Saturday, January 31, 2004
Update: Czech, not Slovakian. In addition to revisionist family history, mom also specializes in very poor geopolitics.
Now I'm Slovakian?
I sent mom and e-mail the other day telling her I was going to Bratislava after Vienna. She wrote back telling me I'd be visiting the motherland. Since when, I'd like to know. When I was growing up, her side of the family's ancestry was dull but at least straightforward: Grandpa's family was Dutch, grandma's German. It was a stolid, blonde contrast to my dad's side, which is a hopeless mess of all things British Isles with more German and god knows what else. In the last 10 years, mom's mom has added Austrian and French to the mix. Suddenly Slovakia comes in out of nowhere.
On the plus side, it might explain my affinity for pork products and cabbage.
I sent mom and e-mail the other day telling her I was going to Bratislava after Vienna. She wrote back telling me I'd be visiting the motherland. Since when, I'd like to know. When I was growing up, her side of the family's ancestry was dull but at least straightforward: Grandpa's family was Dutch, grandma's German. It was a stolid, blonde contrast to my dad's side, which is a hopeless mess of all things British Isles with more German and god knows what else. In the last 10 years, mom's mom has added Austrian and French to the mix. Suddenly Slovakia comes in out of nowhere.
On the plus side, it might explain my affinity for pork products and cabbage.
Friday, January 30, 2004
My grandmother's 80th birthday is coming up, and it's turned into a four-alarm emergency for the Michigan family if the the letters I'm getting are any indication.
There's the Optional Breakfast, followed by the Mandatory Smile-Time Happy Fun Party, followed by Mandatory Family Portraits and Genetic Counseling, then optional Drunken Bitterness and Domestic Squabbling. OK, so I'm making up the genetic counseling, but it would probably be advisable for anyone who recently married into the clan.
My mom and aunt and grandmother and my most Martha-esque cousin have been working for months on what amounts to exactly the same formula applied to every other holiday -- everyone gets together in grandma's condo building basement rec room, puts on their nose bag of plain Lay's potato chips, swills warm store-brand soda out of plastic cups, and eats bar cookies. For this I'm flying six hours each way with stopovers in Detroit and Minneapolis, in the middle of February.
My total time there is less than 48 hours. In the same way that you're OK with donating blood to the Red Cross as long as you haven't spent more than six months total in Europe, I figure I'm ok to comingle with normal society despite this trip. Sarah isn't coming because, well, I love her.
The most bizarre part is the photo shoot. They've lined up Olan Mills or some other company that does those generic mottled-gray-background church directory photos for a family portrait. The photocopied letter I received last night had five whole pages devoted to appropriate clothing style (there's a specific bullet point about not wearing brown shoes with a black suit), color scheme, arrival time, and even a tentative line-up for the big group shot. It includes a spot for Sarah, which is nice, and we're next to each other, but we're in the back row, which is otherwise inhabited 100% by my male cousins or the husbands of my female cousins. I'm not sure what's implied, or if we'd get a better arrangement if we quick popped out a kid, or what. If we're lucky, the day will be made complete by the photographer getting my gender wrong and me doing a boob thrust in front of 30 shell-shocked relatives wearing complementary navy and burgundy sweaters.
There's the Optional Breakfast, followed by the Mandatory Smile-Time Happy Fun Party, followed by Mandatory Family Portraits and Genetic Counseling, then optional Drunken Bitterness and Domestic Squabbling. OK, so I'm making up the genetic counseling, but it would probably be advisable for anyone who recently married into the clan.
My mom and aunt and grandmother and my most Martha-esque cousin have been working for months on what amounts to exactly the same formula applied to every other holiday -- everyone gets together in grandma's condo building basement rec room, puts on their nose bag of plain Lay's potato chips, swills warm store-brand soda out of plastic cups, and eats bar cookies. For this I'm flying six hours each way with stopovers in Detroit and Minneapolis, in the middle of February.
My total time there is less than 48 hours. In the same way that you're OK with donating blood to the Red Cross as long as you haven't spent more than six months total in Europe, I figure I'm ok to comingle with normal society despite this trip. Sarah isn't coming because, well, I love her.
The most bizarre part is the photo shoot. They've lined up Olan Mills or some other company that does those generic mottled-gray-background church directory photos for a family portrait. The photocopied letter I received last night had five whole pages devoted to appropriate clothing style (there's a specific bullet point about not wearing brown shoes with a black suit), color scheme, arrival time, and even a tentative line-up for the big group shot. It includes a spot for Sarah, which is nice, and we're next to each other, but we're in the back row, which is otherwise inhabited 100% by my male cousins or the husbands of my female cousins. I'm not sure what's implied, or if we'd get a better arrangement if we quick popped out a kid, or what. If we're lucky, the day will be made complete by the photographer getting my gender wrong and me doing a boob thrust in front of 30 shell-shocked relatives wearing complementary navy and burgundy sweaters.
Thursday, January 29, 2004
I was getting dressed the other morning when Sarah issued a fashion edict from the comfort of the bed where she was gradually working around to consciousness. "That flannel shirt can no longer leave the house. It is now a wood-hauling shirt."
It was my best flannel, too, a purple plaid number from the Gap circa 1996. OK, I realize the description is probably damning... This leaves me with exactly no publically acceptable flannel, which was probably Sarah's intent all along.
Further inspection of the closet revealed no fewer than three variations on grey or black v-neck sweaters, four if you count the sweater vest; multiple khaki pants; an abundance of oxfords; and a veritable rainbow of polo shirts for summer, most of which will be too large by the time the weather warms up.
It might, I concede, be time for some new clothes. For once, it's not a bad thing. Much of the obsolescence is related to having lost a lot of weight -- the interim khakis now hang off me, and sweaters that once hid my own bulk are now just... bulky. Time to shop.
It was my best flannel, too, a purple plaid number from the Gap circa 1996. OK, I realize the description is probably damning... This leaves me with exactly no publically acceptable flannel, which was probably Sarah's intent all along.
Further inspection of the closet revealed no fewer than three variations on grey or black v-neck sweaters, four if you count the sweater vest; multiple khaki pants; an abundance of oxfords; and a veritable rainbow of polo shirts for summer, most of which will be too large by the time the weather warms up.
It might, I concede, be time for some new clothes. For once, it's not a bad thing. Much of the obsolescence is related to having lost a lot of weight -- the interim khakis now hang off me, and sweaters that once hid my own bulk are now just... bulky. Time to shop.
The poor dogs were trapped in the house from 7 a.m. to 11:30 p.m. yesterday with no relief ... and the carpet was unsullied. We stayed in the city after work for a concert, and forgot until too late that Sarah's dad was at a cowboy poetry festival in Nevada and wouldn't get our request to let the boys out. (He's neither a cowboy nor a poet, and he can't bear to let other people tell stories if there's a chance he could be talking, but it's an annual pilgrimage nonetheless.)
The concert featured Eddie From Ohio, a longtime favorite band from Virginia. It's the fifth time we've seen them in California since I moved here, and I could listen to them all night.
Seen on 3rd Street, near the convention center: Four people in blue button-down shirts with the word "BIG" stitched over the pocket. One was about four feet tall. I hardly ever laugh out loud at strangers on the street, and I waited until they passed, but ... hee.
The concert featured Eddie From Ohio, a longtime favorite band from Virginia. It's the fifth time we've seen them in California since I moved here, and I could listen to them all night.
Seen on 3rd Street, near the convention center: Four people in blue button-down shirts with the word "BIG" stitched over the pocket. One was about four feet tall. I hardly ever laugh out loud at strangers on the street, and I waited until they passed, but ... hee.
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
This should be pretty easy to clean up.
create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.
create your own visited states map
or check out these Google Hacks.
I made beef short ribs over the weekend using this recipe. Uncooked, the sauce with its multiple smoked chiles was like liquid hell, but after three hours in the oven and a couple days of mellowing quietly in the refrigerator, it was completely tame by the time we finally ate it last night. Sarah pronounced it delicious, then immediately gave me grief over having given away the rest of the short ribs we got with this year's cow.
More examples of bad casual carpool etiquette:
--Dippy Smiling Couple. They always want to ride together, and the sight of a string of cars that only need one rider each sends them into a panic. They're slow to part, lingering on the sidewalk and perhaps contemplating some quick procreation on the spot so they can one day be their own high-occupancy vehicle. When they eventually do climb into a waiting car, they show a disturbing unfamiliarity with seatbelt mechanics.
--Bullnosed 50-something Guy. We were the second car in the line this morning, behind a two-door Tercel with no passengers. He sidestepped it and got into ours instead, a huge breach of carpool manners. The extra 30-second wait to find a second rider, coupled with the indignity of folding into the back seat, apparently was too much.
--Fragrant woman. Fat unwashed old lady smell. It lingers. Toiletry powders don't mask so much as comingle.
More examples of bad casual carpool etiquette:
--Dippy Smiling Couple. They always want to ride together, and the sight of a string of cars that only need one rider each sends them into a panic. They're slow to part, lingering on the sidewalk and perhaps contemplating some quick procreation on the spot so they can one day be their own high-occupancy vehicle. When they eventually do climb into a waiting car, they show a disturbing unfamiliarity with seatbelt mechanics.
--Bullnosed 50-something Guy. We were the second car in the line this morning, behind a two-door Tercel with no passengers. He sidestepped it and got into ours instead, a huge breach of carpool manners. The extra 30-second wait to find a second rider, coupled with the indignity of folding into the back seat, apparently was too much.
--Fragrant woman. Fat unwashed old lady smell. It lingers. Toiletry powders don't mask so much as comingle.
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
I was so happy that Timmy actually slept through the night (or else I slept through his whining) that I forgive him for whipping my head with his tail while I put on my shoes this morning. He went out around 9:30 p.m. and that seemed to do it for him, last night at least. Can we try for two, please, buddy, please?
Monday, January 26, 2004
Small rant, one that might earn some flames:
"Old souls." I don't believe in them. Someone was ranting online about it today, doing the text equivalent of heavy, dramatic sighing about the weight he must endure being an old soul, all the experience and wisdom of multiple lifetimes both a burden and a blessing. Or some such codswollop. Not that I'm ruling out the possibility of reincarnation and so on, but some folks spend way too much time listening to the Indigo Girls belt out "Galileo" and looking for new ways to become self-important.
People, you're not that wise, you're taking yourself way too seriously, and you're really not impressing anyone. And, frankly, if you *are* an old soul, it probably means you've spent the last several lives fucking up repeatedly, and no one should listen to you anyway. *whap*
/end rant.
"Old souls." I don't believe in them. Someone was ranting online about it today, doing the text equivalent of heavy, dramatic sighing about the weight he must endure being an old soul, all the experience and wisdom of multiple lifetimes both a burden and a blessing. Or some such codswollop. Not that I'm ruling out the possibility of reincarnation and so on, but some folks spend way too much time listening to the Indigo Girls belt out "Galileo" and looking for new ways to become self-important.
People, you're not that wise, you're taking yourself way too seriously, and you're really not impressing anyone. And, frankly, if you *are* an old soul, it probably means you've spent the last several lives fucking up repeatedly, and no one should listen to you anyway. *whap*
/end rant.
Sunday, January 25, 2004
A shout out to Carolyn Anderson, mother of my high school friend Devanie. Apparently they both read this. Devanie was in town this weekend for a conference and we caught up on hometown gossip, such as it was. And another shout to Tom, Devanie's husband, because we're hoping he'll photograph the wedding.
The greyhound sleep standoff continues unabated. I've tried tucking him in with a blanket to reinforce the idea that he's supposed to sack out, to no avail. Perhaps concussing him...
The greyhound sleep standoff continues unabated. I've tried tucking him in with a blanket to reinforce the idea that he's supposed to sack out, to no avail. Perhaps concussing him...
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