It took a spam commenter to get me back here (to tidy up after their messy comment trail) but I remembered about this and poked around and whoa. It's been almost exactly a year, and this is exactly what everyone else posts the first time they come back to their long-abandoned blogs: Hi guys! I missed you! I'll post again, I promise!
Or whatever. Maybe not, we'll see. It's cold and rainy and I'm making coffee and hashbrowns in a gorgeous apartment in Philly with fantastic friends. It's making me feel restless and at home all at the same time.
It never fails: the day I'm about to go on vacation, everyone suddenly thinks of 73 different things that absolutely need to be done before I go. I finished all but about three of them; those will just have to wait until AFTER the Portland trip. I have been counting the days. Nationals, here we come!
My favorite day, lately. It's amazing how different Sundays feel when I DON'T have derby practice at 9 a.m. every week -- I can go out on Saturdays without dreading the potential hangover (hint: skating in circles is NOT the best way to recover from a hard night), and I'm a LOT more cheerful about starting each practice with 50 laps when I've had time for coffee.
It feels like time for fall nesting: cleaning the house, making cocoa, knitting, and snuggling. Who wants to come over?
It's chilly and wet outside, which makes me want to stay inside, pet the cats, and cook stuff. Preferably warm and fattening stuff (mmmm).
On the list for this weekend? One of my favorite recipes, via Petit Chou -- truly delicious mac'n'cheese, here. A hint (also from 'Chou but not included in the recipe): for the cubed bread pieces, use rosemary bread. Oh, so tasty. The recipe also doesn't mention the part where you eat too much of it and fall over dead from the food coma, but trust me, that'll happen.
Working late tonight and then heading out for birthday karaoke. I have promised to participate even if the necessary level of drunkness has not been achieved, as my "gift" (har) to the birthday girl.
*edit*
Oh, wow. Notes for future karaoke nights: NO KELLY CLARKSON. There are not enough drinks in the world to get me to sing that high. For reals. Also, I didn't know that song nearly as well as I thought I did. But Bust a Move was surprisingly successful, but next time, instead of singing along with partner-in-crime, take turns so that there is time to BREATHE. That song is much faster than I remembered, oops.
Also, damn. That song came out in '89? Geez. AM SO OLD. People BORN IN '89 can vote now. What?
The election party I went to (hosted by the lovely Kate) was well-attended -- lots of excitement, nerves, sweaty palms, and many, many drinks. Ariel had a brilliant idea for a photo essay documenting the night, in which everyone wrote in one word (more or less) how they were feeling. Mine? I cheated, a little, and put two: "HOPEFUL (cautiously)". It's still true; I'm so very hopeful for the future of this country, but I'm more than a little apprehensive about the laundry list of problems that Obama will inherit.
I cried, more than once, and my heart ached, but differently than most of my heartaches lately: I am just so proud of my country, proud to be part of this, proud that I voted today and did everything I could to encourage others to vote too. I donated money and time and e-mails and a million and one conversations to do my small part to make this happen, and as it turns out? Yes we can. For reals. This is what it feels like to make history.
The whole evening was brilliant. Amazingly, the concession speech was one of McCain's best (he seemed more personable, kind; an elder statesman instead of cranky old man). And Obama's acceptance speech (including the puppies in the White House bit) had me sobbing and smiling and laughing and gripping the hands of strangers at an election party. There is dancing and shouting in the streets, cars honking and people cheering and waving at each other and jumping up and down. It's beautiful.
I honestly can't believe it. I am hopeful for the future of our country, for the first time in a very long time, and gratified to feel like part of America again. Cheers. I'm gonna go have another drink.
...teacher Joyce Ben-KiKi had Aron and his classmates each send letters to a famous person as part of a language arts lesson. Ben-KiKi wrapped the exercise around well-known children's book character "Flat Stanley," so along with the letters, the children each tucked a Flat Stanley figure they had made into each envelope.
"I told them not to expect a letter back," Ben-KiKi said. "I told them these people are very busy and most likely will not write back."
The list of recipients was impressive: Yankee third basemen Alex Rodriguez; Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi, Olympic gold medalist Mark Spitz; Republican presidential candidate and U.S. Sen. John McCain.
Obama was the only one to write back.
I'm smitten. I mean, I was before, but seriously? HE ANSWERS FAN MAIL FROM KIDS. I am in love.
In under the wire, here is the very first post of National Blog Posting Month, an attention-deficit version of National Novel Writing Month with a less melodic nickname (NaBloPoMo just doesn't roll off the tongue like NaNoWriMo). I attempted the novel-in-one-month once and realized that (a) I don't really like writing fiction and (b) 50,000 words is a LOT.
So.
One post a day, and this is my cheater one. I'd have more to say about today but I spent all day doing actual things (practice, burlesque rehearsal, website coding) and I am sleepy.
No matter who's elected president, daffodils will bloom in the spring. Men and women will fall in love and, sadly, out of love. Inconsolable grief will still be inconsolable. A broken heart will nonetheless keep beating one hundred thousand times a day. No matter who's elected president, writers will write. Painters will paint. Three in the morning will still be three in the morning. The door in our psyche we don't want to walk through will still be just down the hall. No matter who's elected president, life will hand us the invisible thread that connects us all; love will hand us the needle.
-Sy Safransky
That's sweet and all (and true, in the grand scheme of things) but really, it does matter. I'm voting Obama. Art and love and grief and the human condition will march steadily on but it would really, really help to have a president who didn't give me nightmares.
The voter registration deadline for Washington is only three days away.
Be sure you've registered to vote and mailed in your form by Saturday, October 4, so you can vote this year.
Remember, if you have changed your address or moved or changed your name since you last registered, you need to re-register by Saturday, October 4 as well.
You can register online (srsly, how much easier can they make this?) or verify your information and that you are still active here:
Be kind to people. Truly, it's important. I'm a snarky know-it-all sometimes, but the little kindnesses people show one another can mean so much. I'm all mushy because I just read [this]. It moved me to tears, which would be a teensy bit more embarrassing if my coworkers hadn't all already left for the day.
If you only read one thing all day, let it be that.
[ed. note: Dooce said "all week", but I'm assuming you read more often than once a week. If not, you should. See: snarky know-it-all, above]
My mom took me in, cosigned because I was of untrustworthy age, and introduced me to this concept of giving other people your extra money to keep it safe for later. Off I went, handing over bits of my allowance, birthday cash from relatives, checks from my high-school jobs.
I know now that this business of storing money probably shouldn't be about mushy sentiment. But it's hard for me not to be sentimental about Washington Mutual. The place treated me like an adult when I was a kid. It respected me—even when all I had to offer were inconsequential sums and a financial legitimacy that only existed because of my mom's guarantee.
WaMu was MY first bank account. The same account that I opened when I was a kid, put all my birthday and babysitting money into, watched the tiny interest collect. The one that I emptied for the first time to buy my first car. The one that patiently collected my tips from delivering pizza and waiting tables, deposited in $1 and $5 increments, to pay for stupidly expensive textbooks in college. A different account with WaMu held my first joint account with a partner; big steps for a financially independent kind of girl. It's the only account number I have memorized; both checking and savings. Like the author said, it's just a bank; about storage of money, not emotions. But like the author, I can't help feeling a little bit sad about the end of an era.
Boing Boing has it, as well as a number of other places, but wow. Worth watching, if you can stand to sit through the whole thing (short ad at the beginning):
I realized three things tonight. For one, if you are a McCain/Palin/Bush voter, you and I do not have a difference of opinion. We have a difference in brain power. Two, she really is as ignorant as I feared. And, three, she really is kinda hot. Basically, I want to have sex with her on my Barack Obama sheets while my wife reads aloud from the Constitution. (My wife is cool with this if I promise to "first wipe off Palin's tranny makeup." I married well.)
Now, I want to be clear and speak directly to those of you who LOVED that Palin interview. You're an idiot. I mean that. This is not one of those cases where we're going to agree to disagree. This isn't one of those situations where we debate it passionately and then walk away thinking that the other guy is wrong but argued well. I'm not going to think of you as a thoughtful but misguided person with different ideas who still really cares about the country and the world. No, sorry, not this time. This time, if you watched that interview and weren't scared out of your freakin' mind, then you're mentally ill, mentally disabled, or mentally disturbed. What you are NOT is responsible, informed, curious, thoughtful, mature, educated, empathetic, or remotely serious. I mean it. [more]
For serious. I am pained by the idea of McCain/Palin running this country. I would like to think that I'm open-minded to listen to all sides of an argument (only if you're willing to keep arguing instead of expecting me to bend over)("open-minded" doesn't mean "easily convinced") but I don't think I can physically listen to any more of her. I will definitely need drinks during the VP debates.
Am bummed that the only chance to see Lady Gaga for the next few months is ... by buying New Kids on the Block tickets. In TACOMA. My 12-year-old self is thrilled, but my adult self is not as excited about trekking down to the Tacoma Dome for an $80 stadium show. Bleh.
For those who still can’t grasp the concept of white privilege, or who are constantly looking for some easy-to-understand examples of it, perhaps this list will help.
White privilege is when you can get pregnant at seventeen like Bristol Palin and everyone is quick to insist that your life and that of your family is a personal matter, and that no one has a right to judge you or your parents, because “every family has challenges,” even as black and Latino families with similar “challenges” are regularly typified as irresponsible, pathological and arbiters of social decay.
White privilege is when you can call yourself a “fuckin’ redneck,” like Bristol Palin’s boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with you, you'll “kick their fuckin' ass,” and talk about how you like to “shoot shit” for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.
White privilege is when you can attend four different colleges in six years like Sarah Palin did (one of which you basically failed out of, then returned to after making up some coursework at a community college), and no one questions your intelligence or commitment to achievement, whereas a person of color who did this would be viewed as unfit for college, and probably someone who only got in in the first place because of affirmative action. [more]
I have to admit, I'm not always that great at recognizing my own privileges. This is something I'm always working on; I caught myself this weekend (visiting Philly, more on this later) saying something really ignorant (re: how it feels to make less money than average in Seattle, which is really ridiculous when you consider the relative poverty rates)(hint: Washington's is almost half of Pennsylvania's, Seattle vs. Philly proper is even more drastic)(so "less than average" still means I never worry where my next meal is coming from).
I felt like an asshole after the fact but it just flew out of my mouth. Something to think about.
In the quest for alcoholic sustenance for this evening's festivities, Jen participated in the following (HILARIOUS) e-mail exchange. I enjoyed reading it so much that I am blatantly appropriating it for my own use, and in an incredibly self-involved move I will plan to visit my OWN blog several times a day just to read it again.
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From: jennifer [surname redacted] Sent: Thursday, May 08, 2008 3:47 PM To: info@uberbier.com Subject: pony keg of PBR
Hi, how much do you charge for a pony keg of PBR?
Thanks, jennifer
On Thu, May 8, 2008 at 4:12 PM, Uber Tavern wrote:
PBR no come in no pony...only full size horsey. Giddyup.
So, my brother got married. It's a little surreal, actually, because sometimes I forget that we are both "of age", I guess, and both grown-ups, relatively speaking, and it strikes me as incredibly weird that my little brother is now a married man.
But wow, his kiddo, my niece Maddie, is sure a cute one! More on the wedding (and some "official" pictures, too) coming up.
I'll admit, that one made me a little weepy. Maybe it's the PMS, or maybe it's the barest hope that this election season won't be as depressing as the last EIGHT $^&@*#! YEARS. Go vote.
Jen thinks marking hard boiled eggs with an "H" is weird. I beg to differ. I don't have time to spin them all to figure out which one is which. I strive for efficiency in my egg selection. And really? It's SO much better than accidentally trying to peel a raw one.
Sometimes, it is not about me. Other people can have bad days and seem distant or strange or angry with me -- and when I can't figure out why, sometimes it's helpful to remember that they have whole vibrant lives outside of their daily interaction with me. And it might make me a better friend to inquire about their day, about the true source of their feelings, instead of making it all about me. Just a reminder to myself.
