The other night Lucy made an offhand comment about playing Groovy Girls with Mabel and I resolved once again that I need to play with the girls more. So last night, after dinner, we settled in to play. First we played Smart Mouth, but no matter how hard I try, I can't help winning, plus E can't really participate, though last night was the first time she actually made some words, which was incredibly cool (all names of her friends). Then we played Taradiddle, but E couldn't handle it when we guessed correctly and her nose had to grow, so she announced that it was her game and we couldn't play with it (how classic is that?).
Then, somehow, we segued into Yoga Family. I was the Yoga Mommy, M was the Yoga Two Year Old, and E was the Yoga Baby. I fed them tofu and soy milk and we all did lots of yoga poses. Great fun was had by all. I'm sure we'll keep playing it. I hope it stays fun.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Monday, February 27, 2006
Oh, George
George, George, George, just do it at home!
(Yes, George Michael is another white guy I adore, from Wham to Faith to that coming out song that I can't remember and am too lazy to look up but quite loved.)
Edited to add: And how much more do I adore him for just saying "it is my own stupid fault, as usual," rather than trying to spin.
(Yes, George Michael is another white guy I adore, from Wham to Faith to that coming out song that I can't remember and am too lazy to look up but quite loved.)
Edited to add: And how much more do I adore him for just saying "it is my own stupid fault, as usual," rather than trying to spin.
Pimping my Homies
Some of my favorite real life people have recently started blogging (and I'm not even talking about E, who deserves, in my humble and unbiased opinion, to become an internet phenomenon).
I've already given you enough chances to click on Lucy, but here's one more. She's brilliant.
If you're looking for the insanity (inanity?) of corporate America, Fend for Yourself is your woman.
Postacademic is having a rough time these days, but her prose still sparkles.
I hate to go all Charlotte's Web on you, but I am quite sure that it is a great satisfaction in life to have good friends who are also good writers.
I've already given you enough chances to click on Lucy, but here's one more. She's brilliant.
If you're looking for the insanity (inanity?) of corporate America, Fend for Yourself is your woman.
Postacademic is having a rough time these days, but her prose still sparkles.
I hate to go all Charlotte's Web on you, but I am quite sure that it is a great satisfaction in life to have good friends who are also good writers.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
New Fave Drink
At S's restaurant this evening, Lucy and I had vanilla vodka and root beer. Mmm. Kind of like rum and coke, except completely different. The only problem was we were on the far side of East Coast Big City, so we had to stop at one, and in fact neither of us even finished the one. We decided that M and I should have a sleepover with her and Mabel, and we will drink a gallon of them (vanilla vodka and root beer, not M and Mabel).
And if you're wondering what everyone else drank: Ball and Chain had red wine, M, Mabel and Brother o' Mabel had clementine sodas, E had milk, and we don't know what S had because he was mostly in the kitchen, as he tends to be.
And if you're wondering what everyone else drank: Ball and Chain had red wine, M, Mabel and Brother o' Mabel had clementine sodas, E had milk, and we don't know what S had because he was mostly in the kitchen, as he tends to be.
M's Big Day
At the ripe old age of exactly nine years and nine months, M had her first sleepover.
At the precocious age of exactly nine years and nine months, M baked her first chocolate cake.
Both endeavors succeeded brilliantly. The sleepover involved popcorn, Olympics, much giggling in the guest bed (ok, guest futon on the floor), a few maternal exhortations to sleep, and popovers for breakfast. As for the cake, she and G, her sleepover partner in crime, did everything from picking the recipe (All-American Chocolate Torte* from The Cake Bible) to buying cream for the glaze at the corner store--all I did was boil the water, pour it, put the cake in the oven, and take it out (ok, I also made the glaze, but she and G decorated it with sprinkles and sugar violets!).
All very exciting.
* G's grandmother and I puzzled over why this was a torte. I thought tortes were denser than cakes; she thought they involved layers and custard. Either way, this one seemed a lot like a cake to me, and S says there is no difference, but there must be because the book also has an All-American Chocolate Butter Cake, though I don't remember it being so different from the Torte. Apparently Rose Levy Berenbaum's vision of torte is quite cake-like.
At the precocious age of exactly nine years and nine months, M baked her first chocolate cake.
Both endeavors succeeded brilliantly. The sleepover involved popcorn, Olympics, much giggling in the guest bed (ok, guest futon on the floor), a few maternal exhortations to sleep, and popovers for breakfast. As for the cake, she and G, her sleepover partner in crime, did everything from picking the recipe (All-American Chocolate Torte* from The Cake Bible) to buying cream for the glaze at the corner store--all I did was boil the water, pour it, put the cake in the oven, and take it out (ok, I also made the glaze, but she and G decorated it with sprinkles and sugar violets!).
All very exciting.
* G's grandmother and I puzzled over why this was a torte. I thought tortes were denser than cakes; she thought they involved layers and custard. Either way, this one seemed a lot like a cake to me, and S says there is no difference, but there must be because the book also has an All-American Chocolate Butter Cake, though I don't remember it being so different from the Torte. Apparently Rose Levy Berenbaum's vision of torte is quite cake-like.
Thanks, Libby
Idolspize: EXACTLY how I feel about Ayelet. Except now I have to idolspize Ann Hornaday too...
I Wish I Knew How to Quit You, Ayelet
But apparently I don't. Ayelet Waldman has a new novel, and the media is agog with profiles and reviews that I seem unable to resist. You want proof of my obsession?
East Bay Express
Gothamist
San Francisco Chronicle
New York Times
Pittsburgh Tribune-Review
New York Magazine
USA Today
Yale Daily News
LA Times*
The Oregonian
Washington Post
Newsday
North Bay Bohemian
New York Observer*
*worth reading
Then there's the not-very-good excerpt in Salon or you can go here, search "Ayelet," and find a bunch of psychotic New York moms going off on her. And what the hell, while we're at it, here's Amazon, with the usual collection of passionately unenlightening customer reviews.
But what of the book itself? As I cruised the internet, I couldn't decide what to do. With the last bit of self-respect I still have, I would not let myself buy the hardcover. I considered entering the queue at the library, but didn't have the energy. Wait for the paperback? Did I even really want to read it?
Then, last week, as I pondered my plight, I was saved by my lovely sister-in-law, she who works at the bookstore and provides wonderful bookly gifts like an advance reading copy of the novel (it does have a name: Love and Other Impossible Pursuits), accompanied by a note saying that she saw it on the staff shelf at the bookstore, remembered that I loved Ayelet, and grabbed it for me. I emailed her immediately with profuse thanks, though I did specify that it is not exactly love that I feel for Ayelet, but rather ambivalent obsession.
Reader, I read it. And it was...well, it was ok. Not so bad. Or rather, bad in some ways, but not in others. I'm actually NOT not quite sure about this one. It's just...complicated.
First of all, Ayelet isn't a very good writer, sentence-wise, and that bothers me. I actually had to get a pen (I never write in books in pen, just pencil, but this was an advance reading copy which is not exactly a book, and I couldn't find a pencil, so I decided it was ok) and mark the sentences that just...clunked (not to mention the ones that were grammatically incorrect) (and the typos--Ayelet apparently remains incapable of proofreading) (I found the outrageous number of typos in her mystery series appalling, and, according to Jenny, they are notorious in the mystery-writing world).
Second, too much of the novel is schematic, often to the point of cliche: the nasty ex-wife, the gay best friend, the (explicitly pointed out) congruence between the heroine's marriage and her parents'. (Oh yeah, maybe you don't know what the book is about, not having compulsively followed the media even before you read it. Emilia Greenleaf is passionately in love with her husband, coping with the SIDS death of her two-day-old daughter, and struggling with her impossible stepson: complications ensue.) The schematism comes to a climax, not surprisingly, at the conclusion where everything works out neatly--too neatly: the bad guy does a good thing, Emilia suddenly develops articulate insight and does the right thing, and absolute narrative, thematic, and symbolic closure ensues.
So what's to like? Well, Ayelet has a great eye for the zeitgeist: she captures the expensive New York mommy world, staying, for the most part, just this side of satire (I've seen those women in Central Park at their stroller exercise class). She's good on Central Park too, and there's something about Emilia's combination of narcissism and self-awareness that is interestingly complicated, more complicated than the plot ends up. Her command of narrative structure is increasingly skilled, even if she ultimately capitulates to the simplicity of romance (not that there's anything wrong with romance, if that's what you know you want to be writing--and reading). And the book is, essentially, readable, which I do not mean to damn with faint praise, for too many novels these days are high-minded or important or deep, but not particularly readable.
Virtually all the reviews harp on Emilia's similarity to Ayelet and the thematic links between the novel and her NY Times essay and Oprah appearance (remember? the whole loves her husband more than her children thing?), but that's pretty boring to me. A novel deserves to stand on its own two feet, and this one pretty much does--I read it in two days and kept thinking about it, though that may be because I was so bent on figuring out how I felt about it. Ultimately, I'd say it's not a great novel, perhaps not even good, but certainly better than many, thought-provoking in its flaws and engaging in the social and emotional world it creates, even if that world is deeply privileged and claustrophobic (hey, Trollope wrote mainly about rich, tormented people too, though Ayelet is no Trollope) (nor is she Sue Miller, whom she apparently aspires to be) (but she is herself, carving out her literary corner of 21st-century motherhood, and that's something).
OK, I think I can stop now. And I hope this has gotten Ayelet out of my system--at least till her next book appears.
East Bay Express
Gothamist
San Francisco Chronicle
New York Times
Pittsburgh Tribune-Review
New York Magazine
USA Today
Yale Daily News
LA Times*
The Oregonian
Washington Post
Newsday
North Bay Bohemian
New York Observer*
*worth reading
Then there's the not-very-good excerpt in Salon or you can go here, search "Ayelet," and find a bunch of psychotic New York moms going off on her. And what the hell, while we're at it, here's Amazon, with the usual collection of passionately unenlightening customer reviews.
But what of the book itself? As I cruised the internet, I couldn't decide what to do. With the last bit of self-respect I still have, I would not let myself buy the hardcover. I considered entering the queue at the library, but didn't have the energy. Wait for the paperback? Did I even really want to read it?
Then, last week, as I pondered my plight, I was saved by my lovely sister-in-law, she who works at the bookstore and provides wonderful bookly gifts like an advance reading copy of the novel (it does have a name: Love and Other Impossible Pursuits), accompanied by a note saying that she saw it on the staff shelf at the bookstore, remembered that I loved Ayelet, and grabbed it for me. I emailed her immediately with profuse thanks, though I did specify that it is not exactly love that I feel for Ayelet, but rather ambivalent obsession.
Reader, I read it. And it was...well, it was ok. Not so bad. Or rather, bad in some ways, but not in others. I'm actually NOT not quite sure about this one. It's just...complicated.
First of all, Ayelet isn't a very good writer, sentence-wise, and that bothers me. I actually had to get a pen (I never write in books in pen, just pencil, but this was an advance reading copy which is not exactly a book, and I couldn't find a pencil, so I decided it was ok) and mark the sentences that just...clunked (not to mention the ones that were grammatically incorrect) (and the typos--Ayelet apparently remains incapable of proofreading) (I found the outrageous number of typos in her mystery series appalling, and, according to Jenny, they are notorious in the mystery-writing world).
Second, too much of the novel is schematic, often to the point of cliche: the nasty ex-wife, the gay best friend, the (explicitly pointed out) congruence between the heroine's marriage and her parents'. (Oh yeah, maybe you don't know what the book is about, not having compulsively followed the media even before you read it. Emilia Greenleaf is passionately in love with her husband, coping with the SIDS death of her two-day-old daughter, and struggling with her impossible stepson: complications ensue.) The schematism comes to a climax, not surprisingly, at the conclusion where everything works out neatly--too neatly: the bad guy does a good thing, Emilia suddenly develops articulate insight and does the right thing, and absolute narrative, thematic, and symbolic closure ensues.
So what's to like? Well, Ayelet has a great eye for the zeitgeist: she captures the expensive New York mommy world, staying, for the most part, just this side of satire (I've seen those women in Central Park at their stroller exercise class). She's good on Central Park too, and there's something about Emilia's combination of narcissism and self-awareness that is interestingly complicated, more complicated than the plot ends up. Her command of narrative structure is increasingly skilled, even if she ultimately capitulates to the simplicity of romance (not that there's anything wrong with romance, if that's what you know you want to be writing--and reading). And the book is, essentially, readable, which I do not mean to damn with faint praise, for too many novels these days are high-minded or important or deep, but not particularly readable.
Virtually all the reviews harp on Emilia's similarity to Ayelet and the thematic links between the novel and her NY Times essay and Oprah appearance (remember? the whole loves her husband more than her children thing?), but that's pretty boring to me. A novel deserves to stand on its own two feet, and this one pretty much does--I read it in two days and kept thinking about it, though that may be because I was so bent on figuring out how I felt about it. Ultimately, I'd say it's not a great novel, perhaps not even good, but certainly better than many, thought-provoking in its flaws and engaging in the social and emotional world it creates, even if that world is deeply privileged and claustrophobic (hey, Trollope wrote mainly about rich, tormented people too, though Ayelet is no Trollope) (nor is she Sue Miller, whom she apparently aspires to be) (but she is herself, carving out her literary corner of 21st-century motherhood, and that's something).
OK, I think I can stop now. And I hope this has gotten Ayelet out of my system--at least till her next book appears.
Friday, February 24, 2006
An Iota of Good News
At least they got rid of the polygamous judge.
(And in bad news, I know I should have something thoughtful or angry to say about abortion in South Dakota, or at least a list of thoughtful and angry links, but frankly, I just find the whole thing so unbelievable that I can't even think about it. Which is privileged and irresponsible and all, but, equally frankly, me blogging about it is not going to make a difference.)
(And in bad news, I know I should have something thoughtful or angry to say about abortion in South Dakota, or at least a list of thoughtful and angry links, but frankly, I just find the whole thing so unbelievable that I can't even think about it. Which is privileged and irresponsible and all, but, equally frankly, me blogging about it is not going to make a difference.)
Huh?
Ken Livingstone has been suspended from his mayoralty for four weeks for comparing a Jewish reporter to a Nazi guard? A tribunal can suspend the mayor of London? This has been going on for over a year? We've heard nothing about it? (OK, it's in the Times, but I only found it online by searching "Ken Livingstone.") Or does everyone know about this but me?
The mind boggles, on all fronts.
The mind boggles, on all fronts.
A Little Shopping
Who would think that the fish sticks would be in the fish section rather than the frozen food section? The frozen peas are not in the vegetable section, the frozen bagels are not in the bread section, so what's with the fish sticks? And why did the woman look at me like I was an idiot when, after canvassing the entire frozen food section twice (wouldn't it make sense for them to be next to the chicken fingers?), I finally asked where the fish sticks were?
Then how do you figure out where the chocolate syrup is? Following some different instinct than the fish sticks, I assumed that the chocolate syrup would be next to the ice cream, perhaps because that's where it was in Red State Capital City Suburb. But it wasn't there, so I canvassed the entire store, once. Then I asked someone, and it was next to the coffee and tea, which I suppose makes sense if you are thinking about chocolate milk, which, indeed, we are.
Supermarket logic confounds me.
Speaking of jeans--I know, we weren't speaking of jeans, but it seemed like a good segue--I finally bought some. The ever-supportive, ever-entertaining, and ever-lovely Lucy and I hit the mall, accompanied by the power team of M and Mabel. We let M and Mabel shop by themselves with their own money--and a watch and cellphone. I felt almost a little weepy watching them trot off together, and I knew I'd feel really guilty if they got abducted, but, hey, they weren't, they bought tons of junk we would have tried to talk them out of, and a good time was had by all.
The Gap was a total bust for Lucy and me (is there anyone who can wear those jeans? if the long, lean Lucy and the short, squat me both struck out, I doubt it), but I scored at Old Navy with a pair of jeans and a pair of cords, both on sale (M thinks those embroidered pockets make me look really hip; I think they look really stupid but the pants were so soft and comfortable and on sale that I decided to go with her interpretation). Lucy, alas, went home empty-handed.
Which brings us to the issue of low-waist jeans (low-rise jeans? you know the ones I mean). Though such jeans may have been invented for the likes of Hollywood starlets and high school nymphets, the secret truth of the matter is that they are great for midlife moms. The waist sits right on your hips, under that bit of leftover baby belly, and the comfort is enormous. Except for the problem of the exposed butt. The one you make fun of when you see it on someone else. The one that emerges whenever you bend over or sit down. The one that had me yanking on the waist of the cords all day, despite my knowledge that it was hopeless. The one that appears to be the price of comfort.
Oh my god, maybe I am turning into my mom! (Her mantra: comfort uber alles.)
Then how do you figure out where the chocolate syrup is? Following some different instinct than the fish sticks, I assumed that the chocolate syrup would be next to the ice cream, perhaps because that's where it was in Red State Capital City Suburb. But it wasn't there, so I canvassed the entire store, once. Then I asked someone, and it was next to the coffee and tea, which I suppose makes sense if you are thinking about chocolate milk, which, indeed, we are.
Supermarket logic confounds me.
Speaking of jeans--I know, we weren't speaking of jeans, but it seemed like a good segue--I finally bought some. The ever-supportive, ever-entertaining, and ever-lovely Lucy and I hit the mall, accompanied by the power team of M and Mabel. We let M and Mabel shop by themselves with their own money--and a watch and cellphone. I felt almost a little weepy watching them trot off together, and I knew I'd feel really guilty if they got abducted, but, hey, they weren't, they bought tons of junk we would have tried to talk them out of, and a good time was had by all.
The Gap was a total bust for Lucy and me (is there anyone who can wear those jeans? if the long, lean Lucy and the short, squat me both struck out, I doubt it), but I scored at Old Navy with a pair of jeans and a pair of cords, both on sale (M thinks those embroidered pockets make me look really hip; I think they look really stupid but the pants were so soft and comfortable and on sale that I decided to go with her interpretation). Lucy, alas, went home empty-handed.
Which brings us to the issue of low-waist jeans (low-rise jeans? you know the ones I mean). Though such jeans may have been invented for the likes of Hollywood starlets and high school nymphets, the secret truth of the matter is that they are great for midlife moms. The waist sits right on your hips, under that bit of leftover baby belly, and the comfort is enormous. Except for the problem of the exposed butt. The one you make fun of when you see it on someone else. The one that emerges whenever you bend over or sit down. The one that had me yanking on the waist of the cords all day, despite my knowledge that it was hopeless. The one that appears to be the price of comfort.
Oh my god, maybe I am turning into my mom! (Her mantra: comfort uber alles.)
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Olympics 6: We Don't Have to Bind Them, But Couldn't They Be Gagged?
If I never again hear a figure skating commentator say "She fought for that one" or "the performance of her life," it will still be too soon. I wish I'd been recording their inanities all along, but it's probably better for everyone that I didn't.
Yeah, the falls were bad, and she didn't deserve the gold, but, my god, Sasha Cohen is a beautiful skater. I'm so glad she she got the silver. (And just to show how evilly jingoistic I am, when Sasha fell, I muttered "fuck," and when Irina fell, I pumped my fist and yelled "yes!")
Shizuka Arakawa grew on me. She's no Sasha, but she's a lovely skater. She deserved to win.
I don't like Emily Hughes. I'm not quite sure why, but I think it has something to do with her smile, which I do not like at all. And there's something about her skating too--she's just not graceful. But she sure fought for it.
Kimmie Meissner and Elene Gedevanishvili make me excited about the next few years.
And we LOVED the magic fridge ad.
Yeah, the falls were bad, and she didn't deserve the gold, but, my god, Sasha Cohen is a beautiful skater. I'm so glad she she got the silver. (And just to show how evilly jingoistic I am, when Sasha fell, I muttered "fuck," and when Irina fell, I pumped my fist and yelled "yes!")
Shizuka Arakawa grew on me. She's no Sasha, but she's a lovely skater. She deserved to win.
I don't like Emily Hughes. I'm not quite sure why, but I think it has something to do with her smile, which I do not like at all. And there's something about her skating too--she's just not graceful. But she sure fought for it.
Kimmie Meissner and Elene Gedevanishvili make me excited about the next few years.
And we LOVED the magic fridge ad.
Who's There?
At dinner E decides we should tell jokes. We start with her favorite:
E: What's your name?
Me: Becca
E: What color is the sky?
Me: Blue.
E: What's the opposite of down?
Me: Up.
E: Becca blew up! [general hilarity ensues]
We rapidly progess to knock-knock jokes. I go first:
Me: Knock knock.
E: Who's there?
Me: Isabel.
E: Isabel who?
Me: Is a bell ringing?
Then it's E's turn:
E: Knock knock.
Me: Who's there?
E: Emma.
Me: Emma who?
E: Look, Emma is riding a bicycle. [more hilarity]
The connection that I know she is making--because I am her mom and I know how her mind works and I have heard every knock-knock joke that she and her sister have ever told--is to one of M's favorites, itself just a bit off:
M: Knock knock.
Whoever: Who's there?
M: Isabel.
Whoever: Isabel who?
M: Is that a bell on your bike?
So E went from a trace memory of Isabel and bike, via her best friend Emma, to Emma riding a bike. And she found it very funny. The point being that she doesn't get the knock-knock concept at all; she thinks that random connections are essentially hilarious, which of course they are, when she says them and laughs uproariously.
This all made me remember a big discussion with J and J many years ago over the ontology of knock-knock jokes. It was when M and N were just at the age to start telling knock-knock jokes wrong, and we were trying to explain to them how to do it right, but we only succeeded in getting ourselves all confused. The source of the problem was this one:
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Ella.
Ella who?
Elephant.
J decided that the heart of the joke was Allen Funt, and that knock-knock jokes hinged upon...well, I'm not quite sure what his argument was, but it had something to do with names, and J and I argued vehemently against him that it was simply puns. Then somehow we got distracted by a limousine and a lot of margaritas, and I don't think we ever resolved the issue, though we referred to it frequently over the years, and J and I were always right.
Anyway, what's interesting to me is how much kids love knock-knock jokes even before they get them, and how hard it is for them to get them. According to that most eminent source, Wikipedia, developmental psychologists study knock-knock jokes to understand kids' linguistic development. I'd like to see some of that research. It could be a lot more interesting than knock-knock jokes.
E: What's your name?
Me: Becca
E: What color is the sky?
Me: Blue.
E: What's the opposite of down?
Me: Up.
E: Becca blew up! [general hilarity ensues]
We rapidly progess to knock-knock jokes. I go first:
Me: Knock knock.
E: Who's there?
Me: Isabel.
E: Isabel who?
Me: Is a bell ringing?
Then it's E's turn:
E: Knock knock.
Me: Who's there?
E: Emma.
Me: Emma who?
E: Look, Emma is riding a bicycle. [more hilarity]
The connection that I know she is making--because I am her mom and I know how her mind works and I have heard every knock-knock joke that she and her sister have ever told--is to one of M's favorites, itself just a bit off:
M: Knock knock.
Whoever: Who's there?
M: Isabel.
Whoever: Isabel who?
M: Is that a bell on your bike?
So E went from a trace memory of Isabel and bike, via her best friend Emma, to Emma riding a bike. And she found it very funny. The point being that she doesn't get the knock-knock concept at all; she thinks that random connections are essentially hilarious, which of course they are, when she says them and laughs uproariously.
This all made me remember a big discussion with J and J many years ago over the ontology of knock-knock jokes. It was when M and N were just at the age to start telling knock-knock jokes wrong, and we were trying to explain to them how to do it right, but we only succeeded in getting ourselves all confused. The source of the problem was this one:
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Ella.
Ella who?
Elephant.
J decided that the heart of the joke was Allen Funt, and that knock-knock jokes hinged upon...well, I'm not quite sure what his argument was, but it had something to do with names, and J and I argued vehemently against him that it was simply puns. Then somehow we got distracted by a limousine and a lot of margaritas, and I don't think we ever resolved the issue, though we referred to it frequently over the years, and J and I were always right.
Anyway, what's interesting to me is how much kids love knock-knock jokes even before they get them, and how hard it is for them to get them. According to that most eminent source, Wikipedia, developmental psychologists study knock-knock jokes to understand kids' linguistic development. I'd like to see some of that research. It could be a lot more interesting than knock-knock jokes.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
New Music
Way back in the early 70s, PBS broadcast a series called something like Religion in America. As I remember it, which may have nothing to do with how it actually was, the series aired on Sunday nights and there were a dozen or so episodes, each portraying a different contemporary religious experience. I could make up something about all the different religions, but really, though I recall being mesmerized by the show, the specifics have vanished, though I know there was a distinctly post-60s tinge to it all, with lots of hippies who had discovered religion. I kind of remember a tipi, and I know I remember long-haired girls in white robes whirling around in ecstasy, and that's about it.
Lately my favorite radio station with the acoustic morning show and the reggae afternoon show has been a bit too gentle for my mood, so I've been listening to the alternative rock station. Which means I finally got to hear Matisyahu, the Hasidic reggae rap sensation. I knew exactly who it was the first time I heard him: the reggae backbeat, rapperly croon, and lyrics about loving God could only be one guy.
It was...well, the word that comes to mind is: sweet. And the image that comes to mind is those girls whirling around in ecstasy in their white robes. And the more I've heard it (I wish I knew the name of the song, but I don't--it's the one with the reggae backbeat, the rapperly croon, and the lyrics about loving God), the more I like it, even though probably there is some reason I shouldn't. But it's just...sweet.
I've also been hearing The Subways a bunch. The word that comes to mind is: eh. There are lots of Brit-pop garage bands I'd rather listen to, even if they are a boy, his brother, and his girlfriend who have been playing together since they were teenagers, which would be just last year (that is, they were teenagers just last year--they've been playing together for five years, I think) (and it's very sweet that he's still with his teenage girlfriend of five years ago, but still: eh).
Every time I hear "Rock and Roll Queen," I think I'd rather be listening to whatever song it is on Hole's Live Through This that it sounds exactly like. (Note to self: remember to listen to Live Through This.)
Score:
Matisyahu - 1
The Subways - 0
Lately my favorite radio station with the acoustic morning show and the reggae afternoon show has been a bit too gentle for my mood, so I've been listening to the alternative rock station. Which means I finally got to hear Matisyahu, the Hasidic reggae rap sensation. I knew exactly who it was the first time I heard him: the reggae backbeat, rapperly croon, and lyrics about loving God could only be one guy.
It was...well, the word that comes to mind is: sweet. And the image that comes to mind is those girls whirling around in ecstasy in their white robes. And the more I've heard it (I wish I knew the name of the song, but I don't--it's the one with the reggae backbeat, the rapperly croon, and the lyrics about loving God), the more I like it, even though probably there is some reason I shouldn't. But it's just...sweet.
I've also been hearing The Subways a bunch. The word that comes to mind is: eh. There are lots of Brit-pop garage bands I'd rather listen to, even if they are a boy, his brother, and his girlfriend who have been playing together since they were teenagers, which would be just last year (that is, they were teenagers just last year--they've been playing together for five years, I think) (and it's very sweet that he's still with his teenage girlfriend of five years ago, but still: eh).
Every time I hear "Rock and Roll Queen," I think I'd rather be listening to whatever song it is on Hole's Live Through This that it sounds exactly like. (Note to self: remember to listen to Live Through This.)
Score:
Matisyahu - 1
The Subways - 0
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
The Literary Mama Blog Book Tour Stops Here Today
First there was the website; now there's the book. The incredibly creative and productive Andi Buchanan, author of Mother Shock and editor of It's a Boy, continues to extend the literary possibilities of motherhood. When Andi and Amy Hudock began Literary Mama, the website, a few years ago, it rapidly became one of the foremost sites for writing about motherhood on the internet. Now they have collected some of the best pieces from the website in an anthology that's the perfect size to put in your bag and read during swim practice, ballet class, or a basketball game (ok, probably you should watch the basketball game, but come on, how can you leave the house without something to read, and size does matter).
One of the cool things about Literary Mama, site and book, is how it mixes genres. There are poems next to essays next to stories and reviews. At Literary Mama, women reflect on being mothers and having mothers, but also on how our culture and literature represent motherhood, which is a crucial element in the experience of motherhood, however individually we may think we are experiencing that experience. Indeed, like all Andi's work, Literary Mama reminds us that we are not alone, which makes everything that much easier.
(Andi has been answering questions about the book in her blog--check it out.)
One of the cool things about Literary Mama, site and book, is how it mixes genres. There are poems next to essays next to stories and reviews. At Literary Mama, women reflect on being mothers and having mothers, but also on how our culture and literature represent motherhood, which is a crucial element in the experience of motherhood, however individually we may think we are experiencing that experience. Indeed, like all Andi's work, Literary Mama reminds us that we are not alone, which makes everything that much easier.
(Andi has been answering questions about the book in her blog--check it out.)
Our Winter 2006 New York City Recommendations
- David Smith at the Guggenheim (I love David Smith because he has a sculpture called Becca, 1964, which would be me, but this show was a total revelation, and the Guggenheim is a great kid museum because it's a manageable size, the ramp is just too fun, and the audio is free)
- Rauschenberg's combines at the Met
- the Confino Family Apartment tour at the Tenement Museum (with a great actress/guide who stayed totally in character as the family's daughter while we all peppered her with questions about tenement life--and let me just tell you that after hearing how ten people fit into that tiny apartment, Uncle J and Aunt M's apartment never seemed so spacious) (spatious? spashus?)
- Rabbit Hole (excellent writing and superb acting, especially from Tyne Daly and John Slattery, though we thought Cynthia Nixon was the weak link)
- dim sum at the place upstairs in the mini-mall below the bridge
- Citarella miniature tarts
- K's twins and C's youngest (I think I got to hold babies for three hours on Sunday, and they were all--babies and hours--delightful) (we adore C's oldest too, but she had a fever and stayed home)
And of course Aunt M, Uncle J, A, H&H, and the park.
- Rauschenberg's combines at the Met
- the Confino Family Apartment tour at the Tenement Museum (with a great actress/guide who stayed totally in character as the family's daughter while we all peppered her with questions about tenement life--and let me just tell you that after hearing how ten people fit into that tiny apartment, Uncle J and Aunt M's apartment never seemed so spacious) (spatious? spashus?)
- Rabbit Hole (excellent writing and superb acting, especially from Tyne Daly and John Slattery, though we thought Cynthia Nixon was the weak link)
- dim sum at the place upstairs in the mini-mall below the bridge
- Citarella miniature tarts
- K's twins and C's youngest (I think I got to hold babies for three hours on Sunday, and they were all--babies and hours--delightful) (we adore C's oldest too, but she had a fever and stayed home)
And of course Aunt M, Uncle J, A, H&H, and the park.
Friday, February 17, 2006
Three Cheers for February Vacation
Off to the biggest east coast city of them all. Back in a few days.
Job Tips
Recently I've been in the slightly odd situation of both applying for jobs and reviewing job applications (and that's all I'm going to say about me, except that if you've been lying awake nights worrying, you can go back to sleep now). From this experience, I've gleaned a bit of wisdom that I thought I'd share.
1) There is no reason to write a seven-page cover letter. Ever. Or a seven-page resume. You're Condi Rice? Here's what you write: I helped the first Bush with security stuff, taught at Stanford, was Provost for six years, became the second Bush's National Security Advisor and then Secretary of State. There, you're done. Don't tell us the details of every faculty contract and peace treaty you've ever negotiated, don't give us the title of every speech, hell, you're Condi, you don't even need to list all the honorary degrees. The rest of you? You're not Condi. Even less reason for seven pages. We're talking two pages. Max. (If I had seen just one seven-page letter, I would chalk it up to anomaly, but I did not see just one, and let's just say that people who sent seven-page letters did not make the cut.) (Judgement, judgement is key, there is no job that does not require judgement.)
2) On the other hand, do not just fire off your template cover letter, especially if it has nothing to do with the job you are applying for. Learn a little about the job. Explain that you are the right candidate for this particular job.
3) Why are you the right candidate for this particular job? You are not the right candidate because you really want it. You are not the right candidate because it is perfect for you. We don't care if we're perfect for you, we want to know why you are perfect for us. There's a difference, and we want you to know it.
4) Do not tell us about ourselves. We know about ourselves. We want, of course, to know that you understand who we are, but you can show that in a sentence. Telling us how great we are will not help make the case for you. Besides, the more you say about us, the more you risk getting it wrong. But we don't know anything about you, so we won't know if you get you wrong.
5) Turning to the other side of the coin: if you receive a job application, respond to it. An easy response is "Thank you for your application. We will get in touch if we need any further information." You're not saying yes, you're not saying no, but you are saying that you know I applied for the job. A better response is an acknowledgement that the application has been received, followed by a rejection when the job has been filled by someone else. Of course the best response of all is to offer me the job.
6) Do not tell me that I'm the best applicant you've ever seen--and then offer the job to someone else.
1) There is no reason to write a seven-page cover letter. Ever. Or a seven-page resume. You're Condi Rice? Here's what you write: I helped the first Bush with security stuff, taught at Stanford, was Provost for six years, became the second Bush's National Security Advisor and then Secretary of State. There, you're done. Don't tell us the details of every faculty contract and peace treaty you've ever negotiated, don't give us the title of every speech, hell, you're Condi, you don't even need to list all the honorary degrees. The rest of you? You're not Condi. Even less reason for seven pages. We're talking two pages. Max. (If I had seen just one seven-page letter, I would chalk it up to anomaly, but I did not see just one, and let's just say that people who sent seven-page letters did not make the cut.) (Judgement, judgement is key, there is no job that does not require judgement.)
2) On the other hand, do not just fire off your template cover letter, especially if it has nothing to do with the job you are applying for. Learn a little about the job. Explain that you are the right candidate for this particular job.
3) Why are you the right candidate for this particular job? You are not the right candidate because you really want it. You are not the right candidate because it is perfect for you. We don't care if we're perfect for you, we want to know why you are perfect for us. There's a difference, and we want you to know it.
4) Do not tell us about ourselves. We know about ourselves. We want, of course, to know that you understand who we are, but you can show that in a sentence. Telling us how great we are will not help make the case for you. Besides, the more you say about us, the more you risk getting it wrong. But we don't know anything about you, so we won't know if you get you wrong.
5) Turning to the other side of the coin: if you receive a job application, respond to it. An easy response is "Thank you for your application. We will get in touch if we need any further information." You're not saying yes, you're not saying no, but you are saying that you know I applied for the job. A better response is an acknowledgement that the application has been received, followed by a rejection when the job has been filled by someone else. Of course the best response of all is to offer me the job.
6) Do not tell me that I'm the best applicant you've ever seen--and then offer the job to someone else.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
It's the Insane Cupcake Blog
Who knew there were so many cupcakes? (Libby, you can take this as your final birthday post.)
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