I do not appreciate Daylight Saving Time, and not only because of everyone calling it Daylight "Savings" time all over the place, as if I need another thing to correct. The semi-annual sleep adjustment is a little burr under the saddle I'd rather have removed, is all. I just want to leave time the hell alone.
Even the Bean needed waking up this morning. She's usually up before anyone, and on her most helpful days, she makes breakfast, puts the water on for my tea, and lays out all the ingredients for me to make lunch for her and her sister. That Bean is awesome. You tell her she's awesome, and she says, "I know," but you can tell she's trying not to grin.
I think maybe this will be my new candidate litmus test. Promise me you'll do away with time changes... I don't care whether we stick with daylight saving or standard time, just pick one and don't change it... and you have my vote.
That, and don't appoint any more wacky originalists to the Supreme Court, ok? OK.
Showing posts with label wordishness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wordishness. Show all posts
Monday, March 12, 2012
Sunday, February 26, 2012
So, how are you enjoying public office?
I always said I wouldn't write here about the particulars of serving on the local School Committee (= School Board, in most states), and these days that's probably a better idea than ever. Still, because many people ask me this in passing... let's just say "enjoy" is the wrong verb. "Regret" is the wrong verb as well, for the record. "Endure" is a strong candidate. Oh, I jest! But it can be frustrating.
It's wrecked my blog, for one thing. I don't give time to blogging any more, and I don't feel free to write publicly about a lot of the things that occupy my (admittedly limited) mental real estate these days. What's left? Who wants to read a post about what an unusually mild winter we're having? Nobody, that's who. If Daniel Craig himself called me up and wanted to talk about what an unusually mild winter we're having, I might hang up the damn phone.
Still, I can't bring myself to take Noted and Blogged down. I love some of the pieces I've posted here, I did enjoy (sometimes it is the right verb!) my intermittent writing hobby, and someday I hope to again.
It's wrecked my blog, for one thing. I don't give time to blogging any more, and I don't feel free to write publicly about a lot of the things that occupy my (admittedly limited) mental real estate these days. What's left? Who wants to read a post about what an unusually mild winter we're having? Nobody, that's who. If Daniel Craig himself called me up and wanted to talk about what an unusually mild winter we're having, I might hang up the damn phone.
Still, I can't bring myself to take Noted and Blogged down. I love some of the pieces I've posted here, I did enjoy (sometimes it is the right verb!) my intermittent writing hobby, and someday I hope to again.
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
From the department of unfortunate street names
A man was shot to death in Hyannis on Sunday night. This is, of course, awful, if not out-of-the-blue awful; the man had reportedly been involved in an earlier shooting of someone else, and drug trafficking is possibly involved.
(What, you thought Cape Cod was some kind of haven? Sadly, no - though murder is pretty rare.)
In any event, for me, the shooting is made more cringe-worthy by the name of the street on which it occurred: Fresh Holes Road.
Ouch.
(What, you thought Cape Cod was some kind of haven? Sadly, no - though murder is pretty rare.)
In any event, for me, the shooting is made more cringe-worthy by the name of the street on which it occurred: Fresh Holes Road.
Ouch.
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Things I will miss when it's time to head home, part the first
I love my home. I say that a lot, and I mean it. A lot.
Happily, I love it here, too; I'm going to miss several things about living here. Rather than wait for a comprehensive list to spring from my mind to the keyboard and emerge from these hallowed intertubes crafted, complete and suitably comical for your brief amusement, I figure I'll just post stuff as it occurs to me.
Pause, sip, savor... mmm. Here's what occurs to me first:
I will miss being able to buy wine in grocery stores. They even sell it at Rite Aid here, fer cryin' out loud. Not just the cheap stuff, either, although particularly for wine, even very good ones are much less expensive than at home... by half, in some cases. And cases are what I should be buying, because I'll be back in the land of overpriced "package stores" (= liquor stores. It's a New England thing) before Paul Giamatti can holler "we are NOT drinking Merlot!" (What did he mean by that? I love Merlot.)
A while back there was a ballot question in Massachusetts about allowing supermarkets to sell beer and wine. I honestly can't remember how I voted on it; I do like the idea for its convenience, but I think in the end I was concerned that losing grocery store shelf space to beer and wine would make for fewer choices in the food aisles, which are largely full of mainstream junk as it is. The bigger worry for most people (well, maybe for less selfish people) was what effect (not "impact," goddammit) it would have on the folks who own package stores, who wouldn't be able to compete with prices the big grocery store companies could set.
I don't know how that plays out in places like this. There are wine shops here practically adjacent to supermarkets that sell wine, and neither seems to be suffering for it, but I really don't know. I think that at home, unless being able to sell beer and wine would result in the food stores immediately adding square footage, my concern about allocation of shelf space is valid. Grocery stores here are freakin' huge (about which more later). Wine shops are nice for getting advice and discovering new things, but to stock up on familiar wines, I want to go where they're least expensive. Here in my home-away-from-home, that means one-stop shopping. Bread, milk, eggs, peanut butter, bananas, Pinot Noir, IPA. Cool.
The Massachusetts ballot question failed, so for better or worse, package stores will remain for the foreseeable future. In my home town of some 23,000 people, I can think of at least ten stores that sell wine; probably there are more. My favorite (I would link to it, but its home page appears to have been designed by used car salesmen) has a good sale on the first and third Thursday of the month. Even so, I'm in for some sticker shock on my return.
Do you think it's a good idea for supermarkets to be able to sell beer and wine? How does it work in your neck of the woods?
Happily, I love it here, too; I'm going to miss several things about living here. Rather than wait for a comprehensive list to spring from my mind to the keyboard and emerge from these hallowed intertubes crafted, complete and suitably comical for your brief amusement, I figure I'll just post stuff as it occurs to me.
Pause, sip, savor... mmm. Here's what occurs to me first:
I will miss being able to buy wine in grocery stores. They even sell it at Rite Aid here, fer cryin' out loud. Not just the cheap stuff, either, although particularly for wine, even very good ones are much less expensive than at home... by half, in some cases. And cases are what I should be buying, because I'll be back in the land of overpriced "package stores" (= liquor stores. It's a New England thing) before Paul Giamatti can holler "we are NOT drinking Merlot!" (What did he mean by that? I love Merlot.)
A while back there was a ballot question in Massachusetts about allowing supermarkets to sell beer and wine. I honestly can't remember how I voted on it; I do like the idea for its convenience, but I think in the end I was concerned that losing grocery store shelf space to beer and wine would make for fewer choices in the food aisles, which are largely full of mainstream junk as it is. The bigger worry for most people (well, maybe for less selfish people) was what effect (not "impact," goddammit) it would have on the folks who own package stores, who wouldn't be able to compete with prices the big grocery store companies could set.
I don't know how that plays out in places like this. There are wine shops here practically adjacent to supermarkets that sell wine, and neither seems to be suffering for it, but I really don't know. I think that at home, unless being able to sell beer and wine would result in the food stores immediately adding square footage, my concern about allocation of shelf space is valid. Grocery stores here are freakin' huge (about which more later). Wine shops are nice for getting advice and discovering new things, but to stock up on familiar wines, I want to go where they're least expensive. Here in my home-away-from-home, that means one-stop shopping. Bread, milk, eggs, peanut butter, bananas, Pinot Noir, IPA. Cool.
The Massachusetts ballot question failed, so for better or worse, package stores will remain for the foreseeable future. In my home town of some 23,000 people, I can think of at least ten stores that sell wine; probably there are more. My favorite (I would link to it, but its home page appears to have been designed by used car salesmen) has a good sale on the first and third Thursday of the month. Even so, I'm in for some sticker shock on my return.
Do you think it's a good idea for supermarkets to be able to sell beer and wine? How does it work in your neck of the woods?
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
in which I revisit my brief academic career
Mr. Sandyshoes, in temporary residence at the excellent Oceanography department here at MWCU, gets seminar announcements from the Geology Department as well. He forwarded one to me today. The advertised lecture was about marine sedimentation, and I thought, what the hell. That's a language I used to speak. I should go.
However, I felt as though I had a neon "IMPOSTER" sign on my forehead. It has been almost twenty years since I was in grad school for geology. From time to time I take out my degree just to remind myself, yep, it happened, and this is a real and true thing that came out of it. Then I shake my head in bafflement, put the official paper back in its official file, and get on with the laundry.
Today, though, I dashed off a flip facebook status about planning to sit in the back row with a pillowcase over my head, checked the online campus map, put on my shades, and headed out.
It's nice to live such a short walk from the university. Sure I was lost within ten minutes, but I was lost inside the right building. I walked the hallways a bit, unconcerned about being a couple minutes late, as arriving after the lights went down would lessen the likelihood of anyone jumping up to point at me and shout "HEY! You don't belong here! You should be at the grocery store!"
I passed classrooms and labs, displays and bulletin boards -- the usual Science Building stuff. One small office I walked by was shared by six grad students, each bent over their desks. The stress was palpable even from the hallway. In that brief moment, I had two strong and conflicting impulses: to shudder -- God, I remember how much that sucks -- and to do this. I'm not proud of that one, but there you go. Schadenfreude. It can be funny. At least I'm pretty sure that twenty years ago, my stressed-out officemates and I would've thought it was funny.
Thus cheered, I entered the seminar room, sidled over to an out-of-the-way seat, and settled in to see if any of it would make sense. Happily, much of it did.
One of the things I've always loved about geology is the vocabulary. So many delicious words! Bioturbation, box cores, piston cores, isotopic dating, concretions. Turbidite. Paleointensity. Worm tube. (Heh heh. I said "worm tube.")
Audience manners, I noted, have not improved over the years. You're going to tuck into a big crunchy apple during a professor's presentation? Seriously? Unless it's a "brown bag" seminar (implying bring your lunch), that seems kind of rude, no?
Something else that hasn't changed: the mid-talk sleepiness. I have never fought so hard to stay awake as during department seminars in grad school. You try everything. Coffee, of course. Also rapid breathing, rapid note taking, blinking, not blinking, pinching yourself. I used to fantasize that if I were made of money, I'd donate a lecture hall to a science department, and include a private room for myself behind it, where I'd put a really comfortable recliner from which I'd watch and listen to talks with complete freedom to close my heavy eyelids any time. The talk could be fascinating, but the dark room, the white noise from the slide projector fan... what? It was the 1990s. They used slide projectors then.
Quit looking at me like that. You have your fantasies, I'll have mine.
Anyway. I understood enough of the talk to be emboldened to attend another one. Maybe I won't even be stealthy about it. But I promise not to bring an apple.
However, I felt as though I had a neon "IMPOSTER" sign on my forehead. It has been almost twenty years since I was in grad school for geology. From time to time I take out my degree just to remind myself, yep, it happened, and this is a real and true thing that came out of it. Then I shake my head in bafflement, put the official paper back in its official file, and get on with the laundry.
Today, though, I dashed off a flip facebook status about planning to sit in the back row with a pillowcase over my head, checked the online campus map, put on my shades, and headed out.
It's nice to live such a short walk from the university. Sure I was lost within ten minutes, but I was lost inside the right building. I walked the hallways a bit, unconcerned about being a couple minutes late, as arriving after the lights went down would lessen the likelihood of anyone jumping up to point at me and shout "HEY! You don't belong here! You should be at the grocery store!"
I passed classrooms and labs, displays and bulletin boards -- the usual Science Building stuff. One small office I walked by was shared by six grad students, each bent over their desks. The stress was palpable even from the hallway. In that brief moment, I had two strong and conflicting impulses: to shudder -- God, I remember how much that sucks -- and to do this. I'm not proud of that one, but there you go. Schadenfreude. It can be funny. At least I'm pretty sure that twenty years ago, my stressed-out officemates and I would've thought it was funny.
Thus cheered, I entered the seminar room, sidled over to an out-of-the-way seat, and settled in to see if any of it would make sense. Happily, much of it did.
One of the things I've always loved about geology is the vocabulary. So many delicious words! Bioturbation, box cores, piston cores, isotopic dating, concretions. Turbidite. Paleointensity. Worm tube. (Heh heh. I said "worm tube.")
Audience manners, I noted, have not improved over the years. You're going to tuck into a big crunchy apple during a professor's presentation? Seriously? Unless it's a "brown bag" seminar (implying bring your lunch), that seems kind of rude, no?
Something else that hasn't changed: the mid-talk sleepiness. I have never fought so hard to stay awake as during department seminars in grad school. You try everything. Coffee, of course. Also rapid breathing, rapid note taking, blinking, not blinking, pinching yourself. I used to fantasize that if I were made of money, I'd donate a lecture hall to a science department, and include a private room for myself behind it, where I'd put a really comfortable recliner from which I'd watch and listen to talks with complete freedom to close my heavy eyelids any time. The talk could be fascinating, but the dark room, the white noise from the slide projector fan... what? It was the 1990s. They used slide projectors then.
Quit looking at me like that. You have your fantasies, I'll have mine.
Anyway. I understood enough of the talk to be emboldened to attend another one. Maybe I won't even be stealthy about it. But I promise not to bring an apple.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Midsummer
Well folks, summer on Cape Cod is lovely, and we've been having a thoroughly terrific time of it. Even I have not been especially grumpy, which is really something considering all the summer things I usually find to be grumpy about. Heat, humidity, crowds, mosquitoes, relentless searing sun, blah blah blah. There has been all that, but for whatever reason none of it has bothered me overmuch.
We've been to baseball games, town band concerts, and the County Fair; to birthday parties, family gatherings, and reading group meetings. We've swum in the tidal creek, the lake, the ocean, and various pools. We rode bikes in the town parade on the Fourth of July. We've had a steady stream of guests, and were even sad to see some of them go. We've had lettuce, peas and beans from the garden, cookouts, campfires and s'mores in the backyard and at the beach, and picnics at the Cape Cod Canal, where we watch the boats go by as we eat our dinner. We caught the tail end of the World Cup and dreamed of stretching the word "vuvuzelas" across two triple word score squares.
Oh all right, that last was just me.
Just this week, I have noticed that the girls are starting to get on each other's nerves earlier in the day than usual. That I'm feeling less inspired to mow different patterns into the front lawn, and more inclined to flip off tailgating assholes from New York and Connecticut (New Jersey seems underrepresented this year) than move aside for them.
I know I am nowhere near the end of my rope yet, but I can sense it starting to fray. Hopefully a total unraveling can be avoided altogether, or will at least hold off until Mr. Sandy is back in town. He is intensely, if not frantically (though I just heard him actually swear) preparing for a research cruise, and will shortly be away for a couple of weeks. My shopping list for before his departure consists of non-drowsy formula Dramamine for him, red wine for me.
Stay tuned.
How's your summer going?
We've been to baseball games, town band concerts, and the County Fair; to birthday parties, family gatherings, and reading group meetings. We've swum in the tidal creek, the lake, the ocean, and various pools. We rode bikes in the town parade on the Fourth of July. We've had a steady stream of guests, and were even sad to see some of them go. We've had lettuce, peas and beans from the garden, cookouts, campfires and s'mores in the backyard and at the beach, and picnics at the Cape Cod Canal, where we watch the boats go by as we eat our dinner. We caught the tail end of the World Cup and dreamed of stretching the word "vuvuzelas" across two triple word score squares.
Oh all right, that last was just me.
Just this week, I have noticed that the girls are starting to get on each other's nerves earlier in the day than usual. That I'm feeling less inspired to mow different patterns into the front lawn, and more inclined to flip off tailgating assholes from New York and Connecticut (New Jersey seems underrepresented this year) than move aside for them.
I know I am nowhere near the end of my rope yet, but I can sense it starting to fray. Hopefully a total unraveling can be avoided altogether, or will at least hold off until Mr. Sandy is back in town. He is intensely, if not frantically (though I just heard him actually swear) preparing for a research cruise, and will shortly be away for a couple of weeks. My shopping list for before his departure consists of non-drowsy formula Dramamine for him, red wine for me.
Stay tuned.
How's your summer going?
Monday, March 30, 2009
Sick Days (in which I get to use the word "hornswoggled" in a sentence)
Back when I had a paid job, I found it hard to take sick days. To stay home due to illness involved agonizing over whether to call in, resigning myself to the fact that I needed to, making the call, and feeling a bit better as soon as I'd hung up... leading to hours of second guessing myself, thinking maybe I should've just sucked it up.
Now I'm responsible for deciding whether my lovely children need to stay home from school. I've found that while it's easier to err on the side of caution on their behalf than it was on my own, the second-guessing part hasn't gone away.
Thankfully neither of them are school-averse; so far, they both love to go. The Bean hates even the idea of missing a day, and gets very upset if she thinks she might have to be absent. I can see that for her, taking sick days could someday involve the same tortuous process it was for me. But it's easy for me to make the decision for her: if she's that upset, she's probably that sick.
With the Peanut, it is harder to tell. She's so happy about everything that her mood isn't a good indicator. This past weekend, she had a fever on and off, some coughing and congestion, and not much of an appetite. But she seemed much improved by suppertime yesterday. We'd figured she was OK to go to preschool for Pajama Day today (the kiddos got to wear their PJs and bring a favorite stuffed animal along). The Peanut thought so too, and had her horse pajamas and stuffed horsie ready to go.
This morning, she stalled out during her Cheerios and banana. It came down to this: if you're not feeling good enough for Cheerios and banana, then you're not feeling good enough for preschool, Peanut. Usually, if she's dragging over breakfast (she's always taken a verrrry looonnnng time with meals) and I hint that not eating it might cause her to miss preschool, then she eats, pronto. Not today. She put down her spoon and said she thought she should stay home. But could she still wear her horse pajamas all day?
Hm.
I decided to keep her home. It's possible I'm being had because she doesn't love Cheerios and banana as much as, say, raisin toast and apples, but no matter. She can use an extra day to rest and get past whatever she was fighting off, and missing a day of preschool (even Pajama Day) is certainly not going to set her back any.
Aside from two seconds' sadness when she realized she wouldn't "get to see what the boys' pajamas looked like," she is regret-free. As I type, she's in the living room stringing plastic bead necklaces and singing something to the tune of "if you're happy and you know it."
If her nose weren't stuffy, I'd be feeling hornswoggled.
Now I'm responsible for deciding whether my lovely children need to stay home from school. I've found that while it's easier to err on the side of caution on their behalf than it was on my own, the second-guessing part hasn't gone away.
Thankfully neither of them are school-averse; so far, they both love to go. The Bean hates even the idea of missing a day, and gets very upset if she thinks she might have to be absent. I can see that for her, taking sick days could someday involve the same tortuous process it was for me. But it's easy for me to make the decision for her: if she's that upset, she's probably that sick.
With the Peanut, it is harder to tell. She's so happy about everything that her mood isn't a good indicator. This past weekend, she had a fever on and off, some coughing and congestion, and not much of an appetite. But she seemed much improved by suppertime yesterday. We'd figured she was OK to go to preschool for Pajama Day today (the kiddos got to wear their PJs and bring a favorite stuffed animal along). The Peanut thought so too, and had her horse pajamas and stuffed horsie ready to go.
This morning, she stalled out during her Cheerios and banana. It came down to this: if you're not feeling good enough for Cheerios and banana, then you're not feeling good enough for preschool, Peanut. Usually, if she's dragging over breakfast (she's always taken a verrrry looonnnng time with meals) and I hint that not eating it might cause her to miss preschool, then she eats, pronto. Not today. She put down her spoon and said she thought she should stay home. But could she still wear her horse pajamas all day?
Hm.
I decided to keep her home. It's possible I'm being had because she doesn't love Cheerios and banana as much as, say, raisin toast and apples, but no matter. She can use an extra day to rest and get past whatever she was fighting off, and missing a day of preschool (even Pajama Day) is certainly not going to set her back any.
Aside from two seconds' sadness when she realized she wouldn't "get to see what the boys' pajamas looked like," she is regret-free. As I type, she's in the living room stringing plastic bead necklaces and singing something to the tune of "if you're happy and you know it."
If her nose weren't stuffy, I'd be feeling hornswoggled.
Monday, December 01, 2008
More Words and Phrases Forbidden for 2009
In the forehead-slapping, how-could-I-forget department:
6. "maverick"
Never again. Unless in "team of mavericks," used in context of faux nostalgia.
7. "Drill, baby, drill."
It was dumb, baby, dumb, and now it can be done, baby, done.
More?
6. "maverick"
Never again. Unless in "team of mavericks," used in context of faux nostalgia.
7. "Drill, baby, drill."
It was dumb, baby, dumb, and now it can be done, baby, done.
More?
Words and Phrases Forbidden for 2009
I'm going to think of more, but it's not too soon to get started. What words or phrases should we ditch with the year 2008?
(Granted, some of these should've been banned in 2008 or earlier, but have stuck around like Owen Wilson in You, Me and Dupree.)
1. "threw up in my mouth a little"
or any of its revolting equivalents
2. "baby bump"
This has caused me to bring back the phrase "gag me," which was originally and righteously banned sometime in the late 1980s.
3. "[media, Hollywood, anything] elites"
Oh, please.
4. "purity ball"
Let's ban the phrase, the events, the pretext... the whole creepy concept, shall we?
5. "beeyotch," "biaaatch," &c.
Quit it. Just... quit it.
OK, that's my first five. More to come. Add your own!
(Granted, some of these should've been banned in 2008 or earlier, but have stuck around like Owen Wilson in You, Me and Dupree.)
1. "threw up in my mouth a little"
or any of its revolting equivalents
2. "baby bump"
This has caused me to bring back the phrase "gag me," which was originally and righteously banned sometime in the late 1980s.
3. "[media, Hollywood, anything] elites"
Oh, please.
4. "purity ball"
Let's ban the phrase, the events, the pretext... the whole creepy concept, shall we?
5. "beeyotch," "biaaatch," &c.
Quit it. Just... quit it.
OK, that's my first five. More to come. Add your own!
Monday, July 14, 2008
You grow it, I'll mow it.
Ah, mowing the lawn... or is it "cutting the grass"? Of course it is cutting the grass no matter which way you say it, but some people -- must be a regional thing -- don't say "mowing the lawn."
Well, I do. And, Saturday morning, I did.
Probably almost an acre of our lot requires mowing. When we moved here, it was mostly bare patches of packed dust and rocks, some nice moss, lots of fast-growing weeds, and a few sad scraggly patches of grass. Mowing that mess was a miserable job, but it had to be done in order to look slightly less awful. It wasn't one of those lovely maintenance-free Cape Cod moss and pine needle yards that need no upkeep because they are just as they ought to be. Ours had experienced at least a decade of benign neglect, except without the benign part. The previous owner didn't care much. Curb appeal was not a concern under Cape real estate market conditions in 2000, when sellers couldn't lose. Now, of course, you can't even think of putting a house on the market without considerable upgrading, outside and in. We thought about it a few years ago, when it seemed we might move to the west coast. A realtor all but laughed out loud at our perfectly functional but 1980s-pink bathrooms, which we have higher priorities than to redo for ourselves, but which wouldn't fly in today's buyers' market.
I digress.
Over the years, we (by which I mean Mr. S., but "we" by extension, because he would never have gotten to do all this stuff had I not been handling the gestation and subsequent general maintenance of our lovely offspring) have dug up, amended, filled, graded, turned, seeded, watered, seeded, watered, seeded, top dressed, seeded, and watered increasing areas of the yard. We worked from the house outward, so for a while it looked like there was just a bit right outside the door that was cared for -- a bit that grew annually, as if to give neighbors and passers-by some hope that someday it might all be presentable.
In our early discussions of where to plant grass vs. ground cover vs. shrubbery (if I owned a nursery, I would call it Roger The Shrubber. Tag line: "nothing too expensive!"), it became clear that we'd probably end up with a lot of grass, and that it would need cutting. S'fine, I said to my husband. You grow it, I'll mow it.
Well. That man can seed. So now we have nice grass (though not the bizarre emerald green kind that screams I CAN'T STOP! I'VE BEEN FERTILIZED AGAIN!), and I try to hold up my end of the deal.
Mowing appeals to me. Back and forth, back and forth, then when you're done things look great. I like yard work that turns off the brain. Mowing and raking are right up my alley. But sometimes Mr. S. wants the clippings bagged (what?). And sometimes our hand-me-down mower won't start. And sometimes, when it's very hot and humid, I mow for a while and then get to feeling dizzy and as if I might throw up. What a wuss! But it's true. I wilt and feel sick.
Then there are the mystery injuries. Last Saturday I did the whole front yard, no problem. Did most of the back, then had to restart the mower and it wouldn't. Somehow, in my increasing, um, vigor with the pull string, I really injured my hand. I didn't notice until later that my whole right index finger was purple. Later still, it swelled up impressively and I couldn't bend it. The swelling's mostly down as I type now, but it still hurts to touch it, and I can't use it for much. Braiding little girls' hair, for example, is out of the question, and using a pen or pencil is tricky.
We are investigating new mowers. I don't want a rider mower -- I think they call them "lawn tractors" now -- although it'd be fun to plow the driveway with it in wintertime. But we have a lot of trees to go around, and eh, even if we had space to store the thing, it just seems like too much. Walking back and forth isn't the hard part of the job, and now that it's grass instead of dust and rocks underfoot, it isn't even unpleasant. So, a regular mower it is. "So do we really need a 'self propelled' one?" says Mr. S. "Um, YEAH," I say. (Hello?!) "Why would we not want that?" The Sears catalog says the standard push mower is good for 1/4 acre or less. Even allowing for my being a bit stronger and/or less easily duped than the average Sears catalog reader, it seems crazy not to get a mower that helps more with the pushing part. Less time spent mowing means less gas burned, more time for other things. To me, it's a no-brainer. He shrugs, and comes up with his reason: "Exercise?"
I have no answer for this except, oh please. Ten years from now -- because let's face it, 1) nobody's getting younger, and 2) if the 275,000+ miles on our last car is any indication, we will not be buying another new lawn mower until the one we're about to buy absolutely craps out -- how angry am I going to be that for the sake of a hundred bucks or so, he was willing to turn a not-unpleasant chore into an ordeal, under the guise of "exercise?" The mere suggestion is maddening. I hope my silence conveys this.
Needless to say I will have to keep a close eye on the lawn mower purchase.
In the meantime, I think we've got the yard shaped up quite well, actually. We kept a lot of the moss, which I quite like. Grass, ground covers, shrubs and flowers have all been established in appropriate places. Mr. S. has worked really, really hard, and it shows. Most of the season, something is blooming. One of my favorites is a beautiful hydrangea that was barely a foot tall when we bought the place, and which took off like crazy as soon as we gave it some real soil to grow in. It has deep purple blooms:
Most hydrangeas around here are light blue, pink if you lime the soil. Every year, I forget that this one is purple, and when it blooms I say "wow, the hydrangea is really purple!" much to Mr. S's amusement. I think he looks forward to my expressing surprise about it. I must seem like the proverbial sheep that's surprised by the sunrise every day. Ah well, at least I entertain him.
Come to think of it, that's also the color my finger got, after the pull string debacle.
Well, I do. And, Saturday morning, I did.
Probably almost an acre of our lot requires mowing. When we moved here, it was mostly bare patches of packed dust and rocks, some nice moss, lots of fast-growing weeds, and a few sad scraggly patches of grass. Mowing that mess was a miserable job, but it had to be done in order to look slightly less awful. It wasn't one of those lovely maintenance-free Cape Cod moss and pine needle yards that need no upkeep because they are just as they ought to be. Ours had experienced at least a decade of benign neglect, except without the benign part. The previous owner didn't care much. Curb appeal was not a concern under Cape real estate market conditions in 2000, when sellers couldn't lose. Now, of course, you can't even think of putting a house on the market without considerable upgrading, outside and in. We thought about it a few years ago, when it seemed we might move to the west coast. A realtor all but laughed out loud at our perfectly functional but 1980s-pink bathrooms, which we have higher priorities than to redo for ourselves, but which wouldn't fly in today's buyers' market.
I digress.
Over the years, we (by which I mean Mr. S., but "we" by extension, because he would never have gotten to do all this stuff had I not been handling the gestation and subsequent general maintenance of our lovely offspring) have dug up, amended, filled, graded, turned, seeded, watered, seeded, watered, seeded, top dressed, seeded, and watered increasing areas of the yard. We worked from the house outward, so for a while it looked like there was just a bit right outside the door that was cared for -- a bit that grew annually, as if to give neighbors and passers-by some hope that someday it might all be presentable.
In our early discussions of where to plant grass vs. ground cover vs. shrubbery (if I owned a nursery, I would call it Roger The Shrubber. Tag line: "nothing too expensive!"), it became clear that we'd probably end up with a lot of grass, and that it would need cutting. S'fine, I said to my husband. You grow it, I'll mow it.
Well. That man can seed. So now we have nice grass (though not the bizarre emerald green kind that screams I CAN'T STOP! I'VE BEEN FERTILIZED AGAIN!), and I try to hold up my end of the deal.
Mowing appeals to me. Back and forth, back and forth, then when you're done things look great. I like yard work that turns off the brain. Mowing and raking are right up my alley. But sometimes Mr. S. wants the clippings bagged (what?). And sometimes our hand-me-down mower won't start. And sometimes, when it's very hot and humid, I mow for a while and then get to feeling dizzy and as if I might throw up. What a wuss! But it's true. I wilt and feel sick.
Then there are the mystery injuries. Last Saturday I did the whole front yard, no problem. Did most of the back, then had to restart the mower and it wouldn't. Somehow, in my increasing, um, vigor with the pull string, I really injured my hand. I didn't notice until later that my whole right index finger was purple. Later still, it swelled up impressively and I couldn't bend it. The swelling's mostly down as I type now, but it still hurts to touch it, and I can't use it for much. Braiding little girls' hair, for example, is out of the question, and using a pen or pencil is tricky.
We are investigating new mowers. I don't want a rider mower -- I think they call them "lawn tractors" now -- although it'd be fun to plow the driveway with it in wintertime. But we have a lot of trees to go around, and eh, even if we had space to store the thing, it just seems like too much. Walking back and forth isn't the hard part of the job, and now that it's grass instead of dust and rocks underfoot, it isn't even unpleasant. So, a regular mower it is. "So do we really need a 'self propelled' one?" says Mr. S. "Um, YEAH," I say. (Hello?!) "Why would we not want that?" The Sears catalog says the standard push mower is good for 1/4 acre or less. Even allowing for my being a bit stronger and/or less easily duped than the average Sears catalog reader, it seems crazy not to get a mower that helps more with the pushing part. Less time spent mowing means less gas burned, more time for other things. To me, it's a no-brainer. He shrugs, and comes up with his reason: "Exercise?"
I have no answer for this except, oh please. Ten years from now -- because let's face it, 1) nobody's getting younger, and 2) if the 275,000+ miles on our last car is any indication, we will not be buying another new lawn mower until the one we're about to buy absolutely craps out -- how angry am I going to be that for the sake of a hundred bucks or so, he was willing to turn a not-unpleasant chore into an ordeal, under the guise of "exercise?" The mere suggestion is maddening. I hope my silence conveys this.
Needless to say I will have to keep a close eye on the lawn mower purchase.
In the meantime, I think we've got the yard shaped up quite well, actually. We kept a lot of the moss, which I quite like. Grass, ground covers, shrubs and flowers have all been established in appropriate places. Mr. S. has worked really, really hard, and it shows. Most of the season, something is blooming. One of my favorites is a beautiful hydrangea that was barely a foot tall when we bought the place, and which took off like crazy as soon as we gave it some real soil to grow in. It has deep purple blooms:
Most hydrangeas around here are light blue, pink if you lime the soil. Every year, I forget that this one is purple, and when it blooms I say "wow, the hydrangea is really purple!" much to Mr. S's amusement. I think he looks forward to my expressing surprise about it. I must seem like the proverbial sheep that's surprised by the sunrise every day. Ah well, at least I entertain him.Come to think of it, that's also the color my finger got, after the pull string debacle.
Monday, June 23, 2008
T minus 72 days and counting: We Go To The Pond
As it is no secret that summer is not my favorite time of year -- actually it's becoming increasingly clear that there are only about two weeks annually that I enjoy at all (kidding! sorta) -- I thought we might make the most of my foul mood in countdown mode. Hence, a new post category: Countdown To First Day Of School.
Which James Bond movie was it that had the countdown with a heavily accented male voice: "____ seconds, and coun-ting." Moonraker, I suppose. One of the ghastly Roger Moore ones, though at the time I thought it was da bomb. What can I say, I was 12. I totally wanted one of those watches that shoots darts if you flick your wrist just right, though I suspect my powers would have been used for evil even then.
Anyway, it is that countdown voice I am conjuring to amuse myself through these godforsaken, I mean carefree, days of summer.
Yesterday (T - 72 days and coun-ting), we decided to visit our neighborhood pond. (It's a lake. I don't know why Cape Cod folks call them ponds. Where I grew up, a pond is a shallow dark thing, probably with lily pads. Our "pond" is 60 feet deep, crystal clear, and gorgeous.) This seems like it should be a simple thing... get yer swimsuits on and go, right? Noooooo. We called the girls inside. We had them strip down and use the bathroom. We coated them with sunscreen. We put on their bathing suits. We untwisted their straps and put on their coverups. We gathered towels and toys and chairs and an umbrella. We made sandwiches and filled water bottles. We loaded everything in the car and drove the half mile to the pond. Lake. Whatever.
We unloaded everything and trooped down to the beach, signed in, chose a spot and settled down. Mr. S. put the towels over the back of the chairs, which immediately tipped over so that the towels were full of sand. So at least that part of the beach experience was taken care of right away, obviating any need for the usual pointless hope of grit-free drying.
The girls and Mr. S. headed to the water immediately. I decided to stay put and glower at my sandy towels and hideous pale legs. After ten or fifteen minutes I was done fuming, and got up to try the water. The girls were frolicking; Bean edging hand over hand along the dock to "deeper" (read, waist-deep to a five year-old) water, Peanut "swimming" (read, hoovering dirt and plant matter into her bathing suit) along the shore. I got my feet wet, then walked out onto the dock... best to just dive in all at once than inch in a bit at a time, I think. Unless of course you really care about your contact lenses. What to do, what to do. I am mulling this over, letting myself look forward to a little swim one way or another, when the Bean comes tearing by me. There is NO RUNNING ON THE DOCK, mind you, and of course she slips and goes down, scraping up her knee.
And proceeds to scream loud enough to raise the dead.
We stand her up and walk her off the dock back to the chair. She's bleeding just a bit, but it's combined with the lake water dripping off her leg, so she thinks it's A LOT OF BLOOD. She won't. stop. screaming. The good people of the neighborhood are covering their ears in self-defense. She won't stop. None of my usual tricks... talking to her in a low calm voice so she has to quiet down to hear me... encouraging deep breaths... repeating "you're OK, you're OK..." are working. She won't stop screaming. I am a hair away from losing it myself. She is screaming for a BandAid... which, of course, we don't have. Why would we have a Band-Aid? That would've been fucking USEFUL! We have sunscreen, hairbrush, baby powder, wipes, but no goddamn Band-Aid. The beach attendant doesn't have one either. She's still screaming. The Bean, not the beach attendant. Mr. S. eventually picks her up and goes back to the car. I get the sand off the Peanut's feet (baby powder is AWESOME for this; the sand just falls right off), gather what I can carry of our belongings, and we head to the parking lot. The Bean is still at it; Mr. S. can't get her to stop either. I leave the Peanut with them and head back for the stuff I couldn't carry the first time.
The beach attendant, a friendly person I know from the gym I used to belong to (her routine: work out, sunbathe, repeat -- not a bad life if you dig that sort of thing), suggests that I should go to the gym to get some time away from the kids. I tell her I hate the gym even more than I hate the beach. Why am I such an asshole? I could spit nails, but it isn't her fault. It's just not a good time to say nice things to me. And I wonder why I have no friends.
Back at the car, the Bean is still screaming. Mr. S. has decided not to leave until she can quiet down. Good luck with that, I say, and walk home.
On the walk, I get the idea that counting days might be helpful. I hate the thought of wishing life away -- I know, I know that we are all just an accident, a diagnosis, a surprise catastrophe away from losing everything dear to us. I know about living mindfully, and being present. But still. Sometimes "this, too, shall pass" is a better mantra than "live in the moment." T minus 72 days was definitely one of those times.
Which James Bond movie was it that had the countdown with a heavily accented male voice: "____ seconds, and coun-ting." Moonraker, I suppose. One of the ghastly Roger Moore ones, though at the time I thought it was da bomb. What can I say, I was 12. I totally wanted one of those watches that shoots darts if you flick your wrist just right, though I suspect my powers would have been used for evil even then.
Anyway, it is that countdown voice I am conjuring to amuse myself through these godforsaken, I mean carefree, days of summer.
Yesterday (T - 72 days and coun-ting), we decided to visit our neighborhood pond. (It's a lake. I don't know why Cape Cod folks call them ponds. Where I grew up, a pond is a shallow dark thing, probably with lily pads. Our "pond" is 60 feet deep, crystal clear, and gorgeous.) This seems like it should be a simple thing... get yer swimsuits on and go, right? Noooooo. We called the girls inside. We had them strip down and use the bathroom. We coated them with sunscreen. We put on their bathing suits. We untwisted their straps and put on their coverups. We gathered towels and toys and chairs and an umbrella. We made sandwiches and filled water bottles. We loaded everything in the car and drove the half mile to the pond. Lake. Whatever.
We unloaded everything and trooped down to the beach, signed in, chose a spot and settled down. Mr. S. put the towels over the back of the chairs, which immediately tipped over so that the towels were full of sand. So at least that part of the beach experience was taken care of right away, obviating any need for the usual pointless hope of grit-free drying.
The girls and Mr. S. headed to the water immediately. I decided to stay put and glower at my sandy towels and hideous pale legs. After ten or fifteen minutes I was done fuming, and got up to try the water. The girls were frolicking; Bean edging hand over hand along the dock to "deeper" (read, waist-deep to a five year-old) water, Peanut "swimming" (read, hoovering dirt and plant matter into her bathing suit) along the shore. I got my feet wet, then walked out onto the dock... best to just dive in all at once than inch in a bit at a time, I think. Unless of course you really care about your contact lenses. What to do, what to do. I am mulling this over, letting myself look forward to a little swim one way or another, when the Bean comes tearing by me. There is NO RUNNING ON THE DOCK, mind you, and of course she slips and goes down, scraping up her knee.
And proceeds to scream loud enough to raise the dead.
We stand her up and walk her off the dock back to the chair. She's bleeding just a bit, but it's combined with the lake water dripping off her leg, so she thinks it's A LOT OF BLOOD. She won't. stop. screaming. The good people of the neighborhood are covering their ears in self-defense. She won't stop. None of my usual tricks... talking to her in a low calm voice so she has to quiet down to hear me... encouraging deep breaths... repeating "you're OK, you're OK..." are working. She won't stop screaming. I am a hair away from losing it myself. She is screaming for a BandAid... which, of course, we don't have. Why would we have a Band-Aid? That would've been fucking USEFUL! We have sunscreen, hairbrush, baby powder, wipes, but no goddamn Band-Aid. The beach attendant doesn't have one either. She's still screaming. The Bean, not the beach attendant. Mr. S. eventually picks her up and goes back to the car. I get the sand off the Peanut's feet (baby powder is AWESOME for this; the sand just falls right off), gather what I can carry of our belongings, and we head to the parking lot. The Bean is still at it; Mr. S. can't get her to stop either. I leave the Peanut with them and head back for the stuff I couldn't carry the first time.
The beach attendant, a friendly person I know from the gym I used to belong to (her routine: work out, sunbathe, repeat -- not a bad life if you dig that sort of thing), suggests that I should go to the gym to get some time away from the kids. I tell her I hate the gym even more than I hate the beach. Why am I such an asshole? I could spit nails, but it isn't her fault. It's just not a good time to say nice things to me. And I wonder why I have no friends.
Back at the car, the Bean is still screaming. Mr. S. has decided not to leave until she can quiet down. Good luck with that, I say, and walk home.
On the walk, I get the idea that counting days might be helpful. I hate the thought of wishing life away -- I know, I know that we are all just an accident, a diagnosis, a surprise catastrophe away from losing everything dear to us. I know about living mindfully, and being present. But still. Sometimes "this, too, shall pass" is a better mantra than "live in the moment." T minus 72 days was definitely one of those times.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Sunday Free Association
I say ____ :: you think ______.
Words posted weekly at Unconscious Mutterings. Anyone can play!
Q. What does a 500 pound canary say?
A. TWEET!!!
Eh, not funny unless you can make the font really huge. And even then, not so much. Best told in person. Maybe to a child. Maybe by a child. Maybe I should just quit typing for now.
.
Words posted weekly at Unconscious Mutterings. Anyone can play!
- State :: union
- Lively :: fun
- Valet :: concierge
- Traction :: tire
- Official :: seal
- Red hot :: candy
- Powder :: ammo
- Replies :: email
- Flagrant :: brazen
- Tweet :: canary
Q. What does a 500 pound canary say?
A. TWEET!!!
Eh, not funny unless you can make the font really huge. And even then, not so much. Best told in person. Maybe to a child. Maybe by a child. Maybe I should just quit typing for now.
.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Sunday Free Association
You say _____ :: I think ______
New words every Sunday at Unconscious Mutterings.
Also, I guess it's obvious we just did a run to Target... there's a brand new one in Wareham, MA that needed investigating. We went in search of a sunhat and a windbreaker for the Bean, and found neither. We did get three pair of shorts, two shirts and a watch for me, "dress" sandals and sunglasses for the girls. I noticed an L.L.Bean outlet in that same new plaza (down with cranberry bogs! up with shopping!) that needs investigating too, hopefully without the offspring in tow.
New words every Sunday at Unconscious Mutterings.
- Thug :: big
- Slurp :: stop!
- Alley :: back
- Sweater vest :: geek
- Targeted :: shopping
- Snazzy :: sparkle
- Oy! :: Hey!
- Jury duty :: courthouse
- Low fat :: yogurt
- Responsibility :: mine
Also, I guess it's obvious we just did a run to Target... there's a brand new one in Wareham, MA that needed investigating. We went in search of a sunhat and a windbreaker for the Bean, and found neither. We did get three pair of shorts, two shirts and a watch for me, "dress" sandals and sunglasses for the girls. I noticed an L.L.Bean outlet in that same new plaza (down with cranberry bogs! up with shopping!) that needs investigating too, hopefully without the offspring in tow.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Sunday Free Association
Play the free association game on Sundays at Unconscious Mutterings!
This week's words:
I do this like the rules say: pretty quickly and without thinking, to the extent I can avoid it. Looking back over my responses, I really have to wonder where "chum" comes from.
.
This week's words:
- Questioning :: authority
- Immunity :: flu
- Online dating :: tedious
- Calcium :: supplement
- Dressing :: salad
- Bucket :: chum
- Stain :: blood
- Advanced :: degree
- Dramatic :: self-absorbed
- Self-medication :: desperate
I do this like the rules say: pretty quickly and without thinking, to the extent I can avoid it. Looking back over my responses, I really have to wonder where "chum" comes from.
.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Sunday Free Association
I've noticed some of the cool kids doing this free association game every week and it looks fun, so I'm in. Do it too! You know you want to. The words are posted at Unconscious Mutterings every Sunday morning.
- Silence :: blessed
- Wall :: pink floyd
- Killed :: interest
- Wishful :: thinking
- Poodle :: dog
- Sullen :: teen
- Do not disturb :: me
- Philadephia :: visit
- Anticipation :: wait
- Sidewalk :: street
Friday, November 30, 2007
LakeFieldRidgeFarmOceanView Estates
Been driving around a bit today, noticed some subdivision names.
They irk me. All these nature words rendered meaningless at best, and actually absurd in some cases ("Pine Woods Estates," which hasn't seen a full-grown tree since long before its first cookie-cutter "colonial" was slapped up.) The ones with "estates" tagged onto the name bug me especially. To my mind, a property (save those in probate) is not an "estate" unless it has more than one outbuilding, no visible neighbors, and a full-time staff.
I imagine developers must have a name generator sort of like the lottery draw machine -- big transparent spheres of swirling ping-pong balls with words on 'em that are or were vaguely relevant to the geographic setting about to be mowed down. They pop the first word out: Lake, Pine, Mountain, [somebody's name]'s, River, Bay, Ocean, Hill. Then the second word: Woods, Field, Farm, Ridge, Hills, View, Heights, Crest, Pines. Then they can pop out another word from the second word batch, either to make it a three-word name ("River View Heights") or to fix a combo that makes so little sense even the developer won't go for it ("Pine Pines" might have to be changed to "Pine Crest"). The final option is whether or not to tack "Estates" on the end. It appears this is only mandatory if the development is a trailer park.
They irk me. All these nature words rendered meaningless at best, and actually absurd in some cases ("Pine Woods Estates," which hasn't seen a full-grown tree since long before its first cookie-cutter "colonial" was slapped up.) The ones with "estates" tagged onto the name bug me especially. To my mind, a property (save those in probate) is not an "estate" unless it has more than one outbuilding, no visible neighbors, and a full-time staff.
I imagine developers must have a name generator sort of like the lottery draw machine -- big transparent spheres of swirling ping-pong balls with words on 'em that are or were vaguely relevant to the geographic setting about to be mowed down. They pop the first word out: Lake, Pine, Mountain, [somebody's name]'s, River, Bay, Ocean, Hill. Then the second word: Woods, Field, Farm, Ridge, Hills, View, Heights, Crest, Pines. Then they can pop out another word from the second word batch, either to make it a three-word name ("River View Heights") or to fix a combo that makes so little sense even the developer won't go for it ("Pine Pines" might have to be changed to "Pine Crest"). The final option is whether or not to tack "Estates" on the end. It appears this is only mandatory if the development is a trailer park.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Everybody talks about the weather...
Noted and Blogged interrupts your regular program to inform you:
It is snowing.
I used to live in western Massachusetts, which I truly loved, but snow before Thanksgiving was not why.
When I moved here, I thought with happy relief of the relatively snow-free Cape Cod winters everyone (except fishers*) talks about, which one could make a case, if one were so inclined, have not materialized in my almost-a-decade on this fair peninsula. One could.
On the upside, we have had some remarkably warm Decembers before the blizzards dumped down on us. And a good foot+ of snow once a year or so is fun.
And, as we say here in New England, if you don't like the weather, wait a minute. Now, for example, the sun is shining.
We return you to your regularly scheduled program.
*why aren't they called fishers? Hunters aren't called "huntermen," and fishers aren't all male. While we're at it, why is a fisher cat called that, if it has nothing to do with fish or cats? Something to do with the French. Mais oui.
It is snowing.
I used to live in western Massachusetts, which I truly loved, but snow before Thanksgiving was not why.
When I moved here, I thought with happy relief of the relatively snow-free Cape Cod winters everyone (except fishers*) talks about, which one could make a case, if one were so inclined, have not materialized in my almost-a-decade on this fair peninsula. One could.
On the upside, we have had some remarkably warm Decembers before the blizzards dumped down on us. And a good foot+ of snow once a year or so is fun.
And, as we say here in New England, if you don't like the weather, wait a minute. Now, for example, the sun is shining.
We return you to your regularly scheduled program.
*why aren't they called fishers? Hunters aren't called "huntermen," and fishers aren't all male. While we're at it, why is a fisher cat called that, if it has nothing to do with fish or cats? Something to do with the French. Mais oui.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Dinner, or Supper?
Which is it in your house? I guess to some folks "dinner" is the midday meal. I always grew up with "dinner" and "supper" as synonyms for the late day meal, but calling it "dinner" much more often.
In any case it's been a while since I told you what we've had for dinner, and I can tell you're dying to know but you're too polite to ask.
OK, maybe not. But here's a quick, easy meal that my girls love:
Rotini with Prosciutto and Peas
1/4 lb. prosciutto -- I get the least expensive kind, cut in one slice. Some deli folks are better than others at judging how big a slice makes 1/4 lb. It doesn't matter precisely how much you end up with. A "heavy quarter" or a third is fine.
3 T extra virgin olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
14.5 oz box rotini -- I use Barilla's multigrain. Other brands come in 1 lb. boxes so in that case just use more of everything else or not quite all the pasta.
1 cup coarsely grated Parmesan cheese
1 T lemon juice
10 oz. package frozen peas
Put the water on for the pasta.
While it heats, cut the prosciutto into tiny cubes. Brown it in a skillet.
Add the oil and garlic to the skillet, cook until garlic browns a bit.
Meanwhile cook the pasta. When it has about 3 minutes left, dump the frozen peas in with it. Drain all that and put it back in the pot.
Mix in the prosciutto, garlic, and oil, and add the cheese and lemon juice.
Voila. Not fancy, but tasty, and I like dishes with the veggies already in 'em.
In any case it's been a while since I told you what we've had for dinner, and I can tell you're dying to know but you're too polite to ask.
OK, maybe not. But here's a quick, easy meal that my girls love:
Rotini with Prosciutto and Peas
1/4 lb. prosciutto -- I get the least expensive kind, cut in one slice. Some deli folks are better than others at judging how big a slice makes 1/4 lb. It doesn't matter precisely how much you end up with. A "heavy quarter" or a third is fine.
3 T extra virgin olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
14.5 oz box rotini -- I use Barilla's multigrain. Other brands come in 1 lb. boxes so in that case just use more of everything else or not quite all the pasta.
1 cup coarsely grated Parmesan cheese
1 T lemon juice
10 oz. package frozen peas
Put the water on for the pasta.
While it heats, cut the prosciutto into tiny cubes. Brown it in a skillet.
Add the oil and garlic to the skillet, cook until garlic browns a bit.
Meanwhile cook the pasta. When it has about 3 minutes left, dump the frozen peas in with it. Drain all that and put it back in the pot.
Mix in the prosciutto, garlic, and oil, and add the cheese and lemon juice.
Voila. Not fancy, but tasty, and I like dishes with the veggies already in 'em.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Miss Spelled
I'm a very good speller. I don't say this to brag, because it ain't braggin' if it's true, but also because I don't think it's an indication of intelligence or anything except that I happen to be able to do it. It's a knack. Some of the smartest people I know, way smarter than I, can't spell for beans.
But here are some words that just don't come automatically, and always make me pause, if only for a split second.
zucchini
broccoli
occasionally
embarrassed
It's the double letters.
(I know: Most. Boring. Post. Ever.)
But here are some words that just don't come automatically, and always make me pause, if only for a split second.
zucchini
broccoli
occasionally
embarrassed
It's the double letters.
(I know: Most. Boring. Post. Ever.)
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Lost in Translation
Not the movie, though I liked it better than the paid critics did.
I recently had reason to read Psalm 23. I can't remember the reason, I've since been distracted. That happens a lot. I'll be thinking about something, then reminded of something else I've always wondered and go to look it up and find something else interesting, then get an email about something else entirely, and so on. That's not counting interruptions. Mr. Sandy sometimes calls me Dory.
"Look, something shiny!" Where?
OK, it was nothing.
Anyway. I have two Bibles: the Good News Bible I was given at my confirmation, which calls itself "today's English version," and a very cheaply bound King James version which I bought when I needed a Bible to look up some other long-forgotten thing, and hadn't yet retrieved my confirmation one from my parents' house.
Anyway, anyway. Psalm 23 in the KJ Bible reads thusly:
Compare to the Good News version:
Good grief! "I have everything I need"? That sounds like something you'd say to the waiter, or the nurse.
Who could have thought it was a good idea to water down the incomparable "yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death"? Who thought we needed "rod and staff" clarified and so added the gratuitous "shepherd's" to it? Who did away with the lovely "my cup runneth over"?!
Bah.
Instead of "today's English," they should just have subtitled it "for today's morons."
Note to churches: why talk down to kids with the Good News Bible? High school students read more poetry than most grownups, and there's no reason they shouldn't get the good stuff.
I recently had reason to read Psalm 23. I can't remember the reason, I've since been distracted. That happens a lot. I'll be thinking about something, then reminded of something else I've always wondered and go to look it up and find something else interesting, then get an email about something else entirely, and so on. That's not counting interruptions. Mr. Sandy sometimes calls me Dory.
"Look, something shiny!" Where?
OK, it was nothing.
Anyway. I have two Bibles: the Good News Bible I was given at my confirmation, which calls itself "today's English version," and a very cheaply bound King James version which I bought when I needed a Bible to look up some other long-forgotten thing, and hadn't yet retrieved my confirmation one from my parents' house.
Anyway, anyway. Psalm 23 in the KJ Bible reads thusly:
Lovely, right? Lyrical. Powerful.The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou annointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
Compare to the Good News version:
The Lord is my shepherd; I have everything I need.
He lets me rest in fields of green grass and leads me to quiet pools of fresh water.
He gives me new strength.
He guides me in the right paths, as he has promised.
Even if I go through the deepest darkness, I will not be afraid, Lord, for you are with me.
Your shepherd's rod and staff protect me.
You prepare a banquet for me, where all my enemies can see me;
you welcome me as an honored guest and fill my cup to the brim.
I know that your goodness and love will be with me all my life;
and your house will be my home as long as I live.
Good grief! "I have everything I need"? That sounds like something you'd say to the waiter, or the nurse.
Who could have thought it was a good idea to water down the incomparable "yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death"? Who thought we needed "rod and staff" clarified and so added the gratuitous "shepherd's" to it? Who did away with the lovely "my cup runneth over"?!
Bah.
Instead of "today's English," they should just have subtitled it "for today's morons."
Note to churches: why talk down to kids with the Good News Bible? High school students read more poetry than most grownups, and there's no reason they shouldn't get the good stuff.
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