This is a blog made by the people responsible for the film of Where the Wild Things Are, that I found when Juniper and Gram's dad linked to it. And here is an absolute gem of a video of President Obama reading the book to a crowd, with his family looking on.
Let me repeat that: The President of the United States, a black man, is shown reading from a beloved, subversive children's book, written and illustrated by a gay man, on what I assume is the White House lawn. This is amazing to me.
Sometime during the 1992 campaign, there was a poll asking who folks would rather have watch their kids, George H. W. Bush or Bill Clinton. Then-Governor Clinton won by a healthy margin, if I recall correctly. I was reminded of that poll watching the President read with obvious facility, peering at the upside-down words from above, making faces and growls where called for with no hesitation at all. In other words: he has read this book to the girls, a LOT.
This to me is more comforting than a pot of tea and a plate of gingersnaps.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
I did not get the public defender job. And I sulked about it for weeks.
On to new topics! Ahem! I've been wanting to try growing herbs for ages. I would like to cook more with fresh herbs but I hate buying them at the grocery store. So this is what I did: I went to our local college library, which amazingly I am allowed to borrow from since we gave a little bit to Spouse's alumni association, and picked out my limit of 5 books. And then I went online and found 6 books from all over the state, which came in via interlibrary loan.
Now, garden writers are absolutely charming. I need to do some choice quotes next time I'm about. However, the problem with eleven different gardening books [and two University Extension Services, and Martha Stewart's web stuff] is that you end up with umpteen different voices squawking about, say, Greek vs. Italian oregano. Certainly there is some overlap, but there are just enough differences in the advice from source to source to drive me up the freaking wall. I am one of those people plagued by the notion that there is a "right" way to do everything. I even take it further and believe there is probably a "best" way to do everything, and I feel like a failure if I don't do it that way the first time.
And by the time I finally decided that yes, I did want to start with teeny little seeds and babysit them into great big plants, it hadn't yet sunk in how LOOOOONG all this was going to take. Little sprouts might pop up right away for most herbs, but as far as actual plants you could transfer to your garden, or to pots in my case, it can take 7-10 WEEKS. Our development is beautifully manicured--more than I would have ever expected for a bunch of townhouses--and our little fenced-in area is covered in mulch, so I am, as they say, pot-bound.
Anyway, I have probably waited too long to get started, such that by the time I have anything big enough to put in a real pot, it will be so hot and humid that the little guys would fizzle and croak outdoors. Which would be okay, I guess, because some herbs can do just fine indoors. The issue is just how much bigger and bushier they would be if they grew outside (see also: in the ground, vs. in a pot). We have a petunia that has been a houseplant since I brought it home, and it's more than just technically alive--in fact, it's really perked up lately, with lots of magenta blooms--but compared to the ones I saw outside at Lowe's on Saturday, it looks utterly peaked.
So I'll try it and see what happens. I do have a couple seed packets to order (one from Monticello, as in Thomas Jefferson, holy cow), and if shipping isn't too exorbitant, I may be ordering one plant since I haven't been able to find seeds. But as far as basil, oregano, etc., I'm good to get started.
The news around here is I'm not currently worrying about the job thing, because I have something else to fret about instead: Spouse is seriously sick. As soon as we had any information, I went straight to Dr. Google and instantly wished I hadn't, because I've been scared out of my mind since. He's undergone testing and should see a specialist this week. Much as I want to know what it really is, I'm a little afraid to know as well. If you happen to be into prayer, lighting candles, Reiki, or whatever, it would be much appreciated. I know in my heart that ultimately he'll be fine; I just need to convince my head of that and not panic.
On to new topics! Ahem! I've been wanting to try growing herbs for ages. I would like to cook more with fresh herbs but I hate buying them at the grocery store. So this is what I did: I went to our local college library, which amazingly I am allowed to borrow from since we gave a little bit to Spouse's alumni association, and picked out my limit of 5 books. And then I went online and found 6 books from all over the state, which came in via interlibrary loan.
Now, garden writers are absolutely charming. I need to do some choice quotes next time I'm about. However, the problem with eleven different gardening books [and two University Extension Services, and Martha Stewart's web stuff] is that you end up with umpteen different voices squawking about, say, Greek vs. Italian oregano. Certainly there is some overlap, but there are just enough differences in the advice from source to source to drive me up the freaking wall. I am one of those people plagued by the notion that there is a "right" way to do everything. I even take it further and believe there is probably a "best" way to do everything, and I feel like a failure if I don't do it that way the first time.
And by the time I finally decided that yes, I did want to start with teeny little seeds and babysit them into great big plants, it hadn't yet sunk in how LOOOOONG all this was going to take. Little sprouts might pop up right away for most herbs, but as far as actual plants you could transfer to your garden, or to pots in my case, it can take 7-10 WEEKS. Our development is beautifully manicured--more than I would have ever expected for a bunch of townhouses--and our little fenced-in area is covered in mulch, so I am, as they say, pot-bound.
Anyway, I have probably waited too long to get started, such that by the time I have anything big enough to put in a real pot, it will be so hot and humid that the little guys would fizzle and croak outdoors. Which would be okay, I guess, because some herbs can do just fine indoors. The issue is just how much bigger and bushier they would be if they grew outside (see also: in the ground, vs. in a pot). We have a petunia that has been a houseplant since I brought it home, and it's more than just technically alive--in fact, it's really perked up lately, with lots of magenta blooms--but compared to the ones I saw outside at Lowe's on Saturday, it looks utterly peaked.
So I'll try it and see what happens. I do have a couple seed packets to order (one from Monticello, as in Thomas Jefferson, holy cow), and if shipping isn't too exorbitant, I may be ordering one plant since I haven't been able to find seeds. But as far as basil, oregano, etc., I'm good to get started.
The news around here is I'm not currently worrying about the job thing, because I have something else to fret about instead: Spouse is seriously sick. As soon as we had any information, I went straight to Dr. Google and instantly wished I hadn't, because I've been scared out of my mind since. He's undergone testing and should see a specialist this week. Much as I want to know what it really is, I'm a little afraid to know as well. If you happen to be into prayer, lighting candles, Reiki, or whatever, it would be much appreciated. I know in my heart that ultimately he'll be fine; I just need to convince my head of that and not panic.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Pants panic
I am having a cow over here.
This morning I was out and about at a ridiculously early hour because I gave someone a ride to work, trying to be helpful. I ended up right by Wal-Mart and was pleasantly wandering about their gardening stuff when Spouse called.
"I fucked up," he said. Well, not too badly: He sent a pen through the washer, and then through the dryer. "All my clothes are ruined," he said. Well, not really.
He made it to work anyway. I surveyed the damage when I got home and it really wasn't that bad. To get at the ink, I started attacking the dryer with all kinds of chemicals. Unfortunately for fire safety, almost everything recommended to work on ink is highly flammable, so the first thing I had to do was unplug the thing.
Hairspray was on the list and seemed to be making the most progress. The first ingredient in hairspray is denatured alcohol, which we happen to have, because the fondue pot that we have yet to use needs it for fuel. Denatured alcohol has all kinds of scary warnings on it, and is a pain in the ass to open, and Lord knows how many brain cells I lost to its powerful fumes, but the stains are now faded such that you'd only see them if you stuck a flashlight in there.
Alas, I have the feeling that is exactly what's going to happen, because I pushed the drum in the wrong direction when I was trying to get at the ink, and it emitted this horrible crunching sound. After a break for ventilation (read: eating cookies and reading David Sedaris), I plugged the dryer back in and hit the button. It heated up but did not spin around. Oh crap.
I think I fucked up worse than Spouse, but he says it's arguable. In lawyerspeak, the actual cause of the dryer not spinning was me pushing it around in ways it did not want to be pushed, but the proximate cause was Spouse leaving the danged pen in his pants pocket.
This is causing a panic for two reasons. The not-so-big-a-deal panic is because Spouse's preferred pants suffered casualties, which means shopping has to happen, and neither of us is a cheerful shopper when it comes to clothes. The full-bore, Oh-My-Golly, sound-the-alarm panic is because the house is a wreck and needs some serious sanitation before the landlord can be called and her handyguy can be dispatched.
Oh, and tomorrow morning I am supposed to leave at oh-dark-thirty so I can make it to Megalopolis for mandatory how-to-be-a-lawyer training, which only the unemployed have to pay for and participate in, and it just makes me really mad. And sad.
I have not heard back about the job I interviewed for, and I strongly suspect that this is what I am really panicking about. That and driving in downtown Megalopolis. Not so much the poor dryer.
This morning I was out and about at a ridiculously early hour because I gave someone a ride to work, trying to be helpful. I ended up right by Wal-Mart and was pleasantly wandering about their gardening stuff when Spouse called.
"I fucked up," he said. Well, not too badly: He sent a pen through the washer, and then through the dryer. "All my clothes are ruined," he said. Well, not really.
He made it to work anyway. I surveyed the damage when I got home and it really wasn't that bad. To get at the ink, I started attacking the dryer with all kinds of chemicals. Unfortunately for fire safety, almost everything recommended to work on ink is highly flammable, so the first thing I had to do was unplug the thing.
Hairspray was on the list and seemed to be making the most progress. The first ingredient in hairspray is denatured alcohol, which we happen to have, because the fondue pot that we have yet to use needs it for fuel. Denatured alcohol has all kinds of scary warnings on it, and is a pain in the ass to open, and Lord knows how many brain cells I lost to its powerful fumes, but the stains are now faded such that you'd only see them if you stuck a flashlight in there.
Alas, I have the feeling that is exactly what's going to happen, because I pushed the drum in the wrong direction when I was trying to get at the ink, and it emitted this horrible crunching sound. After a break for ventilation (read: eating cookies and reading David Sedaris), I plugged the dryer back in and hit the button. It heated up but did not spin around. Oh crap.
I think I fucked up worse than Spouse, but he says it's arguable. In lawyerspeak, the actual cause of the dryer not spinning was me pushing it around in ways it did not want to be pushed, but the proximate cause was Spouse leaving the danged pen in his pants pocket.
This is causing a panic for two reasons. The not-so-big-a-deal panic is because Spouse's preferred pants suffered casualties, which means shopping has to happen, and neither of us is a cheerful shopper when it comes to clothes. The full-bore, Oh-My-Golly, sound-the-alarm panic is because the house is a wreck and needs some serious sanitation before the landlord can be called and her handyguy can be dispatched.
Oh, and tomorrow morning I am supposed to leave at oh-dark-thirty so I can make it to Megalopolis for mandatory how-to-be-a-lawyer training, which only the unemployed have to pay for and participate in, and it just makes me really mad. And sad.
I have not heard back about the job I interviewed for, and I strongly suspect that this is what I am really panicking about. That and driving in downtown Megalopolis. Not so much the poor dryer.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Married, filing jointly
So I got the taxes done last night, and it was another case of "What was I so worried about?" Last year's taxes were a nightmare: we'd just gotten married, we'd moved across a state line, and it was my first time having to file as an independent contractor, so there were library books involved, because I didn't know what the hell I was doing.
This year was a comparative walk. I was really worried because I didn't pay quarterlies in advance this year. That can result in penalties if you earn serious money, but there was so little work this year it was no big deal.
I was motivated to get them done yesterday because it was our year-and-a-half anniversary and it means a lot to Spouse that I do our taxes. Despite being a math genius, he used to go to one of those storefront places to get his taxes done! So I wrestle with TurboTax, he makes a big fuss when I give him the final figure, and it makes me feel appreciated.
His beef, which I'm inclined to agree with, is that taxes are too flipping complicated. I have a legal background, so I feel like I should understand what they mean when they say "Copy your total from the 2008 Widget Recycling Incentive Deduction Reduction Credit into the Bonus Box on Form Umpty-million, multiply by Q, do a little dance, make a little love, and use the resulting figure to verify your Seriously Gross Acne-Related Health Expenditures." I am never sure I've gotten it right, and it just shouldn't be that hard! I mean, apparently you can have the financial savvy to consult to the World Bank and still screw up your return. (Not that I'm bitter or anything.)*
I made a little card that spelled out "I love you" and "Sugar Bear" in binary, and concentrating that hard on all the zeroes and ones made me see spots. There was also a little Woodstock**, dressed like Cupid and holding a tiny Whitman's Sampler, for 75% off at the grocery store. I think Spouse was amused, but he's getting alarmed at how rapidly I accumulate stuffed animals.
And for dinner, we did burgers and crazy fries. Crazy fries are what I call Spouse's method of doing up French fries with real bacon bits, shredded cheese, and Ranch dressing, which sounds gross but smells and tastes amazing.
I am so crazily, ridiculously lucky to be happily married. We have our ups and downs, our lumps and bumps, but somewhere under all the clutter and conflict is something real and true. We are just fine. We are great, actually. What a gift.
_____________________
*Totally lying here.
**Snoopy's avian life partner.
This year was a comparative walk. I was really worried because I didn't pay quarterlies in advance this year. That can result in penalties if you earn serious money, but there was so little work this year it was no big deal.
I was motivated to get them done yesterday because it was our year-and-a-half anniversary and it means a lot to Spouse that I do our taxes. Despite being a math genius, he used to go to one of those storefront places to get his taxes done! So I wrestle with TurboTax, he makes a big fuss when I give him the final figure, and it makes me feel appreciated.
His beef, which I'm inclined to agree with, is that taxes are too flipping complicated. I have a legal background, so I feel like I should understand what they mean when they say "Copy your total from the 2008 Widget Recycling Incentive Deduction Reduction Credit into the Bonus Box on Form Umpty-million, multiply by Q, do a little dance, make a little love, and use the resulting figure to verify your Seriously Gross Acne-Related Health Expenditures." I am never sure I've gotten it right, and it just shouldn't be that hard! I mean, apparently you can have the financial savvy to consult to the World Bank and still screw up your return. (Not that I'm bitter or anything.)*
I made a little card that spelled out "I love you" and "Sugar Bear" in binary, and concentrating that hard on all the zeroes and ones made me see spots. There was also a little Woodstock**, dressed like Cupid and holding a tiny Whitman's Sampler, for 75% off at the grocery store. I think Spouse was amused, but he's getting alarmed at how rapidly I accumulate stuffed animals.
And for dinner, we did burgers and crazy fries. Crazy fries are what I call Spouse's method of doing up French fries with real bacon bits, shredded cheese, and Ranch dressing, which sounds gross but smells and tastes amazing.
I am so crazily, ridiculously lucky to be happily married. We have our ups and downs, our lumps and bumps, but somewhere under all the clutter and conflict is something real and true. We are just fine. We are great, actually. What a gift.
_____________________
*Totally lying here.
**Snoopy's avian life partner.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Things I did this week
Observed: I was driving by the City Christian Schools complex and noticed for the first time that one of the buildings said this:
*blink*
Um, it's been a loooong time since 8th grade Church history, but I seem to recall lions enjoying Christians in the same way Dr. Lecter had an old friend for dinner.
Jobs applied for: One.
Thank-you notes sent (re previous week's interview): Two.
Mood swings (ditto): All over the danged map, ranging from "Oh boy, oh boy, let's go buy me a new suit" to dramatic boo-hooing and subsequent nose-blowing.
Resume tinkering: Fin. My girlfriend, the yoga and dance goddess who went to business school and is fixin' to take over the world, somehow made it all fit on one page in a non-myopic font, doing all the awful futzing with tabs and bullet points that makes me berserk, and the lawyer I ran it by said it was much improved. Woot!
Tax-related procrastination: Persisted, but Spouse is on to me.
Web phenomenon discovered: It's Nannerpus!
Raging craving for: Pancakes.
HOME OF THE LIONS
*blink*
Um, it's been a loooong time since 8th grade Church history, but I seem to recall lions enjoying Christians in the same way Dr. Lecter had an old friend for dinner.
Jobs applied for: One.
Thank-you notes sent (re previous week's interview): Two.
Mood swings (ditto): All over the danged map, ranging from "Oh boy, oh boy, let's go buy me a new suit" to dramatic boo-hooing and subsequent nose-blowing.
Resume tinkering: Fin. My girlfriend, the yoga and dance goddess who went to business school and is fixin' to take over the world, somehow made it all fit on one page in a non-myopic font, doing all the awful futzing with tabs and bullet points that makes me berserk, and the lawyer I ran it by said it was much improved. Woot!
Tax-related procrastination: Persisted, but Spouse is on to me.
Web phenomenon discovered: It's Nannerpus!
Raging craving for: Pancakes.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Transcendence. Also: poop.
So Monday I emailed a friend of a friend a networking letter and a rez, and said friend of a friend passed said rez up to their boss, and holy crap, I had an interview yesterday (Thursday).
I got completely hysterical Wednesday night freaking out about what top to wear under my suit jacket, and it turned out the perfect thing was right in front of my face. I'm hoping that is a good sign. When I came home late last night from a potluck and got the mail, my first glossy issue of the state bar magazine had arrived. I'm hoping that was another one.
This interviewer was extremely low-key, which helped calm me down a lot. I had stayed up late and spent time in the morning, when I should have been beautifying, studying actual legal content, thinking I might be quizzed, and nothing like that ever came up.
This would be something totally different for me, in a good way. Mom asked what I would actually do, and I explained it by quoting Joe Friday: "You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, I would be appointed for you." It is hard to describe how freaking amazing it was to say that. To even think it, typing this. I start thinking about watching Henry Fonda in Gideon's Trumpet, in 10th grade Government. Earlier, Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch, during freshman English, way, way before I understood what was really happening. And to even earlier, when the church we attended had a prestigious downtown address, adjacent to the courthouse. I read a parking-lot sign that said "Reserved for the Public Defender," and asked my parents what that was, because it sounded like a superhero to me.
I would get lots of experience really fast. I would be learning from really experienced practitioners. It would be crazy challenging on lots of levels. And I would definitely be helping people who really need it. Which is what I went to school to do, and what I think I am called to do, on a spiritual level (I feel goofy typing that, but it's the truth).
And if the number I was quoted is even close, it is beyond our wildest dreams.
I am hoping, hoping, hoping that I got myself across well, and praying (again, goofy, but that's what I'm doing) that it finally took this time. I am trying really hard to stay positive, to open my heart to love and change, and to keep the heck out of my own way.
For the moment, however: I need to go and empty the catboxes at my mother-in-law's.
I got completely hysterical Wednesday night freaking out about what top to wear under my suit jacket, and it turned out the perfect thing was right in front of my face. I'm hoping that is a good sign. When I came home late last night from a potluck and got the mail, my first glossy issue of the state bar magazine had arrived. I'm hoping that was another one.
This interviewer was extremely low-key, which helped calm me down a lot. I had stayed up late and spent time in the morning, when I should have been beautifying, studying actual legal content, thinking I might be quizzed, and nothing like that ever came up.
This would be something totally different for me, in a good way. Mom asked what I would actually do, and I explained it by quoting Joe Friday: "You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, I would be appointed for you." It is hard to describe how freaking amazing it was to say that. To even think it, typing this. I start thinking about watching Henry Fonda in Gideon's Trumpet, in 10th grade Government. Earlier, Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch, during freshman English, way, way before I understood what was really happening. And to even earlier, when the church we attended had a prestigious downtown address, adjacent to the courthouse. I read a parking-lot sign that said "Reserved for the Public Defender," and asked my parents what that was, because it sounded like a superhero to me.
I would get lots of experience really fast. I would be learning from really experienced practitioners. It would be crazy challenging on lots of levels. And I would definitely be helping people who really need it. Which is what I went to school to do, and what I think I am called to do, on a spiritual level (I feel goofy typing that, but it's the truth).
And if the number I was quoted is even close, it is beyond our wildest dreams.
I am hoping, hoping, hoping that I got myself across well, and praying (again, goofy, but that's what I'm doing) that it finally took this time. I am trying really hard to stay positive, to open my heart to love and change, and to keep the heck out of my own way.
For the moment, however: I need to go and empty the catboxes at my mother-in-law's.
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