Have I told you about how the Husband is officially a farmhand? I honestly don't remember if I ever mentioned it last year, and if I go look, I'll spend the rest of the night reading my old posts and marveling at my ability to blithely ignore typos in my own writing despite years of work as a copy editor. At any rate, last summer he worked part-time at a farm in the same town where my library of employ is located. This summer, he started working there before his semester was over, and he's now working upwards of 30 hours a week there.
I'm sure you'd guess this, but it's really hard work. For the past two weeks, he has spent significant portions of time driving metal stakes into the ground so that they can be strung with twine to serve as trellises. This in the kind of heat that renders me a wilted, whiny heap of sweat. He's on his way to being totally ripped, and I've taken to calling him Farm Boy and asking him to fetch me pitchers.
One of the jobs that he totally dreaded by the end of June last year was picking strawberries. He claimed that he would close his eyes at night and see red dots. I totally believed him. Why wouldn't I? I hadn't been strawberry picking since I was about 7 years old, when I basically wandered around complaining about bugs while my mom and grandma did all the work. So I should have been suspicious last week when he was all "Wouldn't it be fun to go strawberry picking on Sunday? We'll pick a ton, and make lots of jam!" He swore that it's only back-breaking for him because he has to do it quickly, and that we would be leisurely, and besides, didn't I end up loving blueberry picking last year?
Strawberries, however, are not like other berries. They don't grow in giant bushes, for one. They grow really near to the ground so that you have to hunch and stoop to reach them. Actually that's pretty much the major difference - other than the fact that, technically speaking, they aren't true berries, but science is for nerds - but that one difference is enough. The Husband wanted to pick through an entire 100-yard row, so as to be helpful to the farm even while picking casually, so we picked for several hours. That's a lot of hunching and stooping
Before we left, I realized that I didn't cover the back of my shoulders well enough with sunscreen and that I had sunburn patches. When we had been home for about an hour, I scratched my back, and realized that I had a fairly bad sunburn on the spot between where my pants had slipped down and my shirt had ridden up while hunching. On the bright side, I can say with certainty that my buttcrack was securely covered, since it was still as pale as, well, a fair-skinned Polish lady's butt. On the downside, in order to keep my buttcrack securely covered, I had to keep putting clothing over my poor, throbbing, lobster skin. Aloe can only do so much.
When we had been home for about two hours, I realized that we should probably do something with 30-plus pints of berries, if only so that we could see the table again. Some we froze. Some were made into jam fairly quickly. Some were reserved to be eaten fresh. Some are still sitting in the refrigerator, where I am half hoping that they will mysteriously disappear in the night.
I know it doesn't sound like it, but I genuinely did have fun. Next time, I may suggest that we not do a picking marathon, or at least I will make sure all my skin is covered and/or slathered in sunscreen. But I don't doubt there will be a next time (though maybe not till next year, since strawberries are peaking early here.)
So why am I sharing this with you? First, I want to share my suspicion that the Husband thought that I thought he was wimpy for complaining about strawberries. If I ever did think that, even for a second, I apologize sincerely. Anyone who picks them for many hours in the hot sun, particularly after putting in some stake-pounding time, is truly mighty. Second, I want to state for the record that the next person I hear at the farmer's market talking about how expensive the strawberries are is going to get smacked upside the head. Possibly with a metal stake.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Hair
My hair and I have not always gotten along with each other. For most of my adult life (and indeed, for most of my childhood too) I have had a hair stylist - someone to serve as mediator between me and my hair. I got my first perm in fourth grade. Eventually (which is to say a decade later) I realized that rather than giving me thick, wavy hair, perms made me look like a poodle. A poodle with fine, thin hair. In college, I switched my focus to hair dye. I wanted to be a red-head. Eventually (which is to say five years later) I realized that red hair dye fades so much that my roots never looked much different from the dyed parts. I was paying more money than I care to think about to dye my shower water. When we moved to the Chicago area, I still had a stylist, because I couldn't quite shake the notion that my hair was unusually bad and needed really expensive attention to make it acceptable. But when that stylist tried to convince me that highlights and lowlights were just what I needed to make my hair seem thicker, I stood firm and refused.
Moving to CollegeTown was the tipping point. We cancelled Netflix, found the cheapest internet plan possible, got rid of our cell phones. We were making all of these changes for financial reasons that turned out not to be that hard to live with. How could I possibly justify a $40 haircut? So I went to Great Clips. And overall, it's been good. Some of my cuts have just been serviceable, but one of my haircuts there ranked among my best haircuts ever.
Which brings me to last Sunday, when the only angst I felt about heading to Great Clips was over the fact that I never have anything to talk about with the 20-year-olds who work there. I dropped in without an appointment, like I always do, and I told the first-available stylist the same thing I always do: "I'd like a bob, about jaw-length. A little bit of layering to add some volume." She asked, "Do you want it to be shorter in the back and get longer as you reach the front?" Other stylists there had done a little bit of that kind of shaping, with no ill effects, so I said, "Maybe a little, but honestly, I just want a bob that I can comb in the morning and not worry about."
By the time I could sense how short she was making the layers in the back, it was too late. I told her one more time, "I really just want a bob," but the damage was done. The back of my head was way, way layered. The front came to two sharp points. Staring in the mirror once I got home (she didn't give me a hand mirror to look at the back the way they usually do), I figured out who it was that she was trying to make me look like:
People, that's Posh Spice. If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, and especially if you've met me in real life, you know that I am not Posh Spice. I am nothing like Posh Spice. The Husband? Nothing like David Beckham. And yes, I do consider that a good thing.
I absolutely couldn't deal with the long pieces by my face, so I cut them. From the front, it looks like I got the plain old bob that I asked for. Looking in the mirror, with pieces of fine, thin, dishwater blonde hair in the sink in front of me, I realized who it is that my hair is actually capable of resembling:
I am self-aware enough to know that in most areas of life, I am way more like Beezus than Ramona. But hair-wise, I'm Ramona all the way. And honestly? In pretty much all areas of life, I'd much rather be a Quimby than a Spice Girl.
Moving to CollegeTown was the tipping point. We cancelled Netflix, found the cheapest internet plan possible, got rid of our cell phones. We were making all of these changes for financial reasons that turned out not to be that hard to live with. How could I possibly justify a $40 haircut? So I went to Great Clips. And overall, it's been good. Some of my cuts have just been serviceable, but one of my haircuts there ranked among my best haircuts ever.
Which brings me to last Sunday, when the only angst I felt about heading to Great Clips was over the fact that I never have anything to talk about with the 20-year-olds who work there. I dropped in without an appointment, like I always do, and I told the first-available stylist the same thing I always do: "I'd like a bob, about jaw-length. A little bit of layering to add some volume." She asked, "Do you want it to be shorter in the back and get longer as you reach the front?" Other stylists there had done a little bit of that kind of shaping, with no ill effects, so I said, "Maybe a little, but honestly, I just want a bob that I can comb in the morning and not worry about."
By the time I could sense how short she was making the layers in the back, it was too late. I told her one more time, "I really just want a bob," but the damage was done. The back of my head was way, way layered. The front came to two sharp points. Staring in the mirror once I got home (she didn't give me a hand mirror to look at the back the way they usually do), I figured out who it was that she was trying to make me look like:
People, that's Posh Spice. If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, and especially if you've met me in real life, you know that I am not Posh Spice. I am nothing like Posh Spice. The Husband? Nothing like David Beckham. And yes, I do consider that a good thing.I absolutely couldn't deal with the long pieces by my face, so I cut them. From the front, it looks like I got the plain old bob that I asked for. Looking in the mirror, with pieces of fine, thin, dishwater blonde hair in the sink in front of me, I realized who it is that my hair is actually capable of resembling:
I am self-aware enough to know that in most areas of life, I am way more like Beezus than Ramona. But hair-wise, I'm Ramona all the way. And honestly? In pretty much all areas of life, I'd much rather be a Quimby than a Spice Girl.
Friday, April 16, 2010
How many have you read?
So Betsy Bird, who writes one of the awesomest children's literature blogs on the interwebs, did this insane project wherein she invited everyone who wanted to to contribute their top 10 list of children's novels. She then compiled all the results - assigning each books points so that if a book was #1 on someone's list it got 10 points, #2 got 9 points, etc. - and posted them bit by bit until she had listed the top 100 children's chapter books. This is, of course, already an insane amount of effort, which she compounded by providing an absolutely fascinating amount of quotes and history and book covers for each of the books. (There is still time, by the way, to participate in the poll for top 100 YA novels being compiled by a different blogger with whom I am less familiar, but who is clearly also awesome.)
At any rate, I am not one to waste the prodigious efforts put forth by others. (Nor am I one to be completely creative with their efforts - I "borrowed" this post idea from the blog A Chair, A Fireplace & A Tea Cozy, who in turn copied the list from TeacherNinja.) So here is the full 100. The ones in bold are the ones I've read. I added annotations to the ones about which I felt strongly.
I've read 79. How 'bout you?
80. The Graveyard Book - Gaiman (2008)
70. Betsy-Tacy - Lovelae (1940)
60. The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle - Avi (1990)
50. Island of the Blue Dolphins - O'Dell (1960)
40. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz - Baum (1900)
20. Tuck Everlasting - Babbitt (1975)
4. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe - Lewis (1950)
At any rate, I am not one to waste the prodigious efforts put forth by others. (Nor am I one to be completely creative with their efforts - I "borrowed" this post idea from the blog A Chair, A Fireplace & A Tea Cozy, who in turn copied the list from TeacherNinja.) So here is the full 100. The ones in bold are the ones I've read. I added annotations to the ones about which I felt strongly.
I've read 79. How 'bout you?
100. The Egypt Game - Snyder (1967)
99. The Indian in the Cupboard - Banks (1980)
98. Children of Green Knowe - Boston (1954)
97. The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane - DiCamillo (2006)
96. The Witches - Dahl (1983)
95. Pippi Longstocking - Lindgren (1950)
94. Swallows and Amazons - Ransome (1930)
93. Caddie Woodlawn - Brink (1935) 92. Ella Enchanted - Levine (1997)
91. Sideways Stories from Wayside School - Sachar (1978)
Not only did I read this one and More Sideways Stories, but I also read (and absolutely freaking loved) Sideways Math from Wayside School. I heart logic puzzles. I blame that book for my strange desire to get a math minor to go with my English major.
90. Sarah, Plain and Tall - MacLachlan (1985)
90. Sarah, Plain and Tall - MacLachlan (1985)
89. Ramona and Her Father - Cleary (1977)
In which Ramona's dad loses his job, and 6(?)-year-old Ramona's awareness of the situation is wonderfully presented. Beverly Cleary is pretty much a genius.
88. The High King - Alexander (1968)
88. The High King - Alexander (1968)
87. The View from Saturday - Konigsburg (1996)
86. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - Rowling (1999)
85. On the Banks of Plum Creek - Wilder (1937)
The only thing I remember about this book is the fact that they lived in a house that was dug into the ground. That blew my mind. Still does, in fact.
The only thing I remember about this book is the fact that they lived in a house that was dug into the ground. That blew my mind. Still does, in fact.
84. The Little White Horse - Goudge (1946)
83. The Thief - Turner (1997)
Full disclosure: this is one of two books that I read specifically because they appeared on the list.
Full disclosure: this is one of two books that I read specifically because they appeared on the list.
82. The Book of Three - Alexander (1964)
81. Where the Mountain Meets the Moon - Lin (2009)
80. The Graveyard Book - Gaiman (2008)
79. All-of-a-Kind-Family - Taylor (1951)
78. Johnny Tremain - Forbes (1943)
Had to read in 5th grade. Yuck.
77. The City of Ember - DuPrau (2003)
77. The City of Ember - DuPrau (2003)
76. Out of the Dust - Hesse (1997)
75. Love That Dog - Creech (2001)
This book made me weep in the break room of the library where I was working at the time. I am not a public weeper. Definitely worth the humiliation.
74. The Borrowers - Norton (1953)
74. The Borrowers - Norton (1953)
I had totally forgotten about this book, but I absolutely adored it as a kid.
73. My Side of the Mountain - George (1959)
73. My Side of the Mountain - George (1959)
72. My Father's Dragon - Gannett (1948)
71. The Bad Beginning - Snicket (1999)
70. Betsy-Tacy - Lovelae (1940)
69. The Mysterious Benedict Society - Stewart ( 2007)
I'm not convinced this belongs on this list. Time will tell, I suppose.
68. Walk Two Moons - Creech (1994)
68. Walk Two Moons - Creech (1994)
67. Jeremy Thatcher, Dragon Hatcher - Coville (1991)
66. Henry Huggins - Cleary (1950)
I know for a fact that I read this, but I remember none of it.
65. Ballet Shoes - Stratfeild (1936)
64. A Long Way from Chicago - Peck (1998) 65. Ballet Shoes - Stratfeild (1936)
63. Gone-Away Lake - Enright (1957)
62. The Secret of the Old Clock - Keene (1959)
The book was included in the list as a representative for the whole Nancy Drew series. I must say that while I read Nancy Drew, if I were going to include a series not for literary merit, but for sentimental impact on one's life, it would totally be the Baby-Sitter's Club. Nancy Drew has the whole longevity thing going for her though.
61. Stargirl - Spinelli (2000)
61. Stargirl - Spinelli (2000)
60. The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle - Avi (1990)
I bought this book at a Scholastic Book Fair at my school, and tried many times to read it, but never made it very far. Sorry, Avi.
59. Inkheart - Funke (2003)
59. Inkheart - Funke (2003)
58. The Wolves of Willoughby Chase - Aiken (1962)
57. Ramona Quimby, Age 8 - Cleary (1981)
56. Number the Stars - Lowry (1989)
55. The Great Gilly Hopkins - Paterson (1978)
54. The BFG - Dahl (1982)
53. Wind in the Willows - Grahame (1908)
52. The Invention of Hugo Cabret - Selznick (2007)
51. The Saturdays - Enright (1941)
50. Island of the Blue Dolphins - O'Dell (1960)
Had to read this in 5th grade. Blech.
49. Frindle - Clements (1996)
49. Frindle - Clements (1996)
48. The Penderwicks - Birdsall (2005)
47. Bud, Not Buddy - Curtis (1999)
46. Where the Red Fern Grows - Rawls (1961)
45. The Golden Compass - Pullman (1995)
44. Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing - Blume (1972)
43. Ramona the Pest - Cleary (1968)
Do you remember that Ramona had a doll named Chevrolet, because she thought it was a beautiful name? Ramona is the best.
42. Little House on the Prairie - Wilder (1935)
42. Little House on the Prairie - Wilder (1935)
41. The Witch of Blackbird Pond - Speare (1958)
40. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz - Baum (1900)
39. When You Reach Me - Stead (2009)
Amazingly high on the list for such a new book. I loved it pretty intensely, but it will be interesting to see whether it remains beloved.
38. HP and the Order of the Phoenix - Rowling (2003)
38. HP and the Order of the Phoenix - Rowling (2003)
37. Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry - Taylor (1976)
36. Are You there, God? It's Me, Margaret - Blume (1970)
We must, we must, we must increase our bust! Also, menstruation was way more complicated before they invented the concept of sticky back pads.
35. HP and the Goblet of Fire - Rowling (2000)
35. HP and the Goblet of Fire - Rowling (2000)
34. The Watson's Go to Birmingham - Curtis (1995)
33. James and the Giant Peach - Dahl (1961)
32. Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH - O'Brian (1971)
31. Half Magic - Eager (1954)
This is the other one I read because of this list, and I've got to say that I highly recommend it. I would have adored it even more when I was 9.
30. Winnie-the-Pooh - Milne (1926)
29. The Dark Is Rising - Cooper (1973)
28. A Little Princess - Burnett (1905) 30. Winnie-the-Pooh - Milne (1926)
29. The Dark Is Rising - Cooper (1973)
27. Alice I and II - Carroll (1865/72)
26. Hatchet - Paulsen (1989)
25. Little Women - Alcott (1868/9)
25. Little Women - Alcott (1868/9)
24. HP and the Deathly Hallows - Rowling (2007)
23. Little House in the Big Woods - Wilder (1932)
22. The Tale of Despereaux - DiCamillo (2003)
21. The Lightning Thief - Riordan (2005)
20. Tuck Everlasting - Babbitt (1975)
19. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Dahl (1964)
18. Matilda - Dahl (1988)
17. Maniac Magee - Spinelli (1990)
17. Maniac Magee - Spinelli (1990)
16. Harriet the Spy - Fitzhugh (1964)
15. Because of Winn-Dixie - DiCamillo (2000)
14. HP and the Prisoner of Azkaban - Rowling (1999)
13. Bridge to Terabithia - Paterson (1977)
Perhaps the only book that we read in 5th grade that I enjoyed. It made me weep in public, too, though. Then again, the Muppets Take Manhattan made me weep in school as well, so maybe the whole "I'm not a public weeper" is something of a self-deception.
12. The Hobbit - Tolkien (1938)
12. The Hobbit - Tolkien (1938)
11. The Westing Game - Raskin (1978)
10. The Phantom Tollbooth - Juster (1961)
The other book that may have contributed to my eventual math major. Word play, number play, excellent plot. Plus, did you know that Norton Juster is an accomplished architect? Kind of makes you feel like a loser, no?
The other book that may have contributed to my eventual math major. Word play, number play, excellent plot. Plus, did you know that Norton Juster is an accomplished architect? Kind of makes you feel like a loser, no?
9. Anne of Green Gables - Montgomery (1908)
I loved this book the way Melinda loved Little House on the Prairie. Megan Follows as Anne in the movies was my Half-Pint. I knew who Colleen Dewhurst was because she played Marilla Cuthbert, and I was excited when she guest-starred on Murphy Brown. Yes, I was 8 or 9 at the time. Yes, I was kind of a weird kid.
8. The Secret Garden - Burnett (1911)
8. The Secret Garden - Burnett (1911)
7. The Giver -Lowry (1993)
6. Holes - Sachar (1998)
5. From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler - Koningsburg (1967)
Can you believe that at the library where I work, this book hasn't been checked out since 2005? It's in tip-top shape. And yet I refuse to weed it. You just don't weed the Koningsburg.4. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe - Lewis (1950)
3. Harry Potter #1 - Rowling (1997)
2. A Wrinkle in Time - L'Engle (1962)
1. Charlotte's Web - White (1952)
I didn't think I was emotionally invested in this list until it was down to the top 5, and I realized that if this didn't top the list, a piece of my soul would die. This is probably my favorite book ever, and so well-written. E.B. White's essays for grown-ups are also amazing.
I didn't think I was emotionally invested in this list until it was down to the top 5, and I realized that if this didn't top the list, a piece of my soul would die. This is probably my favorite book ever, and so well-written. E.B. White's essays for grown-ups are also amazing.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Looming in the home
Update: If you are looking for more information about the Spears loom, I ended up writing a post that contains a bit more substantive information about the loom.
I first tried weaving when we were still living in the Chicago area. I have knit for 8 years or so now, and I love it and find it soothing, but somehow weaving was different. For whatever reason, I connected with on a deeper level. Maybe it was because I learned how to weave from a woman, in a room full of women, whereas I learned how to knit from the internet. Whatever the reason, I had a sense of doing something that women have been doing for centuries and of being connected to those women. It was all very Womyn Power, in a way that I hadn't ever experienced before.
Fast forward last Thanksgiving weekend, at a gas station in northwest Indiana, where I arranged to meet a woman from Craigslist. For the sweet price of $30, I got a Spears Weaving Loom, Size 4. It's vintage, from the 60's or so, made in England, and it even came with an instruction manual. Here it is:
I'm not going to get into the problems with tension, yarn breakage, and the like that I experienced. ("The like" being a phrase which here means "brief periods of white hot rage and hatred for that stupid loom and stupid yarn and stupid me, followed by longer periods of drinking and crying, followed by moments of joyous self-satisfaction at my genius in problem-solving".) I am just going to say that while I quite like the yarn I picked, it probably wasn't the best for what I wanted. There was at least one point at which I was sure I wasn't going to finish the (damned, stupid, evil, wretched) scarf.
One difference between weaving projects and my other crafty pursuits, though, is put-away-ability. The loom does break down to fit in a box about the size a board game, but not until either the project is finished or I've decide that I'm not going to finish the project. I can stuff a frustrating piece of knitting in the back of my closet for years, but the loom, she taunts me. And since I have more than enough things dwelling in my head to make me feel bad about myself, I decide to prioritize finishing up one of the things dwelling in the physical realm.
All of which is to say, "Ta-da....."
For the record, there will be a next time for the loom and me. With luck, it will involve less cursing than last time.
I first tried weaving when we were still living in the Chicago area. I have knit for 8 years or so now, and I love it and find it soothing, but somehow weaving was different. For whatever reason, I connected with on a deeper level. Maybe it was because I learned how to weave from a woman, in a room full of women, whereas I learned how to knit from the internet. Whatever the reason, I had a sense of doing something that women have been doing for centuries and of being connected to those women. It was all very Womyn Power, in a way that I hadn't ever experienced before.
Fast forward last Thanksgiving weekend, at a gas station in northwest Indiana, where I arranged to meet a woman from Craigslist. For the sweet price of $30, I got a Spears Weaving Loom, Size 4. It's vintage, from the 60's or so, made in England, and it even came with an instruction manual. Here it is:
I'm not going to get into the problems with tension, yarn breakage, and the like that I experienced. ("The like" being a phrase which here means "brief periods of white hot rage and hatred for that stupid loom and stupid yarn and stupid me, followed by longer periods of drinking and crying, followed by moments of joyous self-satisfaction at my genius in problem-solving".) I am just going to say that while I quite like the yarn I picked, it probably wasn't the best for what I wanted. There was at least one point at which I was sure I wasn't going to finish the (damned, stupid, evil, wretched) scarf.
One difference between weaving projects and my other crafty pursuits, though, is put-away-ability. The loom does break down to fit in a box about the size a board game, but not until either the project is finished or I've decide that I'm not going to finish the project. I can stuff a frustrating piece of knitting in the back of my closet for years, but the loom, she taunts me. And since I have more than enough things dwelling in my head to make me feel bad about myself, I decide to prioritize finishing up one of the things dwelling in the physical realm.
All of which is to say, "Ta-da....."
For the record, there will be a next time for the loom and me. With luck, it will involve less cursing than last time.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Music to Keep Your Car on the Road
The husband and I traveled up to our homeland last weekend to take care of some things to do with the Condo That Would Not Die (or Be Sold). Usually, the husband does all of the driving when we travel to Chicagoland. At some point, I entirely lost my stomach for city driving. Even the Indiana side of things makes me nervous, but making the drive on the interstate through the city is downright excruciating for both of us. I spend the ride flinching and deep-breathing, and generally acting like people with normal anxieties do on planes. And while I am totally fine driving back to CollegeTown (nothing scary there but soybeans and corn), the husband usually offers to do it.
The end result of this is that the husband pretty much has free reign on which cds to bring along with us. Which is usually fine, except for those rare occasions when he actually takes me up on my offer to drive us home, and I am stuck with his choices.
The thing about the husband is that he has good musical taste; he just sucks at figuring out what to play when. In the car, he likes music like The Books (quiet atmospheric music with random sound samples), Stereolab (quiet atmospheric electronica) and Fourtet (quiet modern melodic jazz). He has confused his "Music to listen to while driving" list with what should be a "Music to listen to while writing a paper or getting ready for sleep" list.
I should state for the record that he has his reasons. He says that he likes driving music to be like the musical score moving him through his journey. I couldn't agree more; I just don't think we're driving through the same movie. Proper driving music, as I'm sure you clever people know, should be singable or danceable. Not that I dance in the car, or anyone else for that matter - except, of course, in front of large groups of impressionable children (though I doubt the Hokey Pokey counts). Nevertheless, a good car song should make you regret the fact that you are securely buckled, even as you feel grateful that you don't have to do the shoulder-shaking head bop that passes for dance in your sad, repressed, white girl mind. (Or maybe that's just me.)
Anyway, for your edification (or at least for the husband's), here is my list of top musical choices for a long drive. Please note that many of these rely on singing loudly, and thus being in the car alone. Perhaps that's the problem; perhaps the husband totally belts out pop songs in the car when I am not around to hear. Or perhaps the husband is driving to the score of our life's journey, while I am driving to the pop-heavy soundtrack.
1. London Calling, by the Clash. It is something of a tradition for me to play this on the first day nice enough to drive with the windows down. Oh, Joe Strummer, you are gone, but not forgotten.
2. Cabaret (the one with Alan Cumming as the Emcee). Oh, shut up. A girl can be totally punk rock and totally music theater. It just so happens that I am neither. Whatever; I can replicate Natasha Richardson's English accent to perfection when no one is around to hear. This cd caused me to feel a totally imaginary kinship with her, and I was very sad when she died.
3. Anything by Belle and Sebastian and Fountains of Wayne. It is pretty much a scientific fact that hand claps and perfectly crafted pop songs make cars run more fuel-efficiently.
4. Anything that happens to be on the radio and was popular during the second half of the 90s, when I was in high school. There is absolutely nothing wrong with singing all of the lyrics to Oasis's "Wonder Wall", even if the Gallagher brothers are total tools. Absolutely nothing.
5. Anything by Queen or Fiona Apple. Freddie and Fiona both have a much larger vocal range than me. This does not stop me from attempting to sing with them, or from imagining that I could totally rock their songs at karaoke.
Those are my favorites. What are yours?
The end result of this is that the husband pretty much has free reign on which cds to bring along with us. Which is usually fine, except for those rare occasions when he actually takes me up on my offer to drive us home, and I am stuck with his choices.
The thing about the husband is that he has good musical taste; he just sucks at figuring out what to play when. In the car, he likes music like The Books (quiet atmospheric music with random sound samples), Stereolab (quiet atmospheric electronica) and Fourtet (quiet modern melodic jazz). He has confused his "Music to listen to while driving" list with what should be a "Music to listen to while writing a paper or getting ready for sleep" list.
I should state for the record that he has his reasons. He says that he likes driving music to be like the musical score moving him through his journey. I couldn't agree more; I just don't think we're driving through the same movie. Proper driving music, as I'm sure you clever people know, should be singable or danceable. Not that I dance in the car, or anyone else for that matter - except, of course, in front of large groups of impressionable children (though I doubt the Hokey Pokey counts). Nevertheless, a good car song should make you regret the fact that you are securely buckled, even as you feel grateful that you don't have to do the shoulder-shaking head bop that passes for dance in your sad, repressed, white girl mind. (Or maybe that's just me.)
Anyway, for your edification (or at least for the husband's), here is my list of top musical choices for a long drive. Please note that many of these rely on singing loudly, and thus being in the car alone. Perhaps that's the problem; perhaps the husband totally belts out pop songs in the car when I am not around to hear. Or perhaps the husband is driving to the score of our life's journey, while I am driving to the pop-heavy soundtrack.
1. London Calling, by the Clash. It is something of a tradition for me to play this on the first day nice enough to drive with the windows down. Oh, Joe Strummer, you are gone, but not forgotten.
2. Cabaret (the one with Alan Cumming as the Emcee). Oh, shut up. A girl can be totally punk rock and totally music theater. It just so happens that I am neither. Whatever; I can replicate Natasha Richardson's English accent to perfection when no one is around to hear. This cd caused me to feel a totally imaginary kinship with her, and I was very sad when she died.
3. Anything by Belle and Sebastian and Fountains of Wayne. It is pretty much a scientific fact that hand claps and perfectly crafted pop songs make cars run more fuel-efficiently.
4. Anything that happens to be on the radio and was popular during the second half of the 90s, when I was in high school. There is absolutely nothing wrong with singing all of the lyrics to Oasis's "Wonder Wall", even if the Gallagher brothers are total tools. Absolutely nothing.
5. Anything by Queen or Fiona Apple. Freddie and Fiona both have a much larger vocal range than me. This does not stop me from attempting to sing with them, or from imagining that I could totally rock their songs at karaoke.
Those are my favorites. What are yours?
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Doing My Duty
Last week, I got to perform that most dreaded of civic responsibilities: jury duty. I say "dreaded", and when people expressed excessive amounts of sympathy, I smiled and nodded and didn't exactly disagree. But honestly? When I saw the envelope in the pile of mail, I was downright excited. They even sent me a notice several months in advance asking when I'd like to serve, and then they accommodated me. My doctor is barely willing to do that.
In the days leading up to my time at the courthouse, though, I started to get less sure. As I pointed out to the husband, the whole concept of a jury of your peers sounds great until you consider the unfortunate reality that is your peers. You know those people? The annoying people who ignore the traffic rules you hold most dear, never turn their cell phones off before the movie, and help keep Fox News on the air? Those are your peers. Should you find yourself in legal trouble, there is a good chance they will decide your fate. It's a bit worrying, really. So on my first day, I was still excited, but a little bit wary.
By 9:30 on the first day, I understood the actual reason that some people dread jury duty. It's not necessarily because of the part where you serve on a jury; it could be the part where you wait around for hours in a freezing cold room only to be told that you don't have to serve on a jury today. I couldn't even bring my current knitting project, because it is on skinny, pointy, metal needles and would render me a threat. On Day 2, I finished the book that I was in the middle of, and started my back-up, only to find that I didn't actually want to read a whole book's worth of Michael Chabon's reflections on manhood. (Perhaps to some of you this conclusion would be obvious, but I actually enjoyed it for about 50 pages. I like Michael Chabon; I just don't want to hang out with his family for 300 pages.) This left me bookless. Bookless! If I have one piece of advice for anyone who might be headed for their own stint in jury duty, it's this: don't let yourself be caught bookless (or entertainment-less, if you're not into the whole "books for pleasure" thing). They may provide you with magazines, but trust me, they suck. Perhaps they put out good ones, but if so, they get stolen immediately. It would be a sad irony to be brought before a jury for stealing the jury duty magazines, so just be on the safe side and pack as though you were going on a trans-Atlantic flight.
On the first day, there was an orientation, where we got to watch a video of a judge standing in the same room we were sitting in and giving a presentation about what to expect. The projected image of the light switch was just a few inches below the actual light switch. It was almost as though they wanted us to think she was a hologram, but weren't willing to invest the time and money into completing the illusion. Anyway, a little while after that, they called a bunch of numbers, and since my number wasn't called I got to go home.
That's pretty much how it went. Someone would call a bunch of numbers. I was #102, so the anticipation would build as I waited to hear if I would be called. I was called twice. The first time, I was part of a large jury pool, but even though a lot of people got dismissed for reasons I couldn't see, my number never came up, and I went home. (Once you're in the jury pool, they call twelve numbers. After the judge goes through some basic questions, the lawyers get to ask questions and dismiss people for undisclosed reasons. As jurors get dismissed, new ones are called to replace them.) The second time, I wasn't part of the initial twelve, but when one was dismissed, I got called to replace her. So I got to be a juror.
And here's the cool part: as a juror, I freed a man! It was a traffic case - basically the person was accused of not pulling over when a cop was signalling to do so. And while there is a pretty decent chance the person actually did it, it was not proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. And ultimately, that's what I want to share. I had my doubts when we were put into recess in the jury room. You're not supposed to deliberate until the trial is over, but people started to ignore that and then say that they hadn't been told. People talked about matters that bordered on the political, and they clearly didn't share or respect some of my opinions. Some of them were just people I didn't really like. But once we were in there actually deliberating, it's like we all snapped to attention. If someone started to speculate about things that were off-topic, someone else would remind them, and they'd stop. Everyone genuinely wanted to be a fair and unbiased juror. It was actually kind of beautiful.
So that's it. Jury duty = not so bad. If my job didn't pay me for my jury duty, I might have a slightly different opinion, but as it stands, I would still be kind of excited if I got another summons in the mail. If it does happen, this time I'll be equipped with plenty of books and a little more faith in the power of peers.
In the days leading up to my time at the courthouse, though, I started to get less sure. As I pointed out to the husband, the whole concept of a jury of your peers sounds great until you consider the unfortunate reality that is your peers. You know those people? The annoying people who ignore the traffic rules you hold most dear, never turn their cell phones off before the movie, and help keep Fox News on the air? Those are your peers. Should you find yourself in legal trouble, there is a good chance they will decide your fate. It's a bit worrying, really. So on my first day, I was still excited, but a little bit wary.
By 9:30 on the first day, I understood the actual reason that some people dread jury duty. It's not necessarily because of the part where you serve on a jury; it could be the part where you wait around for hours in a freezing cold room only to be told that you don't have to serve on a jury today. I couldn't even bring my current knitting project, because it is on skinny, pointy, metal needles and would render me a threat. On Day 2, I finished the book that I was in the middle of, and started my back-up, only to find that I didn't actually want to read a whole book's worth of Michael Chabon's reflections on manhood. (Perhaps to some of you this conclusion would be obvious, but I actually enjoyed it for about 50 pages. I like Michael Chabon; I just don't want to hang out with his family for 300 pages.) This left me bookless. Bookless! If I have one piece of advice for anyone who might be headed for their own stint in jury duty, it's this: don't let yourself be caught bookless (or entertainment-less, if you're not into the whole "books for pleasure" thing). They may provide you with magazines, but trust me, they suck. Perhaps they put out good ones, but if so, they get stolen immediately. It would be a sad irony to be brought before a jury for stealing the jury duty magazines, so just be on the safe side and pack as though you were going on a trans-Atlantic flight.
On the first day, there was an orientation, where we got to watch a video of a judge standing in the same room we were sitting in and giving a presentation about what to expect. The projected image of the light switch was just a few inches below the actual light switch. It was almost as though they wanted us to think she was a hologram, but weren't willing to invest the time and money into completing the illusion. Anyway, a little while after that, they called a bunch of numbers, and since my number wasn't called I got to go home.
That's pretty much how it went. Someone would call a bunch of numbers. I was #102, so the anticipation would build as I waited to hear if I would be called. I was called twice. The first time, I was part of a large jury pool, but even though a lot of people got dismissed for reasons I couldn't see, my number never came up, and I went home. (Once you're in the jury pool, they call twelve numbers. After the judge goes through some basic questions, the lawyers get to ask questions and dismiss people for undisclosed reasons. As jurors get dismissed, new ones are called to replace them.) The second time, I wasn't part of the initial twelve, but when one was dismissed, I got called to replace her. So I got to be a juror.
And here's the cool part: as a juror, I freed a man! It was a traffic case - basically the person was accused of not pulling over when a cop was signalling to do so. And while there is a pretty decent chance the person actually did it, it was not proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. And ultimately, that's what I want to share. I had my doubts when we were put into recess in the jury room. You're not supposed to deliberate until the trial is over, but people started to ignore that and then say that they hadn't been told. People talked about matters that bordered on the political, and they clearly didn't share or respect some of my opinions. Some of them were just people I didn't really like. But once we were in there actually deliberating, it's like we all snapped to attention. If someone started to speculate about things that were off-topic, someone else would remind them, and they'd stop. Everyone genuinely wanted to be a fair and unbiased juror. It was actually kind of beautiful.
So that's it. Jury duty = not so bad. If my job didn't pay me for my jury duty, I might have a slightly different opinion, but as it stands, I would still be kind of excited if I got another summons in the mail. If it does happen, this time I'll be equipped with plenty of books and a little more faith in the power of peers.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
TIBDIOB #1: I Killed the Chicken
This is part 1 of a potential series: TIBDIOB, or Things I've Been Doing Instead of Blogging. I'm going somewhat chronologically here. Today's topic actually occurred two weeks before Thanksgiving.
So, I've talked before about my proposed Beautiful Life. For those of you not following along at home, my Beautiful Life would consist of a homestead farm filled with various farm animals, particularly sheep and other fiber animals, but also chickens. The husband and I feel perfectly capable of taking care of laying chickens. Chickens, in general, are far less demanding than dogs, and Beckett seems to be doing okay. We were less sure of our ability to raise meat chickens. After all, Beckett is basically our son, and we wouldn't even think of eating him. Besides, as of yet, we have not found any recipes for Fox Terrier au Vin.
But we are meat-eaters, and we both feel very strongly about our decision to be conscientious carnivores. We only eat meat raised by farmers we know and trust, which basically means that outside of our home, we are functionally vegetarians. We have thought a lot about whether we would eventually be able to go to the next level and raise (and thus, kill) our own meat once we reach our Beautiful Life. So when our local co-op offered a chicken processing class at a member's house, we were pathetically - some might say bizarrely - excited.
The class was about the whole process of raising meat chickens. In September, we met the chicks. In October, we met the chickens. And then, in November, we killed them. I won't go into the details of the whole process. I will say that as I watched our instructor do the first bird, I wasn't completely sure I'd be able to do any of it. The whole thing was set up in his yard. In Illinois at least, if you live in a town where you can raise certain livestock within town limits, you can also butcher the animals, as long as you aren't selling them or doing enough to qualify as an agricultural enterprise. (That's an oversimplification of the rules, so don't go processing any chickens without checking your local ordinances, okay?) He had it set up as a four-step process, with a station for each step, and of course, with step 1 being the drawing of the knife. I ended up doing every step at least once, with varying degrees of success.
It wasn't what I'd call a fun time. It was hard, emotionally and physically. But I felt that if I couldn't handle it, I was going to have to reconsider my stance as a meat-eater. Eating other creatures means enacting violence against them, indirectly at least. When we were buying our meat shrink-wrapped in the grocery store, we didn't think about that too much. I'm not going to go into the politics or ethics or morals behind the decisions that the husband and I have made about food. I'll just say that whether or not we end up raising our own meat birds, we do know now that we would be capable of doing so.
I'm going to close with a warning. Kids, be careful what you read. If you had told me when I picked up Michael Pollan's Omnivore's Dilemma or Barbara Kingsolver's Animal Vegetable Miracle that I'd end up holding a freshly killed chicken by the feet, I'd have told you that you were crazy. Don't even try to tell me that books can't change lives. The husband and I have chicken blood on our hands (metaphorically, at this point), and little but books to blame.
So, I've talked before about my proposed Beautiful Life. For those of you not following along at home, my Beautiful Life would consist of a homestead farm filled with various farm animals, particularly sheep and other fiber animals, but also chickens. The husband and I feel perfectly capable of taking care of laying chickens. Chickens, in general, are far less demanding than dogs, and Beckett seems to be doing okay. We were less sure of our ability to raise meat chickens. After all, Beckett is basically our son, and we wouldn't even think of eating him. Besides, as of yet, we have not found any recipes for Fox Terrier au Vin.
But we are meat-eaters, and we both feel very strongly about our decision to be conscientious carnivores. We only eat meat raised by farmers we know and trust, which basically means that outside of our home, we are functionally vegetarians. We have thought a lot about whether we would eventually be able to go to the next level and raise (and thus, kill) our own meat once we reach our Beautiful Life. So when our local co-op offered a chicken processing class at a member's house, we were pathetically - some might say bizarrely - excited.
The class was about the whole process of raising meat chickens. In September, we met the chicks. In October, we met the chickens. And then, in November, we killed them. I won't go into the details of the whole process. I will say that as I watched our instructor do the first bird, I wasn't completely sure I'd be able to do any of it. The whole thing was set up in his yard. In Illinois at least, if you live in a town where you can raise certain livestock within town limits, you can also butcher the animals, as long as you aren't selling them or doing enough to qualify as an agricultural enterprise. (That's an oversimplification of the rules, so don't go processing any chickens without checking your local ordinances, okay?) He had it set up as a four-step process, with a station for each step, and of course, with step 1 being the drawing of the knife. I ended up doing every step at least once, with varying degrees of success.
It wasn't what I'd call a fun time. It was hard, emotionally and physically. But I felt that if I couldn't handle it, I was going to have to reconsider my stance as a meat-eater. Eating other creatures means enacting violence against them, indirectly at least. When we were buying our meat shrink-wrapped in the grocery store, we didn't think about that too much. I'm not going to go into the politics or ethics or morals behind the decisions that the husband and I have made about food. I'll just say that whether or not we end up raising our own meat birds, we do know now that we would be capable of doing so.
I'm going to close with a warning. Kids, be careful what you read. If you had told me when I picked up Michael Pollan's Omnivore's Dilemma or Barbara Kingsolver's Animal Vegetable Miracle that I'd end up holding a freshly killed chicken by the feet, I'd have told you that you were crazy. Don't even try to tell me that books can't change lives. The husband and I have chicken blood on our hands (metaphorically, at this point), and little but books to blame.
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