Don't mean to hurt your felines...

The other night I wished a pox upon our cat. By the way, I'm home today because I didn't sleep a wink last night, and consequently felt like total crap this morning. Yep, I battled with the no-sleep demons until nearly 4am, then my alarm went of at 5:55...so I opted to stay home and rest insted of pushing it, and consequently getting sick for the next 2 busy weeks ahead.

Back to the kitty. She has periods when she's absolutely horrendous - unprovoked attacks, and she has bitten me hard enough to puncture the little meaty part near my thumb. This means she's the devil. So that one night, I kind of vented on Facebook, and I fear now the public might thing I'm going to kill, or at least severely maim, a cat before the end of 2010. No, no, no, I won't. But I will imagine what it would be like to hurl one off a skyscraper. Would it land on its feet? Aw, too bad.

She has cute moments. I think she read my Facebook status though, and realized she's on probation. The past 2 days she has been treating me like...well, like I'm the special kitty (she's smart!). She's all rubby and purry and following me around constantly and chattering at me like she's saying, "OMG LOVE your hair today! Where'd you get those cute shoes? Can I have a treat?"

So we are on speaking terms once more. I am considering having her declawed...yea, I'm well aware that it's not as accepted anymore and even considered cruel, but we've already sterilized her against her will even though the chances of her getting preggers were pretty much zero...so...you know...whatever. Besides, declawing her would increase her chances of survival as a serf in my kingdom. If she ruins a couch, then she can kiss my hospitality goodbye. Taking action to prevent such an unpleasant turn of events is actually kind, right?

Encouraged

Our house was shown to a prospective buyer this morning, on its 12th day on the market, and the feedback from our realtor (as well the buyer's) was very good. They would like to come back next week to see it again! We're feeling optimistic for now, so we'll try to enjoy it.

It has been a tough and exhausting week, but the house is spotless and in the most perfect condition it has ever been. We'll have to continue living in museum-like perfection for a while, but I don't mind.

Today was a slow work day - a welcome break as the Spring semester closes. Tomorrow is Commencement, so I do have to come to work on a Saturday, which always sucks. So I thought I might take advantage of the slow day and take a long lunch w/ pedicure. My poor footsies have really taken a beating lately, and I've neglected them. I thought the pedi would be relaxing and rewarding. I called four salons in this dinky little town, and there were no appointments available - not because they're booked, but because apparently they all share a traveling manicurist that rotates through every other week or something insanely inadequate like that. Maybe I'll try my luck this weekend in O-town. They really are a mess.

But back to the house - send positive vibes this direction that these buyers put in a sound offer, and very soon - the quicker we can secure this, the quicker we can solidify the contract we have on the dream home....

xoxo to my peeps

Against Texting: A Polemic

If you recognized my title as biting off acknowledging Kipnis' work, then Good for You, hee hee. If not, that's ok. It's not that relevant here, it's just a good title.
Maybe this won't turn out to be as controversial to some, however, there are those that would roll their eyes. So roll them and enjoy the sensation, cause you're about to get schooled, bitches. I say this with love of course.


First, let's get some things straight:


I don't abhor texting.
I can appreciate its usefulness in a variety of situations, like, for example, when you're in a loud environment and it's hard to hear, or when you're in an audience and can't talk and you need to communicate with someone outside the venue, or just generally when you need (and need is a relative term here) to communicate with someone, and calling them and flapping your gums is just not a good option. I've done it. I do it sometimes.

I'm admittedly not very good at texting.
Part of the reason is that we don't have a text plan, and my phone does not have one of those tiny keyboards made especially for easy texting, so I don't get a lot of practice. Sure, I've received and sent texts, but the whole process is time consuming and dumb to me, unless calling is simply not a good option.


I am not a luddite. Yea, I know my last name might have you think otherwise. Ha-ha. But seriously, I love progress and change and I love new technology. I have a significant on-line presence. Goodness, I like to go into the Mac stores just to cry, people...and, finally, I get paid to work in an on-line environment. OK? Just so we are square.


Since I'm not coming from a place of ignorance or anti-tech, and I do not necessarily subscribe to some of the recent whining out there, I hope you can be open to my forthcoming rant.
Let's start with two situations in which texting is completely and utterly unacceptable:




Texting while driving.
Really, you can call me old or a nervous nelly or whatever, but texting and driving is probably about the stupidest and most irresponsible driving related thing a person can do besides driving under the influence. I can deal with taking calls, or even making one...but texting while driving is Reckless. I don't care if you're an expert stunt driver. Just freakin talk. What's the big emergency? I mean, it's SO important, it came via a text that you have to check while you're going 75...and text back. It's kind of juvenile. You may as well crack open a beer. Hell, why don't you just whip out your laptop and blog?
I have been in cars with drivers checking and sending texts. Constantly. I was so offended, so freaked out...and yes, their driving was pretty damned scary as a result. I didn't say anything, and now I regret it. I don't plan on riding with these particular people anymore, and unfortunately, am not impressed with them.


Texting when I'm fucking talking to you.
I'm not sure I got all the feeling across here...what do you think? It has happened to me. It's offensive. I'm not talking about a casual check...that's not really a big deal. And if you must stop our conversation and excuse yourself? Fine. No problem. I'm talking about someone in my physical presence that is actually reading and actively texting back while purportedly listening to me, saying, "No, go ahead, I'm listening [click-click-click]" Are you kidding me? Inevitably they gloss over with the "uh-huh" and, "I'm sorry, what was that again?" Fuck you, that's what I said.

Phew, that felt good. I apologize for the F-bombs, gentle readers, but they help this girl sometimes.

And now onto the more philosophical argument:

I can understand the temptation to check your phone a lot, especially if it has all the latest apps...but I don't understand the need to text and practically have a side texting conversation when you are with people and the group is talking. Even if no one is talking to you, specifically. You can't wait till you get home? Or until you can step away? Maybe this is the case sometimes...but really? Honestly? You're not the President, and your friends and family aren't either. If you must, just excuse yourself, just as you would if your phone actually RANG and you were going to talk to someone. Let me stress that I am not talking about a quick read/reply, I'm talking about sentences.

To me, the person engrossed in texting is totally checked out and will never pick up on nuances or subtleties of the given situation. Never. And really, that's what it's all about a lot of times, right? How do we get instincts? How do we build trust? Respect? Understanding? We engage and listen to one another, even if we don't want to be there. It's about subtlety and eye contact and nuance. That's how humans relate. It's about being present, as trite as that sounds.

The same argument could be made about someone being on the phone...but there is a difference...people typically know you are on the phone. They can hear you, see you holding it to your ear...there is a consciousness and understanding among others that you are not fully engaged. With texting, it's often kinda sneaky, for example, someone says something rather important, and you realize that a person that's supposed to be part of the situation has been looking down, texting and pretending to listen. It's a little gross. It irritates me and I want to stab them.

Arguments could be made that people who daydream or doodle are not present as well, but this is not the case. Doodling can actually help a person stay focused where they may otherwise drift off. Daydreaming takes you away, but it uses your other capacities, not your left-brain...you're not locked into looking at a small screen, typing and focusing upon another entirely different situation, conversation, and person. And daydreaming doesn't make you look rude.

I am closing this abruptly. No conclusion. This post was exhausting. I wonder how long it would take me to text it.

To serve and protect

One of my dream professions is to be a high-end shoe designer. The closest I ever came was my first job out of college, working as a peon one floor below real-life shoe designers. Sometimes I'd end up in the same elevator and I would size them up, with their funky accessories and ridiculous hair that would never pass as acceptable in my little sea of cubicles. What was that about? Same company but different department dress codes? Oh, the unspoken freedoms of the artsy types - they can get away with anything...and yet there was a small part of me that wanted to dye my hair blond and magenta and wear horn-rimmed spectacles and pulpy fashions.

At this point in my life, however, the closest I'll ever come to being a shoe designer is to appoint myself a Patrolman (Patrolwoman? Patrolperson? How about Officer?) of the Shoe Police. That's right, it's the Shoe Police, Hippie - drop your Birks and freeze!

Summer is by far the busiest season for someone in my line of work. There's nothing like balmy weather to make people think it's OK to walk around carelessly in questionable footwear.

Clearly, I cannot control what you wear around the house, but don't think that I don't care...I do. I think about how your (well not yours, but people's - mostly women's) feet look in those grubby, rotting slides and it makes me sad. I cringe to picture otherwise normal looking toes look monstrous and disproportionate as they splay out the front of ill fitting sandals.

There are probably a dozen or more serious shoe-related offenses in my book, but the two that upset me the most will be the focus of this post. Please avoid the following footwear mistakes, and please, pass this one to your loved ones. Only you can put a stop to bad footwear choices. Protecting us all from such ugliness is a service to your community and to the greater beauty of the world.

Offense #1

I have termed this "The Gargoyle Effect"

It can happen with sandals, open toe, and peep-toe styles. Basically, the wearer's foot is sliding forward, and her toes appear to "grab" the front edge of the shoe...like a gargoyle would wrap its claws around the edge of a building so as not to plummet to its death.

Notice the gargoyle's "toes" here:

Now, notice that this woman pictured below has perfectly normal, manicured feet (by the way, I hate french manicure on toes - it's creepy), however, her sandals are way too dainty for her feet, and so her toes are clawing at them, giving her the Gargoyle Effect:


Just for future reference, don't google "toes" and stuff like that without having your filter on...let's just say that people are really into this stuff in, in a more than Shoe Police way. So anyway, unless you want me to think of you as the demonic stone effigy above, avoid this mistake.

Before I go on to my next offense, I just want to show you this picture - it's like an insane example of crazy bad footwear plus Gargoyle Effect plus disgustingly long toenails (another offense, we'll cover that one another time).


Offense #2
I'm calling this the "Senseless Strap"
This is also a seasonal offense, as it is only physically possible with open sandals and slides. It is a more subtle offense, but once you understand its basic principle, you will never again make this mistake, and you will spot it everywhere.
The strap at the top of the foot should always be across the toes, and should lay over the very bottoms of the toes, thus creating a visually straight line across the toe area. This gives the toes (no matter how short & chubby or long & gnarly) a more uniform and cute appearance. Criss-cross straps that make the V shape, or straps that are even slightly concave (when you look down, the bottom of the curve is facing you) expose too much of the top of the foot, revealing the uneven toe line, and if you know anything about beauty, symmetry is everything. This rule does not apply to flip flops (I have another set of rules for flip flops). Generally speaking, however, unless you have very attractive, perfect feet, you should try to stick to straight across straps that hit the top of the foot/toes at the right place when buying slides or sandals.

This is hard to explain, so some pictures will help:

These are BAD - see how the strap line is concave? Yes, these are ugly guy feet/sandals, but they are a great example. Slide sandals (beach and sport type) are often cut this way, or they criss cross, just creating more of a V than a U, but the ugly effect is the same, as in the Lands End beach slide.

These below, on the other hand, are good - see how the strap is more forward, going across the toes?
Yea, those are mine. I wasn't satisfied with my web search. You can see that my toes are more on the skinny/long side, so image if those straps were concave, or sat higher up on the foot...my toes would look disproportionate and weird. Finally, I should add that this offense can happen with flat, casual and sporty sandals as well as high heeled and dressy sandals.

So after writing this post, I decided to create another blog devoted solely to shoes I like. Stay tuned...

I spit on football

There's not that many things I would change about Tim, but if I could change a few things, liking football would be one. He plays fantasy football (he won in his 'league' or whatever it's called) and coincidentally, he was neck in neck for first place with none other than Angie's husband, Graig. To make things fair, he'll have to use his winnings to take me out.
But really, that's not a big deal, except that he wouldn't be playing fantasy football if he didn't follow the moronic game in the first place. In reality, Tim will turn off the game if I complain enough (I can't even stand the sound of it in the background), and I suppose that in comparison to some men, he's not fanatical. So you see, I actually have an opportunity to slowly destroy his inclination toward following it - at least at home. I don't care if he reads the scores somewhere on his own time.

College ball doesn't annoy me that much - it's really the NFL and professional football. So what's my big problem with it? To start, there's the images the sport brings up for me:

-skanky cheerleaders that pretend to like the game, when really, they just like the attention from the guys

-chicks that wear football jerseys to sports bars and act like they're one of the guys and hi-five and actually follow the plays like they have an intimate understanding. i guess they just weren't pretty enough to be cheerleaders

-commercials suggesting that if you're not at or throwing a super bowl party, you're not American

-it makes guys in groups act like morons. testosterone stinking morons.

-lumpy, frumpy Midwesterners

-mustaches and belching

-pizza hut

So that's the main imagery that ruins it for me. From an ethical standpoint, being a fan of professional football (and other professional sports) wouldn't be so bad if it didn't feed into the disgusting amounts of money these people make - from the athletes to the investors and owners, to the advertisers, and on. I'm not innocent here - I like watching basketball (but I prefer college bball), and I while I don't exactly enjoy watching baseball, I don't mind it because it's classic to me - the REAL Americana sport. It's dignified, really. Because it's on during the summer, the background sound of baseball is soothing to me. In contrast, pro football is peaking during the harshest winter months, adding to its awfulness, with its screaming drunk fans and noise and ugliness. Sometimes I think everyone is pretending to like it. Even the guys.

Of mice and men and women

Tonight I'm planting some bait, but not setting the traps. I must let it believe that the aromatic little clump of peanut butter is free, safe, and totally up for grabs. According to the articles found during my recent (frantic) Internet searches, you don't want to have a trap shy mouse, so you let it live the good life for a day or two, leading it to think the traps are just interesting serving pieces.

The weekend before Christmas, I lay in bed and watched a tiny field mouse that had been in our bedroom wall gradually scrape its way out from a small gap under the door jamb. Of course I was horrified, but just like passing a car accident, you have to stare. The day before it squeezed itself out, I'd naively set a trap right next to the gap, confident that when Mouse eventually popped out, it would walk directly into the trap. This was not to be. Mouse slid out, and I watched, paralyzed, as it trotted right past the damned trap and into the dark hallway. I was expecting Tim to be home from work any minute, so I called his cell and screamed in a whisper, "It's innnn the houuuussssssse!"

As he came up the stairs, I directed him to shut Sam's door and get busy finding this evil intruder. We saw it dart through the shadows a couple of times, then go into the bathroom. Tim put the trap in the bathroom with him and shut the door. Obviously I could not fall asleep knowing Mouse was alive and kickin it mousy-style in the bathroom. Would he be trapped by morning or would he be waiting to attack me in the shower and eat my face off? A little while later, I thought I heard the trap, and Tim said (with a hint of condescension?), "Do you want me to go check?" Um. Well, let's see... if you care at all for my welfare and mental health, and protecting the mother of your child from face-eating vermin, you will get up and go check. Duh.

Tim was in the bathroom for a while. After hearing two flushes and contemplating if I should get the broom and swoop in for a hysterical rescue, he finally came back to bed. Apparently, Mouse was in the tub, cornered. Tim doused him with shampoo (the good stuff, not the Suave--sigh) and Mouse started to run around the tub. He quickly got sudsy and began sneezing. Have you ever heard a mouse sneeze? Tim threw a hand towel over him and flushed him. The second flush was just a pee. I questioned both the sanity and possible sanitation laws broken in flushing a mouse down the toilet, but he assured me that it was cool. Ew.

A few days passed and things were quiet. Last night we heard some distant scratching somewhere in the walls, but nothing nearby or alarming. I should tell you that while I have realized that mice are a normal part of life, that they get into every house eventually, both old and new, and that they are not generally a huge problem if kept under control and out of the food and living areas, I am still revolted by them and struggle with the thought that I might be a scumbag-trashy-dirty person with vermin in her house. Of course if a friend had the occasional winter time mouse problem I would never think that of them- we are our own worst critics. I think it's in part due to my blissfully unaware childhood. We either never had mice, or my parents never discussed them with me. I do remember my mom once saw a mouse near the door when we lived in Italy, and she had my grandmother chase it out the door and off the balcony. Splat! Bottom line is that until we moved into this house, my mouse credentials were rather thin.

Despite the relative quiet, I was having trouble falling asleep last night. Around midnight, I decided to try some warm milk (and one Benadryl, for sport). Went downstairs, and as I'm heading into the kitchen I saw an unmistakable silhouette scurry across the dining room floor and into the kitchen. I was barefoot. BAREFOOT. I'm never barefoot! I didn't scream, but my gasp was so sharp that it made me cough. I ran back upstairs and woke Tim. This was a disaster of enormous proportion. We both went back down and looked around. Didn't see anything. We laid a couple of glue traps and went to bed. I eventually fell asleep, comforted by the thought of getting a cat.

This morning there was nothing in the traps. Tim had already started using poison in the basement and repellents outside; he feels this particular mouse getting inside is a fluke and not a sign of infestation--but I'm not yet convinced. We went off to work. I wasn't very productive, and spent a good chunk of my morning worrying and chatting. I talked to coworkers and friends about it, and to my relief, everyone has a mouse story. And a bat story. And a chipmunk story. It does help me feel better - but I still want them all dead-diggidy-dead.

One of my coworkers, Cheryl, volunteers for the local humane society in her spare time and is very knowledgeable about animals, so I talked to her about a cat. I generally don't love cats, but last night I'd decided that I could learn to love one that keeps my house mouse free - in my opinion, the only way to have a symbiotic relationship with the Feline Freaks. I'm glad I asked her because now I know I don't want a cat to tackle this problem: If I did get lucky and adopted an effective predatory cat, it may actually EAT the mice it kills or eat PARTS of them! What?? Seriously?! I think my stomach virus just returned. And I thought cats eating mice was just Tom & Jerry fodder! Cheryl advised me that if I couldn't handle finding these 'presents' I should reconsider the cat solution...Yea, not only would I not be able to handle such gifts, but I would likely not stop screaming until they came to take me away. Thanks for preventing a tragedy, Cheryl!

She recommended traps - the old fashioned simple spring kind that kill instantly, Victor brand. Tim had looked at those, but ended up with some glue traps instead. She curled her nose and said she didn't like glue traps because it's awful to see the mouse stuck on the pad, and if you don't kill it yourself before you dispose of it, it dies from stress and starvation. That sounds fabulously appropriate to me. Don't mess with me, little f!&*!rs.

So I read up on the best ways to use traps. A common mistake is to not put out enough, even if just for one mouse. I felt prepared as I left work and headed straight to WalMart (I know, I know, but seriously, mice deserve only the best). I wanted to get some containers to protect my food items as well.

The Victor traps come four to a package for $1.87. I bought 48 traps. Best to be prepared. I also picked up some steel wool to close up any holes we might find.

While I was dumping the traps into my cart, two women, total strangers, approached me separately with advice. This was also a comfort. One woman had a brand new house with mice. She nodded approvingly at my containers and told me that she made her husband dispose of the bodies. The other complained about another brand of traps, how she made her brother check the traps, and wished me luck. Earlier, on the phone, my mother admitted that about a year ago, my father saw a mouse in the basement and she was horrified to find out that he didn't address it immediately. Women bonding over mice. And men. Chivalry may be long gone, but I still want Tim to protect me from mice. Do you, Timothy, vow to love, cherish and honor her, and also beat the veritable hell out of any mice near her, now and forever, until death do you part?

When I got home, I checked the glue traps again and found nothing. I spent the afternoon thoroughly checking my kitchen and food for evidence of mice, and thankfully, everything looks fine. My cupboards appear to be intact, with no apparent intrusions. I have yet to find droppings anywhere in the house, actually. As a precaution, I put grains, cereals, flours, and open packages of crackers and cookies into the canisters. Here is my awesome arsenal of traps and the containers I picked up for my cupboards:

It was a good project, besides its original justification: I cleaned everything out, wiped down, and reorganized. The contents of my cabinets are pretty and neat, like it's all ready for 2009 or something. Knowing that our food is safe is additional peace of mind until this uh, event, seems more controlled. I've also been assured that mice don't eat people's faces off, unless of course they are really angry or high on PCP.

I believe I might be starting to overcome the fear and turning it into determined rage. Rambo style. I might put on some war paint and a bandanna before I set out the bait. But you know Tim will follow up with the rest.

Blogger's Block 3: Tight skin and more

Maybe we have more in common than you thought. Tonight I'm listing all (or as many as I can think of) the physical feelings I absolutely can't stand. These are not emotions, but more the sensation variety. They can, however, cause wild emotional reactions.

1. The way the skin on my legs feels after shaving - not the smooth part, but the dry, tight feeling. I use moisturizer, but the first dose gets sucked in pretty fast, and a few minutes later, I have to re-lotion, or I will climb the walls. It's such a process. Don't bother with advice like use gel or shave cream or whatever else, cause I have lifelong serious razor burn problems, and trust me, I've tried it all. It's just my lot in life.

2. Dry or rough feet on bed sheets. If my feet feel rough when I get into bed, even just a TOE, I have to get up immediately and either buff and lotion, or just heavily lotion. Smooth feet equals sweet dreams, doesn't everyone know this?

3. I've discussed the eyebrow issue previously, but I'll just give it a nod here cause it's a major thing for me.

4. Cracking skin around finger nails in the cold weather. Seriously WTF is up with that? It's an Oct-March annoyance.

5. Generally tight skin after showering during cold weather months. Even with using good soap and lotion.

Since those were mostly moisture related, I think a solution might be to be dipped in shea butter, wrapped in soft towels, and kept sedated in a warm and humid self-cleaning pod for the duration of the winter months. I just don't think my people were meant to live in these conditions.

6. When suffering a cold, one nostril is stuffed and the other is free. Suddenly, without warning, they switch - or the free one gets stuffed too, and you're so glad you at least have a mouth.

7. Waking up by alarm clock.

8. Waking up by crying baby.

9. Waking up in general.

10. Prematurely swallowing a big pointy piece of cantaloupe and feeling it slowly rip your esophagus down with it.

11. When dental floss pops between your teeth and nicks your gum.

12. The new little shred of hanging flesh behind your front teeth after eating pizza that was too hot. I usually twist it up with my tongue until it rips it off.

13. When you rub your eye too hard and it suddenly feels freaky and you think you might have pushed it in too far.

Old box, new box

No one wants another lecture about consumerism, supporting Main Street, the evils of mega-marts, and the like - not that we don't need to be lectured about this...trust me when I tell you I believe in fair trade, good quality, and ethical sourcing and production. Trust me as I tell you this while my other browser tab is on target.com -I'm looking at curtain panels for the living room.

Big box stores suck me in pretty easily...in some ways they remind me of childhood, wandering Caldor's and Alexander's with my mom. Those were some of the first big stores open in the outskirts of Peekskill.

Before that, I remember that shopping was all about going downtown to Woolworth's and then the big-time: Howland's-Steinbach - all fancy smack in the middle of downtown, with four levels, central escalator, and even elevators with real, actual elevator operators in uniform! It was like old-timey movies but with a late 70s soundtrack. Eventually it went out of business and after years of vacancy, the building was turned into a branch of Westchester County Community College, or as the locals call it, Harvard on the Hudson. Later WCC moved next door to the Woolworth building, and the former Steinbach was taken over by another state branch...ironically, the unemployment office.

Thanks to Ed Horn for the pic of the former Steinbach building, below. The fomer Woolworth building is now a branch of WCCC.

Fast forward to the 2000s. Living in upstate NY with Walmart being the main big-box game in town, I've grown to hate it more and more. Of course I hate what it stands for, its politics, and all that, but honestly, when I really break it down, Walmart has little to offer me outside of cheap and disposable crap. I still go there on occasion, but I make it a point to do it only for very specific situations and items. I always leave with more than I came in for (goodness, I idolize Ralph Nader, but I'm not quite at his level of freak yet...), but at least I can say it's mostly nationally branded stuff that just happens to be priced well at that moment (like Diet Dr. Pepper). As for the rest - food, cosmetics, clothes, and so on? I get those elsewhere. And I don't necessarily spend more. Their slogan is Live Better? I say Live Better than Walmart.

OK, done with that diatribe. So I'm getting to this in a totally roundabout way. Apologies. Keep reading. I have really enjoyed rediscovering the Main Street shopping experience over the past few years - and not just in Oneonta. Oneonta is still troubled with hiccups of empty store fronts and spaces changing hands. In my humble opinion the problem is really a circular little pinch of everything:

From the consumer side, it's lazy people not wanting to find parking and walk (though they'll walk the length of a football field in the Walmart lot), and people just too stuck in the convenience/cheap goods/all-in-one place/more-is-better mindset who never think to check downtown first. Big boxes are a real convenience - and a real threat. It's hard to live without them when they've been able to take over most of your frontal lobe.

From the business side, it's store owners that have to contend with high rents and overhead BUT don't cater to customer schedules (ya, you heard me Razzle Dazzle lady - you SUCK and aren't worthy of the fun stuff in your store), they aren't savvy or creative about advertising, and don't seem to get that if they have a significant, real sale, they will turn over much more inventory and make a profit. Try it. Face it. Your $1 off coupon in the Pennysaver ain't gonna pull me in. Your 'buy 75 at full price and get 5% off the 76th' isn't impressive - it's laughable. Offer a good deal, and you might just sell enough to offset the cost of your pathetic advertising and then you can't complain that your advertisements don't work. It's not the advertising, it's what you're advertising! Ok, sorry, again. There I go playing economist entrepreneur business marketing whiz anger child again. I get like that.

But really, I love Main Streets and I do shop them. Like just this afternoon, I bought some Christmas gifts. And they're unique and cool and you can't get them in Walmart. Or Target. And some were handmade, so the money stays in the community, and doesn't line the pockets of investors and CEOs. Some of the best gifts I've ever received were from small merchants, and some of the most treasured gifts I've given (at least people say they love them) were from small merchants. I'd love to post pictures of what I bought today, but like I said, they are gifts...

I probably won't post again for a week or so. I'm spending most of the weekend finishing my thesis (oh I'll blog about that for sure), and next week we'll be traveling for the holiday and I'm not sure I'll be able to get all bloggy with my bad self. So, Happy Thanksgiving and all that...I'll be back in December!

Organic Guilt

Without going into an examination of the benefits of organics, or its market explosion of the past five years or so, I will reveal that I have been buying organic products (food and cosmetics and household cleaners) on and off since about 1994, making me feel a little bit more qualified than mainstream consumers to whine about the topic.
In college it seemed sort of like a postmodern hippie thing to do, an elitist little secret. Buying handmade soap felt as anti-establishment as getting a tattoo, or at least as anti-establishment as you can get for a state college student in the mid-nineties - occasionally shopping at the local health food store in a thick coat of L'oreal Raisin Rage lipstick and a credit card. It all made sense, didn't it? OK, so that's my back story.
Today if I choose organics, it's in a more purposeful and planned way, taking price and practicality into careful consideration. I'd love to buy 100% organic, sustainable, fair trade all the time, but it's just not financially realistic (I hear a huge uh-huh out there). I mostly stick to the dirty dozen principle, some organic dairy, and natural bath products for Sam. Sorry, that was more back story.
Yesterday I stopped in the Green Earth (Oneonta's health food store) for a few specific items. The cashier gave me a free promotional magazine called, "Delicious Living". I had a chance to look at it this morning, and I realized that every page was yelling at me. Shrill, white, upper-middle class mom's voices rose from each page, condemning me.

--What? You don't buy raw vitamins??
--You don't supplement your child with DHA? His brain will shrivel!
--Non-organic milk is poisoning your family!
--All your produce is devoid of nutrients!

Alright, so these are not exact quotes, but they are pretty much the messages the mag was sending. I started over, from the Editor's page. The red-headed, simple-but-gorgeous Editor is pictured sitting lakeside on a rock (Colorado) wearing hikers and cargo pants, smiling smugly, suggesting,"I'm a natural mom. Why aren't you?" What a bitch.
The next article was something about Argan Oil in skin care. Dump out your olive oil everyone, this one has twice the vitamin E! If you don't use it, you'll look like Phyllis Diller by Tuesday. I also noticed that the photography was so totally blase. You can picture it pretty easily: small ceramic ramekins filled with creamy looking concoctions arranged on a neutral background. Think Clinique ads for the past 2 decades. Groundbreaking work, people.
As I leafed through the rest, it occurred to me that I hadn't seen one non-white woman, man or child...in the whole mag, including the ads. Hmm. Seems like a magazine with such principled values would make an attempt to be more inclusive. See? Snobby Bitches.
This stupid magazine bugged me for the rest of the morning, and I finally figured out why before I sat down to write. It made me feel guilty - on a couple of levels: the most obvious being that I'm somehow not providing enough for my child, or protecting him enough...whichever. On another level, I felt guilty for being a part of all this and paying attention to it, choosing an organic over a regular product - I do not identify with all of these women, and I don't want to be pegged as one....but I want to shop in the Green Earth sometimes. Maybe I'm having an identity crisis.

Before The Storm

Work has been too busy for me (and a lot of others) the past 2 weeks, but it should peak sometime in the next 10 days - of course I love it in part because it's what my job is all about...it would just be nice to have it be paced out better instead of ridiculously intense periods followed by really slow ones. To add to the chaos, I'm also facilitating a course on Monday nights, picked up 2 day sections of Freshman Seminar on Tuesdays and Thursdays respectively (which start next week and I have only 2 weeks of prep done, teeheehee), AND and I'm nervous about starting research and getting my thesis done by December under the overly excited and possibly overbearing guidance of a newly crowned PhD who seems SO excited to be a PhD that she might just drive me to beat her senseless. We'll see. Regardless, the next 16 weeks are expected to be awful.

My mother recently predicted that I'm going to let Sam be in diapers until he's 5. She said exactly, "I know you - you're not gonna get that kid trained till he's 5 years old!" This was after a brief conversation about his inconsistent willingness to sit on his potty or the 'big toilet.'
It wasn't an argument really, but I pointed out that I wondered what evidence she had about my toilet-training abilities seeing as Sam is my first child, and accordingly, the first child I've ever attempted to potty train. That got a laugh.
She believes I'm being too easy on him. This from the woman that still does both my brothers' laundry. I don't see any reason to defend myself here: he's not ready, and when he is, it will happen. I have 33 more months until he's 5.

Brain Snacks

I almost didn't write tonight, but I can't skip an entry so soon into my new challenge. I teach a class on Monday nights, which makes me unavailable for snacking from 6-10pm. Easy night there. My students this session are generally tolerable, but tonight one of them (Mr. Puff My Chest When I Talk) was convinced that a handout was incorrect. He preceded to call it ridiculous and made up. The handout simply outlines some numbers, and it is accurate. I assured him that it is correct and offered him a calculator. He let it go, but he kept his chest puffed the rest of the night. He looked physically uncomfortable, really. I hope he was. I can't deal with people who question common knowledge and widely accepted principles. Can't you just hear them?

"Where do they get these numbers? No one asked me!"

"I don't know about all this gravity business - I just know stuff falls"

"If smoking is so bad for you, how come my grandma smoked 2 packs a day and lived to be 95?"

"All these doctors - they don't know anything. My cousin cured his cancer by eating turkey jerkey"

Sigh. I went straight to bed when I got in, but after 20 minutes or so, my mind is still racing and I hope typing will wind it down and get it into its pajamas.

Pajamas were difficult to include in Sam's routine tonight as well- Tim left me an email describing the evening. In brief, Sam asked to skip his bath and wanted to lie on the floor. He made Tim lie with him, ordering, "close your eyes, daddy". The phone rang and Tim left the room and talked to Allison for 5 minutes - when he returned Sam was out. Completely. Tim took these pictures.

He's never fallen asleep anywhere but a bed or his crib - not even a sofa. He must have been exhausted.

In house news, progress has been agonizingly slow. Today they started siding around the front door. The center is siding (as pictured), but the sides of the porch will be cedar shakes (faux) in an accent color called hearthstone (khaki).

My brain feels slow now and ready for PJs.

Beginning tomorrow, I will be taking another grad course on Tuesday eves. I'll be gone from 4:30-10pm, adding another night of easy snack-avoidance. I'm not too happy that I'll be busy 2 nights in a row (leaving Tim to take care of Sam), but it's for the greater good.
Let's be ghost.*
*Peekskill lingo ca. 1992 for "Let us disappear now, so as not to be seen, akin to vaporous spirits vanishing into the dark night." We used both phrases all the time.

Hate List for the O-peeps

Top 10 Things I Hate About Oneonta, NY

10) Razzle Dazzle’s hours – 9am to 2pm: seriously??

9) Oh look, another tanning salon!

8) 7, 135 dollar stores and counting

7) An hour from Albany, an hour from Binghamton, and an hour from Utica. Ugh.

6) The Eichler’s Seasonal Country Tree

5) J.C. Mini Penney & The Southside Small

4) Brooks BBQ: you know deep down it’s kinda gross

3) Franklin Mountain, mostly in the winter

2) Walmart Super Center

1) People who call it Onee-Ah-Na

Let's learn from our past mistakes

Tanja told me about this - spotted at the Saratoga County Fair. Let's be clear: Saratoga, NY - not in the South. Amazing. She said she didn't see any in there, but just the thought...

Tanja and I are two of the most fashionable people at work - believe it. If you knew what most employees around here dressed like you would understand that it's not that difficult for us to hold that title.

I wore scrunchies for a time in my life, I'll admit it. I even made my own scrunchies at the height of their popularity - I used to work in a fabric store in high school so I had limitless pattern and elastic choices...kind of like... scrunchie heaven. But what terms should stand out here? High School. 1989-1993. Stop the madness.