06 January 2007

Ring the bells

It's Mr Stapler's birthday. Do me a favor - pay him a visit at his blog, leave him a comment and give him your best birthday wishes.

While you are there, you might remind him how very lucky he is. YOU know why.

05 January 2007

Hey shorty.

I don't know why certain things wrench my heart so badly. Today, I read a news story that shattered me into a million pieces. It was about the practice of giving high-dose hormone treatments to young women to keep them from getting "too tall." This started back in the 50s when hormone treatment was the rage for everything from menopause to acne. What is less known is that it continues even today.

As few as 6 years ago 1/3 of pediatric endocinologists were still giving girls this dangerous hormone treatment that is likely to cause infertility issues.
After surgeries came cervical polyps and later giving birth at 24 weeks to an infant girl who lived an hour. She persisted and became pregnant again, only to deliver twin boys at 21 weeks, one stillborn and one who also lived for only an hour. At age 38, Waldvogel and her husband tried one last time, and after a problem-filled pregnancy, delivered her daughter, now 2. By that time she had met two other women who also had received estrogen treatment when they were girls to prevent growth; they found that among them they'd lost 10 children.(emphasis mine)
I guess it all works out in the doctor's minds. After all, tall women frighten some men. And if women can't get a man because they are too tall, they can't have a baby anyway. So it is either infertility, "excessive" height and health, or infertility, a slightly reduced height - almost normal, thank goodness - and shitty health. Life without a man is worse than poor health, obviously. So bring on the hormones! Little Janie will be so much happier little!

It just makes me want to bang my head on my desk. It is bitterly ironic to me that we still torture our bodies in unnatural ways in an attempt to become "more normal." That's food for thought.

04 January 2007

Must be stopped

Who told me about Etsy? Can they be punished somehow? So far, I have purchased Christmas cards, a button, a book, earrings, a necklace and 5 lip balms.

When you find me living in a cardboard box behind the train station, you can blame it on an Etsy addiction. So many things! So cute! And I am supporting artisans! All this shopping is for a good cause! Long live the artisans and their cute things! (my apologies to Amalah for borrowing her exclamation points.)

One thing I noticed - about oh, 99.7 percent of Etsy shops are run by women. Their prices tend to be ridiculously low. Check out these insanely cute baby shoes for $7.00! Crazy.

Then I find ONE shop by a man and his prices are well, a bit higher. These signs are really cool. but they are tiny little prints. Smaller than a postcard. And 8 are $51. It just makes me wonder about men and women. How is it that men seem to value themselves so highly, and women so little?


Thanks for all your comments on blogging and privacy. I really appreciate the perspective.


New Linkateria AND True Employee Confessions. Still shamelessly begging for your work confessions, past or present, anonymous or signed, at snackishblogATyahooDOTcom. Thank you.

03 January 2007

Secret? Who's got a secret?

I arrive at my folks' house every morning about 6:57 a.m. Too early to be very functional.

This morning my mom peered at me. "Are you doing much with your blink or your blog or whatever you call it?"

Oh shit.

"Ahhhhh...naw, Mom, I have slowed down a lot." I'm madly scrambling. The blog she has seen is my food blog, which I have updated about 3 times in the past year.

"Oh, because your sister said that you write a lot about your dog," she said.

"Well, yeah...of course" I said lamely.

"I don't even know how to get there," she said.

"It has a URL like every other web page," I said vaguely.

"Well," said mom. "If you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to."

"Hey, did you see the sunrise? Pink and purple!" I said.

I am 45 years old. OLD. If I were any kind of mature, I would tell my parents about my blog and let them deal with it. But I caaaaaan't.

My mom is just such a naive person. She is almost naive by sheer force of will. She stays horrified and appalled by the modern world with a kind of steely determination. She's the kind of person who doesn't watch movies because there is too much swearing in them.

I need my blog privacy. I need my little chunk of the world where I can spew to random strangers and block my family out. How does that make sense? I guess it makes my life easier, because my readers either tell me what they think or they go away, but they rarely ask me to explain every little thing. And my mom, especially, would want me to explain Every Little Thing. And she would worry about me and my sanity. I just don't want the weight of that caring on me. I know I am sane for the most part. I just can't steel myself for the onslaught that exposing my blog to my mom would bring.

Do any of you hide your blogs? If so, why? Tell me I am not an ogre for wanting to keep this from the people who love me most.

02 January 2007

Phone Call with Mr Stapler

Mr Stapler: You must just be leaving your class.
Me: How did you know?
Mr Stapler: Because it is Tuesday at 8 p.m. and you are a creature of habit.
Me: No, I'm not.
Mr Stapler: Where are you going now?
Me: To Trader Joes, to buy the kind of soup I eat every night for dinner.

Yes, I do. I eat the same thing every night unless I go out. Here's my rationale: when I start cooking, I start tasting and eating. Before I know it, I have had 1000 calories for dinner, which, given my current level of slothitude, I do not need.

For some strange reason, the Trader Joe's Red Pepper and Tomato Soup fills me up and satisfies me. So that's what I eat for dinner. Every single night.

Other regular things around Casa de la Loca?

Breakfast? Two slices of toast with butter and jam and decaf coffee.

Our house wine is Rosemount Cabernet/Shiraz blend. Our house gin is Tanqueray. If you don't want red wine or gin, there is a grocery store 3 blocks away. Start walking.

The house coffee is Peet's Mocha Java decaf. Major Dickason's for weekends.

Our house starches are, in an attempt to be somewhat healthy, sprouted wheat bread and whole-wheat tortillas.

Our house dog food? Nutro Chicken and Rice chunks. The only kind of canned food Goldie will eat at all. She may be part cat. Or maybe just a creature of habit, too.

Blah blah blah Linkateria, blah blah blah True Employee Confessions. If I don't pimp them here, no one ever visits. Sniff.

And in other news, I am ready to send all the sickos who find this blog by searching for disgusting search strings ("mommy screwing animals," "little girl in the mens bathroom stall pooping") on one of those special CIA planes to Eastern Europe where very bad things will happen to them. Human rights violation? I am over it. Just make sure they never come back to my blog, that's all I ask.

01 January 2007

Smother me in a wet blanket

I watched the Tournament of Roses Parade with my parents. What a shameful spectacle. At least according to my mom.

"I heard one of these bands raised a million dollars to pay for the kids to come to the parade. They should have spent that on books."

"Look at those outfits. They just spend so much money on ridiculous things."

"I wonder how much those saddles cost. Too much. It's just too much."

My mom, bless her heart, has a talent for nosing out the negative in any situation. It is more of a habit than anything. Unfortunately, I see the same tendency in myself.

The whole meal goes wonderfully, but I tell everyone that the waitress forgot my side dish. The trip is a blast, but my story about it is that we had to wait 2 hours on the plane before takeoff. Waa waa waa.

The other side of this tendency is that, when I only say the good parts of what happened, I feel a bit like a fraud. Like I am leaving out something important.

In defense of the T of R parade (it is NOT the Rose Bowl parade - the parade came first! Sensitive? Yes.), I built a float for 2 years when I was in college. When I say "built a float," I don't mean "glued flowers on." I mean that we created designs, chose one, drew plans, cut and welded metal, did electrical wiring, plumbed hydraulic lines, raised money, made meals, grew flowers, affixed chicken wire, covered the chicken wire, painted, sourced and prepared plant materials and THEN glued flowers on.

In that process, I learned more than I did in any of my classes. It was the college experience that I will remember long after I have forgotten everything else.

Was it silly? Yes. Was it expensive? Yes.

But we can't anticipate which of our life experiences will serve us best. Sometimes the silly and the things that take us off our regular path are the things that teach us most.

I also believe that humans need spectacle, grandeur, crazy larger-than-life events to drag us away from the mundane and practical. Otherwise it is all mundane and practical, and who wants THAT life?

Opera. Theater. Parades. Fashion. Pageantry. Who needs it? I think we all do. I think it is a big part of what makes us human and I don't want to live a life without it.

There are new links over at Linkateria. I am also still asking for entries for True Employee Confessions. Past, present, just hit me with your best, funniest, most annoying employee stories. How about the best time you got fired or quit? Email them to snackishblogATyahoo(etc)

31 December 2006

Happy New Year

I looked back in my blog archive to see what foolish resolutions I had made and broken last year at this time. There is nothing. Great - no evidence to haunt me.

It is 8:30 pm and I sit here alone, thanks to a confluence of unforeseen events. My friends and I were supposed to meet up at a restaurant and Mr Stapler was going to meet us too. I went there - it was closed with a note on the door to meet at a different restaurant. I went there and told Mr Stapler to go there, too.

It was also closed. No note, no friends. So the Man and I went to a place where the food sucked and we both felt tragically done in by the high-fat, high-carb, high-garlic offering...we took a walk and he departed.

I am left sitting here listening to what is going on outside, which just reminds me how much more fun Latinos have than white people. Okay, call me racist, but I can hear the gritos and music and firecrackers and it is still 3 1/2 hours til the New Year. More fun, really. Sorry, gabachos.

Resolutions? Oh crimeny, why not, I have time.

1. Stop swearing. I have been saying this every year for 10 years now. My only reason for this is that I fear I will be a little old lady in a nursing home yelling "Stupid bastard asshole fuckwads!" It is just so unattractive. But on the other hand, who am I fooling? I will never be able to afford a nursing home.

2. Lose weight, get in shape, yadayada. I mean it. This sitting on my ass (oh there I go again) in front of a computer 8 hours a day plus the 90 minutes in the car on the way is just leading to waaaay too much lumpishness. Must be more active. Hopefully have fun doing it.

3. Visit 2 Channel Islands. I have only been to one and I want to visit all of them. I think there are 6 - Catalina, Santa Rosa, Anacapa, San Nicholas, Santa Cruz, Santa Barbara...One is a military installation, but I have an in. I just have to marry this and he can get me a visitor's pass.

4. Go to BlogHer

5. Go to Mexico again. I want to go to Veracruz this time.

6. Decide what to do about THAT PROBLEM. It's a secret but someone who reads the blog knows what I am talking about.

7. Deal with my wardrobe issues. Honestly. Would it kill me to not dress like a lunatic?

8. Start taking my calcium and pectin and drink more water.

Eight is enough. Now I have something to look back on next year.

Hope you are safe and well.

Watch the Rose Parade tomorrow! Billions of braincells were sacrificed by the float decorators, who work with some really crazy get-you-high glues, for your entertainment. I know. I remember balancing on a scaffolding with my head spinning and my hands covered in yellow chrysanthemum petals. The least pleasant and quite possibly most dangerous high of my life...but on parade day, all is forgotten and everything is beautiful. Long live the Tournament of Roses.
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