can. If you want to wear your pajamas all day, you may. If you want to watch Mary Poppins over and over and over again, be my guest.
There are worse movies he could be begging for. Trust me.
Besides Mary Poppins has the added benefit of the scene where Jane and Michael take their medicine and love it. Perfect for inducing a toddler to sip down some fever-relieving, candy-colored concoction. So now my son is not only begging for the movie, he wants to take his purple or orange medicine every few hours or so. Indeed, the problem is telling him he has to wait the prerequisite 4 hours or gnarly fever spike before he gets the "lime cordial delicious" as he calls it.
So right now, having just taken his medicine, he's sitting on the couch, mesmerized by the chimney scene in Mary Poppins, sippy cup of water in one hand, sippy cup of milk in the other, and a wet rag on his head that he insists is making his head feel better.
This is not my son's first fevered illness; however, it is his first illness where he can communicate his various ails and desires. I get to hear how his "tummy hurts," "head hurts," and how he "wants to talk to Dr. Rash" (our pediatrician--no joke, I promise).
In fact, my son has gotten so adamant about talking to Dr. Rash, that I had to pull the super-secret-suspect mom move of calling my dad (aka Papi) and asking him to impersonate said doctor. The conversation went roughly as follows:
Papi impersonating Dr. Rash: What do I ask him?
Me: Ask him how's he's feeling.
Papi: How are you feeling.
My son: Dr. Rash, I sick.
Papi: Oh, you're sick? What hurts?
My son: My tummy hurts, Dr. Rash. And my head.
Papi: I'm sorry to hear that.
My son: I have a fever.
Papi: Oh. . . .
..... awkward silence .....
Me: Tell him to take his purple and orange medicine to feel better.
Papi: Take your purple and orange medicine and you will feel better soon.
My son: Okay, Dr. Rash.
Papi: Okay, bye bye
My son: Bye, Dr. Rash. Thank you.
I don't even think my son noticed that the good doctor sounded so much like his Papi.
Because my baby is eating cold mac and cheese, I decided to unabashedly cook something full of green goodness he wouldn't touch if his life depended on it: Greens and Beans Ragout.
I got this recipe from my CSA newsletter and love it because it's quick and can be majorly tweaked. Tonight's incarnation is as follows:
Sweet Italian sausage, cut up into bite size chunks
1 onion, chopped
3 garlic, finely chopped
1 zucchini, chopped bite-sized
2 carrots, chopped bite-sized
1 turnip, chopped bite-sized
lots of misc greens (chard, dandelion, turnip), raggedly torn up
2-3 cans of beans (usually great northern, but tonight I did garbanzo, black, and pinto), drained
1 28-oz can of diced tomatoes
Salt
Herbs de Provence
Saute the sausage with the onions in a tiny bit of olive oil until sausage is browned (use a large pan over med/high heat).
Add the fresh vegetables and herbs de Provence. Saute until veggies are soft.
Add the beans, tomatoes, and greens. Bring to a boil. Cook about 5 more minutes or until greens begin to wilt.
Salt to taste.
I do love this movie. The songs are like a magic ticket back to childhood for me; however, I am feeling that 5 times in two days is a bit excessive.
My son does not agree.
Now, I am not one of those moms who parks her kid in front of the TV for a few moments peace. I am not one for three primary reasons: a) my husband often takes the role of entertainer with our son; b) I have a gift for being able to tune out my son's whines for me to play with him, causing him to have learned to play by himself; and c) I regard movies as a secret weapon for when I really really really need him to be quiet and relax.
Because of his lack of TV viewing, my son thinks the television is truly magical. You can put on almost any movie, and he will be transfixed in front of the magic screen of color moving pictures. This power of fixation is key when I am in situations that my son has to be still and quiet (i.e. the airplane, meetings, a pub).
So I rarely indulge his pleas for movie time at our house let alone watching movies over and over again ad nauseum. However, my son has chosen to sport a fever of 104F as his newest accessory. And I have a rule about TV viewing and sickness: when you are sick, there are no rules (okay maybe a few little ones here and there but virtually no rules). If you want to eat cold mac and cheese nonstop throughout the day, you can. If you want to wear your pajamas all day, you may. If you want to watch Mary Poppins over and over and over again, be my guest.
There are worse movies he could be begging for. Trust me.
Besides Mary Poppins has the added benefit of the scene where Jane and Michael take their medicine and love it. Perfect for inducing a toddler to sip down some fever-relieving, candy-colored concoction. So now my son is not only begging for the movie, he wants to take his purple or orange medicine every few hours or so. Indeed, the problem is telling him he has to wait the prerequisite 4 hours or gnarly fever spike before he gets the "lime cordial delicious" as he calls it.
So right now, having just taken his medicine, he's sitting on the couch, mesmerized by the chimney scene in Mary Poppins, sippy cup of water in one hand, sippy cup of milk in the other, and a wet rag on his head that he insists is making his head feel better.
This is not my son's first fevered illness; however, it is his first illness where he can communicate his various ails and desires. I get to hear how his "tummy hurts," "head hurts," and how he "wants to talk to Dr. Rash" (our pediatrician--no joke, I promise).
In fact, my son has gotten so adamant about talking to Dr. Rash, that I had to pull the super-secret-suspect mom move of calling my dad (aka Papi) and asking him to impersonate said doctor. The conversation went roughly as follows:
Papi impersonating Dr. Rash: What do I ask him?
Me: Ask him how's he's feeling.
Papi: How are you feeling.
My son: Dr. Rash, I sick.
Papi: Oh, you're sick? What hurts?
My son: My tummy hurts, Dr. Rash. And my head.
Papi: I'm sorry to hear that.
My son: I have a fever.
Papi: Oh. . . .
..... awkward silence .....
Me: Tell him to take his purple and orange medicine to feel better.
Papi: Take your purple and orange medicine and you will feel better soon.
My son: Okay, Dr. Rash.
Papi: Okay, bye bye
My son: Bye, Dr. Rash. Thank you.
I don't even think my son noticed that the good doctor sounded so much like his Papi.
Because my baby is eating cold mac and cheese, I decided to unabashedly cook something full of green goodness he wouldn't touch if his life depended on it: Greens and Beans Ragout.
I got this recipe from my CSA newsletter and love it because it's quick and can be majorly tweaked. Tonight's incarnation is as follows:
Sweet Italian sausage, cut up into bite size chunks
1 onion, chopped
3 garlic, finely chopped
1 zucchini, chopped bite-sized
2 carrots, chopped bite-sized
1 turnip, chopped bite-sized
lots of misc greens (chard, dandelion, turnip), raggedly torn up
2-3 cans of beans (usually great northern, but tonight I did garbanzo, black, and pinto), drained
1 28-oz can of diced tomatoes
Salt
Herbs de Provence
Saute the sausage with the onions in a tiny bit of olive oil until sausage is browned (use a large pan over med/high heat).
Add the fresh vegetables and herbs de Provence. Saute until veggies are soft.
Add the beans, tomatoes, and greens. Bring to a boil. Cook about 5 more minutes or until greens begin to wilt.
Salt to taste.
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