First, an important note:
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The default in my journal is to screen all anonymous comments, so no one sees them. I can remove that screening at my discretion, though, on an individual basis -- and I have only one criterium for unscreening things. If you are commenting anonymously, and you want your comments to be pubically seen, please sign your name in some way when commenting -- either with your real name, or give yourself a nickname. Otherwise I'll leave them screened. Thanks.
...Periodically, I re-link to an older "who am I" post as occasional new "friendings" turn up, but I've decided to just finally put it right up front here and just edit it as necessary. I am shamelessly stealing the idea of a "welcome mat" post from cadhla, because damn it's a good idea.
( But it's long, so behind a cut:Collapse )
(Kim is considering what to pack for an upcoming vacation.)
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Kim: (calling from her room) Hey Paul?
Kim: Can I ask you a question I swore I would never ask any man?
Paul: (uneasily) Um....okay?
Kim: (coming to him in a dress) Does this make me look fat?
Oh hi Livejournal. Real quick - I've kind of gone friends-only and lurking by default here. But I'm active elsewhere online - I now write for the travel blog Atlas Obscura.
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And there's one thing I wrote for Atlas Obscura which as now been linked to by two different major(ish) media outlets; first the BBC tweeted a link to it, and now Fast Company has as well.
So in a tongue-in-cheek move, I decided to adopt the text of a parody of one of those motivational posters as my resolution this year - "Stop worrying about what could go wrong and just focus on butts". For some reason it's turning out to be the perfect way of short-circuiting the second-guessing you always do that ends up psyching yourself out of something.
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And I'm telling ya, since I adopted it...it's been working.
1. Even before New Year's Eve, I got an email from someone suggesting I apply to a job as a staff writer for [name of institution redacted]. Now, in the past I would have hemmed and hawed and fretted about whether I would be up for the challenge, and would have decided I wouldn't be able to do it and would have not bothered to apply. But this time, when I started doing that, I remembered "just focus on butts", pictured a couple of my favorite such examples and then went ahead and applied. And...I consider that a victory already. Even if I don't get that particular job, I applied for it, and nothing bad happened. Now I can just keep doing that more often.
2. I've been working on an article for the web site Atlas Obscura about various Worlds' Fair sites, and needed pictures. And I hemmed and hawed about how I was going to get them - surely if I asked the press offices for them, either they'd charge huge amounts of money or they'd turn me down. But then - I thought about butts instead for a minute, had a good giggle, and went on to look up various press offices and ask for pictures. And - I'm actually starting to get them. For free.
3. I'm working on another article for Atlas Obscura, one that's going to have something to do with frogs. And my editor had a question about frog behavior. And I fretted - how was I going to answer it? Even if I did ask someone, wouldn't they blow me off because I was asking a stupid question and they were busy?
But then, as before - butts. And then I pulled up the web site of a university, picked a couple people to write to, and asked my question. Within five minutes I had three people all refer me to the frog behavioral student they had two years ago, who is now serving as an adjunct professor on frogs at another university.
I'm telling ya. Butts. They're turning out to be the solution to a lot of problems.
Am in a strange spot roommate-wise - the current roommate is moving out, but not until February. But I really don't like the whole hunting-for-a-roommate process, so I'm looking now.
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So I'mma put a brief note here, and have people contact me so I can send the more details in more private cover. ( But the details behind a cut - check here for more on an apartment in Brooklyn.Collapse )
(This was actually originally posted over on what is becoming my main blog. But this could do with some signal-boosting.)
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August 17, 12 pm
It’s now about 90 minutes since you – someone I’d never met before in my life, and had never given my phone number to or contacted in any way – called me out of the blue, and attempted to ask me out. And it’s about an hour since I told you, at length, why that was a supremely bad idea.
Although, I suppose I should thank you for one thing – you alerted me to a bit of online security I didn’t know I needed. You said you got my home number by doing a search using the online handle I used for a personal ad on a site; I did that same search, and saw a place where I’d stupidly used my full name for a fanfiction site. (Although, I should add that I didn’t know that would be publically visible – I need to write to the owners of that site and alert them.) And from that, you were able to get my home number on a handful of public-records search sites. Thankfully, I was able to take care of getting all that down, so I probably should give you some grudging thanks for alerting me to the need for that.
However, you should probably also know that the rest of what you said to me, I fear, was a total crock. You claimed that a “friend of mine” who used to live here had moved back to Riverhead; you said she was “Sue” from FIT. I don’t know anyone by that name who lived here in New York, nor do I know anyone from FIT. You also say you were going off my personal ad for a particular site – I still am at a loss to know why you didn’t simply contact me through that site, or how you failed to notice that I hadn’t logged onto that site in about three years. (But thanks for letting me know – I’ve taken that profile down.)
Also, I don’t quite believe that you were really paying attention in those “classes on women’s rights” that you claimed to have taken when you were trying to defend your actions, because you would have understood that not everyone seeks out a woman’s phone number because they’re trying to have some damn romantic-comedy meet-cute moment. I know that you know that you had good intentions, but what that class would have told you (if you really did take one) is that there is no way I would have known that. There is no way that I could have known that you weren't another guy who called me up and threatened to “rape and mutilate me”, and told me in graphic detail just how that would happen. (And yes, that really has happened to me.) You didn't consider this encounter from my perspective at all – you didn't pay attention when your professor told you – and your professor most certainly WOULD have told you – that just about every single woman alive has had some kind of sexual harassment, or threat, or violence done to her. And so you would have understood that your good intentions didn't magically make this situation special – you would have known that my experiences as a woman would have gotten in the way of this call having “had good energy,” like you said.
In short, you didn’t think about this from my perspective. If you had — if you had honestly wanted to get to know me – you would have started with a respect for my own comfort, and sought out a much, much less startling way of reaching out to me. Through that personal ad you said you saw, for instance. Or maybe through that “friend from FIT” you claimed knew me. But no, you thought your sheer niceness would somehow make everything okay – and that kind of thinking, that my own comfort should take a back seat to your wish for “a connection”, is the height of self-centeredness and arrogance.
But you know what, I now have your number – got it from *69. That’s how I was able to figure out you lived in Riverhead. And – I’ve also got the number of the Riverhead police department. I think I’ll hang onto both those numbers for a little while just in case. But don’t feel bad – isn’t having a girl hang onto your number a while what you ultimately wanted?
Have a nice day,
Y'all, I have to share this site. I've talked in the past about how frustrating the tradition of skanky costumes for women is - this year seems to have reached some new lows with the release of a sexy body bag costume. Which has been making a lot of people say "what the actual hell".
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But in one of those discussions somewhere, someone linked to an awesome site - Take Back Halloween, which is a whole site devoted to DIY costumes expressly for women and girls. They don't sell the costumes - they instead show you how they designed it, and link to places where you can purchase the elements if need be (or, just tell you what they are so you can find them on your own). Some of them feel a little bit "parent trying to be educational" (I don't think too many people would really "get it" if you dressed up as Emma Goldman or Lise Meitner, say), and all the different medieval ladies and queens would be perceived as just being "medieval lady" by most. But "medieval lady" is not bad, especially with the resources they've found. And they also have some really kick-ass ideas for DIY costumes for the goddess Freyja (which would be perceived as "Viking lady", but never mind, that's still one cool Viking lady), the goddess Pele, Lizzie Borden, and Queen Boudicca.
And I have changed my costume plans after reading the instructions for the goddess Demeter - seriously, all you need is one green flannel sheet, an orange scarf, a chunky necklace and a crapton of fake flowers and fruit in a cornucopia basket. I can get all of that at either Target or Ikea in two hours tops, and reuse everything after Halloween.
Earlier today, I was part of a discussion someone had started online, asking for songs that seemed to embody a feeling of joy. People were tossing out obvious answers – Beethoven’s 9th, especially lively Motown, even “Happy Happy Joy Joy” – and at some point, I suggested The Waterboys’ “Fisherman’s Blues.”
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Because it just does. The whole album it’s from is actually drenched in utter joy – the band was trying something new, holing up in a castle in Galway and drenching themselves in local trad rock and loving every minute of it. But the title track is just a glorious burst of joy – Mike Scott’s vocals trading off with the brilliant Steve Wickham on the fiddle, weaving beautiful melodies out of all his solos over a rough and rugged backup from the rest of the band. There’s a reason that this song has become the go-to for movie soundtracks when you need a scene in “a typical Irish bar”.
After remembering it, I played it to death on my way home from work today, listening over and over. But the words struck me suddenly – I know them all by heart, but noticed anew how bleak some of the words were for such a joyful song -- “I wish I was a fisherman tumbling on the seas, Far away from dry land and its bitter memories….”
But it’s a different kind of joy, I decided. It’s the joy of someone who’s lived through something very long and hard and difficult, and may not be quite where they want to be just yet, but – they’ve survived. They’ve at least made it out the other end of the worst patch. There is a long way to go for sure, but the trial has made them stronger, and they know they’ll get there.
We are once again at a point where we’ll be looking back on a single hard day, and remembering where we were eleven years ago. And it’s still not easy for me to do, because the past eleven years have been hard. I’ve been through a lot. So has nearly everyone I know. So has New York City, and so has Washington DC, and so has the country and the world.
But this year I feel like there is finally a bit of hope; because even though that day tried to break me, and even though the next eleven years tried to grind me down, I have made it through and I am stronger for it. I’ve got a long way to go, and so have all of us, but the past few years have just made us really, really tough.
Everyone of you will, and should, observe 9/11 in your own way, even if it is by not observing it at all. (Believe me, I kind of want to do it that way myself.) But I would appreciate it a great deal if, at some point during the day, you took the hand of someone you loved and danced to this song with them.
Because you’ve survived. Because you’re alive. Because it’s been another year and it’s made you better.
“I know I will be loosened from the bonds that hold me fast,
The chains all around me will fall away at last,
And on that fine and fateful day I will take me in my hand
I will ride on the train, I will be the fisherman
With light in my head, and you in my arms…”
Joy to you all.
And you can tell that we're getting close to fall because I'm starting to think more about knitting.
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I've come rather some way from the yarnalanche of two years ago, and made something of a dent. But there are still all sorts of random weird skeins floating around that I still need to do something with. Fortunately, I will have two full days between Cara's moving out this weekend and Abby's moving in, so I'll have a bare room to use as a staging/sorting area and a photo studio for "hey, I knit that a while ago and need to take a photo for Ravelry".
I'm also pretty sure I have a decent collection of bulky yarn, and I have a few hat patterns that involve same, so I can maybe just do them up quick and donate them to Colin and Niki's place in the Catskills. I've long been threatening to just donate a few hats to their house so they can start a basket for guests who maybe forgot a hat.
I am so looking forward to this.
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I'm taking a whole week off from MegaCorp next week, and the plan is to stay in my beloved Brooklyn and do absolutely nothing that I don't want to do. I thought about leaving town, but I couldn't decide where I wanted to go, and started thinking that if I did go anywhere, I'd feel strangely obligated to be doing things every damn day instead of just loafing if that's all I wanted to do.
Cara's going to be out of the house for a few days as well, which is already spurring me to tackle a couple of longer homey tasks - the hall closet has been in sore, sore need of a decluttering, as have the kitchen cupboards. I'm already starting to think of the closet task as "de-shittening," because I have an obscene amount of total and utter crap. It's not even worth a stoop sale - I'm just going to put it all out on the curb in a big box saying "just take it".
I'm also thinking of some puttery cooking things -- maybe do up a pork shoulder and make up some burritos to freeze, some pizza dough, get a few different kinds of dried beans and cook them all up and dole them into smaller containers, do up some biscuits, pre-make some meatballs, make up some vegetable stock - I'm already going to be getting a lot of green beans and kale to freeze sometime soon, and I'd love to be able to make dinner some nights by just pulling three small containers out of the freezer and throwing them into a pot. Of course, this also means doing something with the weird little containers of stuff I've already got in there - the various half-pounds of ground whatever, the two lone single-serving pie crust things, and three bags of cranberries (because god knows I'll be getting more of that too).
This is usually the kind of thing I save for the weekends, except I drag my feet because I resent only having two days to myself and not being able to have fun with them, and I also don't want to get in Cara's way (I tend to spread out a lot and create even more chaos when I clean something). The thought of having a full nine days to do with as I choose, and two of them entirely devoid of other people, feels like a luxury - I'll be doing the puttering, but then will have even more time to wander to the park with a book or just lie in a hammock at Governor's Island.
Just boosting the signal on this as much as possible:
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Someone on Reddit explained the entire "Obamacare" bill, in plain English.
No, I'm serious.
Well, I'll at least be honest about why things have fallen silent as they have in here - I haven't really felt much of the urge to write, or to tell people about what's the what of my life lately.
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But at least I've ascertained why - I think after a very long few years, this particular
Stella needs to Get her Groove Back. So this summer I'm going to be pushing myself to being a little more daring, a little more adventurous - and hopefully it'll wake up some bits of me that fell asleep over the past couple years, and then soon they'll wake the rest of me up.
However, one of the daring things I've already done is post the one and only fanfic I have ever written to date. Yay!
(People seem to like it and everything. It's encouraging.)
So, about a year ago I went to London to see David Tennant in Much Ado About Nothing. I only gave myself 3 days for the whole trip, which was much, much too short -- and I promised myself that this year, if I had more money and time, I'd go back to London for a longer stay. And sure enough, I'm doing just that - I leave tomorrow, and am staying for a week.
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However -- as it turns out, the week I am there is the opening week for a production of Antigone at The National Theatre - starring Christopher Eccleston.
...That's twice now that a Doctor has been on stage in London while I've been there. Of course I got tickets. (And I'm tempted to go back yet again next year to see if makes Tom Baker comes out of retirement to do King Lear or something.)
So, this afternoon -- 4 months, 3 days, 13 hours, and 20 minutes after breaking my foot -- my physical therapist pronounced me officially healed.
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So today in writing class we were critiquing something I'd submitted; something I was feeling was all weird and forced and clunky.
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And the teacher said "I think you can start looking for a place to market this."
(It's my first day of physical therapy. The studio is on the 3rd floor of a nondescript office building, and I need to sign in at the security desk before heading up.)
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Kim: (waving cane) So, guess what tenant I need to see!
Doorman: (eyes cane) Well, actually...there are two possibilities in this building.
Kim: Oh, really?
Doorman: The physical therapist on three...or the injury lawyer on six.
Poet Frank Delaney read this work of his on NPR this morning. I nearly applauded.
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Drowning The Shamrock
- By Frank Delaney
"Hail glorious Saint Patrick dear saint of our isle
On us thy poor children look down with a smile —"
But I'm not singing hymns and I'm not saying prayers
No, I'm gritting my teeth as I walk down the stairs
And into the street with these louts fiercely drinking
And screeching and lurching, and here's what I'm thinking —
They're using a stereotype, a narrow example,
A fraction, not even a marketing sample
To imitate Ireland, from which they don't come!
So unless that's just stupid, unless it's plain dumb,
All these kids from New Jersey and the five boroughs
And hundreds of cities, all drowning their sorrows,
With bottles and glasses and heads getting broken
(Believe me, just ask the mayor of Hoboken)
All that mindlessness, shouting and getting plain stocious —
That isn't Irish, that's simply atrocious.
I've another word too for it, this one's more stinging
I call it "racism." See, just 'cause you're singing
Some drunken old ballad on Saint Patrick's Day
Does that make you Irish? Oh, no — no way.
Nor does a tee-shirt that asks you to kiss them —
If they never come back I surely won't miss them
Or their beer cans and badges and wild maudlin bawling
And hammered and out of it, bodies all sprawling.
They're not of Joyce or of Yeats, Wilde, or Shaw.
How many Nobel Laureates does Dublin have? Four!
Think of this as you wince through Saint Patrick's guano —
Not every Italian is Tony Soprano.
I spent the first afternoon of my 42nd year on earth taking a walk -- a long walk down Smith Street here in Brooklyn, just wandering into and out of shops and restaurants and stuff. Just sort of giving myself over to total impulsiveness and whim -- if I saw something in a store I wanted, I got it, if I didn't see anything I liked I shrugged and left. Enjoying the walk more than anything, for the first time in 2 months without a boot.
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However, after four hours my foot reminded me that walking for four solid hours on the day after you've had a boot cast removed may not necessarily be the best of ideas. The last storefront I entered was a car service, where I limped up to the dispatcher and whimpered, "can I get a car to take me home?..."
I was thinking of hitting a restaurant for dinner, but my ankle has swollen up rather a bit, so I'll just kick back here....my birthday buddy George once sang a song about how you can stay at home and still send your mind floating far, after all.
Happy Birthday to us, George, whereever you are. Hare Krishna.
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Back in 2009, my birthday fell on Mardi Gras (well, actually it was on Ash Wednesday, but I figured "close enough") and I took myself there. Back then, I wrote a series of open thank-you notes to the trip; I'm rerunning them here. Y'all can read them while I dig out my copy of Dr. John's cover of "Iko Iko."
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Dear Officer Z:
I know you denied it when I said so first, but you honestly did go above and beyond the call of duty. Seriously. I hope you try going to Katz's if you ever get to New York because it reminded me a lot of the place you sent me.
To the woman from Tennessee and the bicyclist on Esplanade Street:
Thanks so much for being my good-luck charms on two different occasions. I started getting tons of throws after the woman from Tennessee gave me all of the ones from around her neck, insisting "you keep these, I've got tons and I"ll get more. Happy birthday." And the bicyclist on Esplanade chatted with me about the unreliable nature of the bus long enough for the bus to actually finally come. You helped my luck turn!
Dear Debbie and Phillippe:
Oh, you guys were great. I kept talking up your shop to other New Orleans folk I met, hoping you'd get business. Thanks for the spice mix lagniappe!
And thanks for tipping me off about pinning a dollar to your shirt...
Thanks for the shot of bourbon and trying to get me to come along with your friends after the Bacchus parade, and I hope I didn't look too alarmed when you asked me. I may email you after all, even though I suspect you may not remember who I am...
To the two Japanese girls at the Orpheus parade:
Your enthusiasm was infectious, and it was also sweet of you to spontaneously turn around and give me some of your beads when you saw I didn't have any.
To Chris and Christina:
Thanks for walking me to the Quarter after Orpheus -- Damn, now I'm going to have to take a stroll down Camp Street next time I come back. Except it may not be as fun without stopping to take pictures of Chris in his zombie mask every five minutes. (Christina: thanks for the Jack Daniels punch, too!)
I only just now learned your name after looking up your cafe online. Thanks for being a delightfully offbeat place to check email.
To Amy, T.J., Gina, and the kids:
Thanks for showing me a great time on the day of Mardi Gras proper. I think that picture Amy took of your two-year-old trying to decorate a tree with parade beads is one of my favorites.
Thanks also to the woman sitting outside the bar who heard it was my birthday and toasted me, saying, "any day that you wake up alive is your birthday."
Thanks for checking out the Quarter with me later on. Here's to trivia machines and tool sheds.
To the three strangers at Johnny White's bar --
Thanks for jumping up and dancing the Time Warp with me as Mardi Gras ticked out.
Dear New Orleans:
That was the best damn birthday party I've had in a long time. Thanks.