I had to do this at some point, right?

List courtesy of TMC's Return to Rural blog:

My favourite age: Like the stone age or something? Nah. 38 was a good one.
My best friend(s): The rose-breasted grosbeaks that return to my garden year after year.
My celebrity crush: Matthew Gray Gubler (Dr. Reid on Criminal Minds)
My defining characteristic: I have no idea.
My most evil moment: In the 11th grade, I convinced a cheerful girl that life was meaningless and she started to cry.
My favourite food: A really good charbroiled hamburger with bacon, cheese, lettuce and mayonnaise.
My grossest injury: I kneeled on an upholstery needle and it got sucked into my knee, broke into three pieces and one piece was holding my skin up like a tent. Wasn't so much gross as weird.
My biggest hatred: I'm mostly sad over things or people that might be "hated".
My most illegal activity: Recently? We lit a roman candle. And the sheriff showed up! We are big time criminals over here.
My need for justice: Do I ever think of justice? Nope. Good topic for discussion!
My most knowledgeable field: I'm the poster child for the expression "Jack of all trades, master of none."
My life’s goal: Um.
My mother’s influence: Enjoying picking out clothes for other people.
My nerdiest point: Going to the first Star Trek convention.
My oldest memory: My mother bathing me in the kitchen sink.
My perfect date: It's too late for this to ever happen (sniffle sniffle) but I would have liked a man to meet me at the door with a bouquet of roses, just once in this lifetime! And y'know what? I would have liked to have been given jewelry during the dessert course. Yep, I have some unmet old-fashioned "Hollywood" chick flick desires.
My unanswered question: What is the purpose of life?
My random fact: Loons can't take off from anything but water.
My stupidest decision: In retrospect, all my decisions look stupid.
My favourite television show: Past or present? Hmmm. Star Trek Voyager may be the winner.
My style of underwear: Grandma style, but in black.
My favourite vegetable: Asparagus.
My weakest trait: Sloth.
My X-Men Power: Never mind the X-Men. I want: immortality, perfect health, the ability to change gender at will and a metabolism that allows me to eat anything without gaining weight.
My strongest yearning: To see the world.
My moment of Zen: Realizing that there is no such thing as a moment of Zen.

Photo note: I love kitsch signs. This one is from Austin, Texas, and I hear the restaurant is quite good (if you like that type of thing). I do.

Baby teeth

Did you know that baby teeth are called "deciduous teeth"? I didn't. I asked Dick, "why do we have baby teeth?" and he googled it. The answer to this question is not known for sure. I suppose it's not that important to know why. What is important? Brushing and flossing!

After discovering that this blog received the lowest amount of visitors ever today, I figured I'd start a new entry with an incredibly exciting piece of useless information. After all, "everything is interesting", isn't it?

I did want to know why we have baby teeth. I remember the exact places where I lost some of my baby teeth and how it felt. I loved worrying those loose teeth with my tongue. It hurt, but it felt interesting, too. It's interesting to have such a strong memory of a sensation - where does one feel the memory? I can feel the sensation in my mind of a tooth ripping from the gum, just slightly, and the taste of blood in my mouth. My mother told me not to play with those teeth, and that I should let them fall out in their own good time, but it was just too tempting, just like when I've chipped a tooth as an adult, my tongue tip always wants to poke itself into that new space. What exactly is that urge?

Memories are fascinating things. They can be elusive or vivid, accurate or just plain wrong. They can be ever present in our minds or forgotten.

I remember losing a tooth at the Heinz pavilion of the World's Fair in Queens, New York. I was given a whistle in the shape of a pickle by a woman who was there. Wow!

I don't remember much of the years that I was in the 8th, 9th or 10th grades. Did nothing happen? I doubt that highly. Unfortunately, I suspect that those years were so awful that they are just a haze. It isn't that they were so long ago (which they were), for if I can recall perfectly losing a tooth in 1964, it would stand to reason I'd remember something that happened ten years later. But, no.

I bet you can remember losing at least one of your baby teeth, no matter how old you are. Anyone have a good story? Hardly anyone is reading this today, so I have a feeling there will be no responses, but I'm asking anyway.

The stats tell me that if I write about McCain, Palin, a celebrity,or Salvador Dali (who people seem to google quite frequently, for reasons I don't understand and should look into), I will get more hits. They also tell me that if I don't stay on topic, the people who've arrived here will bounce away quickly.

Oh well. I can't conform to the standards of good web traffic. It figures. I can't seem to conform to anything properly! More on that another time.

Image note: I didn't know there was a movie called "The Tooth Fairy". Looks pretty scary! I never thought the tooth fairy was anyone but my mother. I got twenty five cents for a tooth. I have no idea what they are going for these days.

Note: If you want to read a solid editorial on McCain, I suggest this. As I have criticism of the Palin pick, because I do not think she is qualified to hold so high an office in government, I will hold myself to the same standards and stick to writing about things like memories of losing baby teeth.

Once upon a time, with sheep

Once upon a time, I had this fantasy: I would move to Northern New England, raise sheep, spin their wool and weave blankets on a 19th century loom (and I'd make a living at it).

Well, I did all of that, except for the part in parentheses.

It's been quite a while, but I miss those sheep. Getting up with the sunrise and tending to the animals, though sometimes a chore, was mostly a pleasure. I'm not looking back with rose-colored glasses. I loved raising sheep.

The second year that I had sheep, we saw a crazy cold winter. One month (I forget which one) the temperature never rose above zero. One morning, I looked at the thermometer and saw it read minus 28. I bundled up for my trip to the barn. In one hand I had a bucket of grain and in the other, water. A part of me wondered if those sheep would be frozen to death.

They acted like it was any other day. Some of them were in the barn and others were out sitting in the snow. They all had mustaches of ice. As I entered the barn, I sloshed the water around and got one of my mittens wet. Stupidly, I put my hand on the metal handle of the door to steady myself. Thankfully, that was one tough mitten I had knit. It immediately froze to the door, but my hand was hot inside of it, and I didn't lose any skin. I would have, most certainly. There were "freezing flesh warnings" on the radio. I had never heard of such a thing before.

It felt warm in that barn. The smell of hay was strong. I sat down on a hay bale and remember wondering if I'd knit a replacement for that mitten. It was a scallopman's mitten, designed to be worn by hands that got wet in the cold waters off the coast of Maine. For you knitters out there, these mittens were 90 plus inches around, knit with worsted weight yarn on size 2 needles and to top it off, they were lined with loops of wool (thank you "Homespun Handknit") I knit them before I even moved to Maine, while I was dreaming up this fantasy. I could not wait until I moved to a place cold enough to warrant wearing such things.

But no, I never knit a replacement.

I really miss those mornings with my sheep. I don't miss the anxiety I sometimes had after I started hearing coyotes on a regular basis. I once saw one at the edge of the woods. The sheep knew it was there before I did. I was wondering why all of them were standing at the edge of the electric fence, all turning their heads in the same direction. I looked where they looked and saw a coyote, its head down low to the ground.

Thankfully, no coyote ever got one of my sheep. I think they would have outrun any coyote, actually. The first time I had these sheep sheared, the fellow who did it came with two sheep dogs. Those sheep bolted right out of the shearing pen. I am not exaggerating when I say that the dogs chased them for two hours before the fellow called them off. He was afraid his dogs would drop dead from exhaustion. He came back the next day and did it my way, which was pretty funny, for I was a city girl who didn't know much. But I knew my wild sheep. They'd be cooperative for a bucket of grain with molasses in the middle of summer, when all they usually got was grass.

I remember these as lazy days. I'd spend time sitting in the barn or up in the pasture. I'd sit on the picnic table near the vegetable garden and shoot the shit with the fellow who owned the property. We'd talk for hours and then go back to whatever we were doing, me weaving or spinning or moving the fences around. There was a lot of work, with the sheep or in the garden, or with something or other, but I just remember a sort of langorousness, as if the days were longer than any days that preceded it or days that have come since.

I really miss that piece of property. It was a quarter of a mile down a dirt road and had acres and acres of rolling pasture, surrounded by a woods with a meandering path that lead to a large pond with an active beaver dam. It was perfection. Unfortunately, it wasn't my own property.

I feel like I live in suburbia these days, but that surely is a joke, for if I wanted a few sheep in my backyard, I could have them. There's no zoning against it, as far as I know. I'd be surprised if there were. I thought perhaps we should get some chickens, at the least. Somehow I don't think any of these things are going to happen on my little half an acre, but who knows?

Tonight I started spinning again after so many years. A wonderful woman lent me a wheel and it felt great to practice the simple art of spinning wool. I wonder why I ever stopped.

Painting note: This is a first - I had another image gracing the top of this post that I disliked so much I had to remove it. Instead, I offer up:
Gerard Dou's "Woman Eating Porridge" 1637
Beautiful spinning wheel - Dou was a stickler for detail, and probably would be diagnosed with something (OCD, perhaps) in this day and age. He made his own brushes in order to work with such precision on a small scale.

Addendum: I am quite smitten with Dou's paintings. His use of light and attention to detail are spectacular. I highly enjoyed the paintings I saw on line. I'd love to see some in person. Once upon a time, I lived in a place where I could go to a museum and see great art. Ah, there are tradeoffs in this life, aren't there? At least, now, I've got the Web. If I didn't, I doubt I could managed to have lived in Maine so long.

Negative messages, positive messages

Jeffrey Goldberg of the Atlantic Monthly asks people to find someone named Jeffrey Goldberg on the Web who isn't either a.)him b.)a lawyer or c.)a doctor.

Out of curiosity, I tried, by putting the State of Maine in the search parameters. I figured there must be some Jeffrey Goldberg who was an underachiever somewhere in this State. But if there is, he's not advertising himself on line.

This brings me to a subject I was thinking about last night. I was watching (yes, another violent) movie last night, "American Gangster". It was a surprisingly slow, but fascinating movie about Frank Lucas, the biggest heroin dealer in Harlem during the late 60's and 70's and the cop who brought him down.

While watching this film, I found myself feeling quite sad. As I've mentioned, I watch a lot of disturbing movies, but I soon realized that it wasn't the movie, per se, that was bothering me. It was the soundtrack and the recreation of New York past. I was not watching this film as a person who is living in 2008, but a person who was alive in 1968, and that person was one very unhappy child.

Music can have that effect upon a person. It brings us back to times past much in the same way as smell - no thoughts, just raw bodily feelings that we may not even be aware of (no wonder couples pick such awful songs for their weddings).

I've been skimming the book, "The Mindful Way Through Depression" in the last two days, and now understand a bit more about why I can slip into a depression so easily. And yes, this does relate to watching the film.

When I hear the music of my early childhood, a part of me is still there, fixed in time. It doesn't matter how much I talk about it and think I've "resolved those issues". In some way, they are unresolvable. They can only be managed. It's like having post traumatic stress disorder (which, to tell you the truth, I've been diagnosed with, though I don't quite buy it).

One can't undo the past. One can only learn to live with it better.

In last night's thoughts, I had a silent wish for all parents: tell your kids that they can be anything they want. Tell your kids that they are beautiful. Tell them they are smart. Tell them they are special.

I was thinking on Obama and his smile. During the debate on Friday, in the midst of such seriousness, he would occasionally smile. His smile is dazzling and open. His eyes gleam merrily. Dick and I went to a small Chinese restaurant on Saturday night, where our waiter was a young man from China who was obviously just starting to master English. I asked him to read us the words on the back of the fortune cookie slips. This seemed to make this kid so happy! Someone wanted his expertise, and he laughed as I pathetically tried to pronounce the Chinese word for "today". I enjoyed his open laugh and smile, and then I thought about Obama.

How in the world did this man develop into someone so open and so full of optimism? He was born to a white single mother. His father left him. Just those three facts alone would, I'd imagine, statistically set him up for failure. But no, he grew up to be who we see now, a smart, self-assured and positive person.

We now know that genetics do play a role in these things, but nurture is still winning over nature in this debate. One thing we know about Obama is that his mother and grandparents gave him absolutely unconditional love and a deep, abiding respect for others. They also told him that he could be anything, with no reservations. They also gave him a deep trust in the power of education. And so, here he is today. Like him or not, one has to see that ones' upbringing can make all the difference in the world.

Obama could have been a deeply alienated and angry young man.

When I hear the music of the sixties, I am filled with a sense of creeping dread. That's because I have so few happy memories from that time. What kind of messages was I brought up with? They certainly weren't the ones that Obama's family gave him!

I learned these: There will probably be a nuclear disaster of major propertions in my lifetime. People are mean and stupid. There may be another Holocaust for the Jews. It's doubtful that you'll succeed in anything. The cards are stacked against you. Love is an illusion. Life is essentially meaningless. . .

I could go on, ad nauseum. It's a wonder I made it to the age of 16 with these ideas burned into my brain. I've spent my lifetime fighting the weight of all these negative messages. It takes up a lot of my energy and that energy could have been used for so many better things.

What has this to do with Jeffrey Goldberg? Give a bit of thought.

Painting note: Brueghel a detail of "Children's Games" 1560
According to the Elliott Avendon Museum and Archive of Games, there are over 200 children childen playing 80 different games in this painting.

Just nice

In a recent post, "Perfume lust", I was practically moaning with, well, lust, for Annick Goutal's Encens Flamboyant. Here's the description from the Annick Goutal website:

A mystical, arousing and intense scent.
An ode to frankincense, masterfully blended in three formats: Frankincense essence emerges first, a distillation of tears of frankincense, whose ethereal and mineral freshness evoke cold stone. Black pepper and rose berry bring a pungency and edginess.

Then comes frankincense resinoid, a warm and balmy scent, steeped in precious spices, cardamom and nutmeg. Finally, "Vieille église" frankincense deliciously burnt and warmed by woody balsam fir, welcoming and sweet, and pure extract of lentisque. Drawn from arid vegetation, it is also used in Kiphi, the prized Pharaonic perfume.

Now, I'm not usually swayed by ad copy, but this caused me to feel weak in the knees. I wanted some and wanted it badly. It's hard to find a good incense smell. I love L'artisan's Passage D'enfer, but wouldn't mind a change now and again. But at $175 for a bottle of this stuff, I could only yearn and hope that it would wind up on Ebay or some discount perfume store sometime in the future.

As I write this, I am now wearing some of this precious stuff, the supposedly flamboyant incense. It is a nice scent. That's it. Nice.

Don't you think for one hundred and seventy five bucks it should be a bit better than nice?

But I'm not rich, so what do I know? One hundred and seventy five bucks is chump change to one of the CEOs of Lehman Brothers, even if they've just lost their business. Perhaps some discouraged banker bought a bottle of this stuff for his wife on his way home from work -"Here, honey. Things aren't as bad as they seem. I got you a bottle of perfume!"

Hell, one hundred and seventy five bucks doesn't even get two people a good meal at the kind of restaurant a person who worked at Lehman Brothers would go to after a day of work. (Oh, I keep forgetting that someone who is middle-class makes 250K).

And you thought this was a perfume review?

Well, it is.

Encens Flamboyant is nice, and I'd certainly wear it. It is to my taste. It certainly is an incense fragrance. It lacks any hint of head shop (and at that price, it darn well better). I can smell the "burnt" frankincense and that is, again, nice.

Now that I've tried it, I can see why it doesn't come in smaller bottles. It is pretty weak. I needed to use half the vial (.5ml) to really smell the stuff, and I don't think I'm suffering from any anosmia.

So, there it is, folks. The big letdown. I'm glad for it. What if I had fallen in love?

Painting note: Edouard Manet Nana 1877
Would this woman wear something Flamboyant? I think not. She'd wear something nice.

Addendum: Thank you, Nika, for sending me a sample.
Also: I realize it was sexist of me to assume that a businessman might buy some of this for his wife, so I'll add: Perhaps at the end of the day, after hearing that she'd lost her job, some businesswoman at Lehman Brothers decided to walk uptown from Wall Street and stopped in at Aedes de Venustas on Christopher Street to cheer herself up with a new scent. It would be a shame if this is what she had settled on.
And no, I don't get anything for consistently linking to this wonderful store (sigh). And I presume I won't get anything for giving this scent such a pathetic review, will I?

Addendum II: Last night, the Encens Flamboyant seemed to fade away to near nothing. As I'm having a lazy Sunday morning and haven't had a shower yet, I notice its lingering scent. I would have bet good money that this scent would only be a memory the next day (and I would have lost). So, what did I do? Put some more on. It seems fitting on this terribly gray and rainy Autumn day.

Usually, I wake up with a stuffy nose. This morning my sense of smell seems more acute than normal. Was I indeed suffering from a bit of anosmia last night? Or perhaps one needs even more of this juice to really smell it. I didn't quite apply an entire .5 ml of the stuff yesterday - it was just an estimate - but now the vial is indeed half empty (or half full, as the happier person would say). Still, after one more application, it shall be gone, and it will not be replaced.

Addendum III: 4:10pm Uh oh. I felt a strong desire to apply more (and I did). This morning, while I was meditating, I felt keenly aware of the scent. This is not a good thing! Now I associate it with meditation, so I find it calming. Maybe I should ask my doctor for a prescription. I don't know how much street drugs cost, but what can one buy for around 60 dollars an ounce?

One more thing (and then, hopefully, I'll be done with this!): It does smell quite a bit like the super cheap incense I burn in my meditation room - Nippon Kodo's Morning Star Pine ($7.50 for 200 sticks). The Goutal doesn't smell like balsam fir and the real incense doesn't smell like pine. . .maybe it is me (and my poor untrained nose).

Addendum IV! I do smell the balsam. Last night, as I was falling asleep, with my hand pressed up against my face, I realized I was wondering "What ever happened to the little bag of balsam needles that I used to have?" Sniff. Sniff. It was my wrist sending me that thought. When the incense finally fades, there it is: balsam.

The end.

Can we disagree without being jerks? (and that includes me)

My internet service was down for the duration of the debate last night, so I didn't live-blog, which I was considering. Probably a good thing.

About one month ago, I made a decision to not elevate myself by speaking ill of others. I removed my posts about Sarah Palin when I made this decision, and finally (finally!) those cached posts are not being read.

I found the debate quite painful to watch. I also kept wondering how other people were reacting to it, as Dick and I both had a similar reaction to McCain's behavior. We thought he was creepy. I'd go further than that - I found his smirking and grimacing, not to mention his refusal to even look in Obama's direction - downright offensive. His behavior was not gentlemenly, and it made me realize just how refreshing I find Obama's demeanor. Obama addressed McCain as "John" and disagreed with McCain without condescension.

I do not think either of them "won" the debate. I doubt anyone's mind has been changed by last night. What we saw were two candidates with completely different world views - one sees the world through the lens of war and the other does not. One seems passionate because of honor and fear, while the other is cool. This last part reminds me of Kerry and Dukakis (though Obama is certainly not either of them). For some people, his cool demeanor may appear as though he doesn't care enough, but for me, it shows that he's not an over-reactor.

This week, we saw McCain's tendency towards drama unfold on two fronts. He considers the economic situation so dire that he must close down his campaign. He announces he may not attend the debate. Of course, neither thing occurred. Obama, on the other hand, may seem to be under-reacting, but my preference is always for over-analysis, so there's my particular prejudice.

My sense is that, once again, there are two types of Americans, and very few in the mid ground of opinion about these two governing styles. One side sees quick reactions and hyperbolic responses as "strong". The other sees measured thinking as "weak". In regards to the economy, last night Obain said to McCain, "The problem is you're using a hatchet where you need a scalpel." This may have seemed like a throwaway line, but I think it's telling. In order to use a scalpel, one needs to be calm and collected, and see both the large picture and the smallest details. Just imagining McCain as a brain surgeon gives me the willies. He seems ready to explode at any minute, barely unable to control himself, wildly impatient.

This is the style of a man steeped in battle. To me, this hypervigilant, the-world-as-a-potential-powderkeg filled with "enemies" worldview is one I'd rather not live in. McCain would call me naive, as he called Obama naive last night. Additionally, McCain kept talking about "winning" the war in Iraq. What are we actually winning? Noone asked that question. I wish Obama had asked him that pointedly. Perhaps this has become an untouchable question, for it reminds people old enough to remember of Vietnam, where we finally realized that there was indeed nothing to win. Unfortunately, this idea wound up doing the people fighting the war a big disservice, and I believe that's the reason noone's bringing this up.

I won't analyze this any further. I must say that I found Obama's willingness to say "I agree. . ." to be a breath of fresh air. The Republican pundits are spinning this to show how the inexperienced Obama is piggy-backing on the experience of McCain, but don't we all use the experience of others? That is how we all learn, and besides, it shows respect. It saddened me to see McCain treat Obama with such condescension. Is that how McCain is going to "reach across the aisle?"

I wondered why it bothered me so much that McCain's behavior was so nasty. Again, I think of the respect I once had for this man. The more I see and hear of him lately, the less I like him. Now, I do not base my voting decisions on whether I like or dislike a candidate - I've held my nose many a time while voting. However, the particular type of dismissive behavior that McCain showed last night scares me (coupled with the hasty and dramatic decisions he's made since picking Palin as his veep). We are in precarious times and our standing in the world is not good. I want a gentleman (or woman) in the White House, for once. We need to build alliances and not make more enemies.

Painting note: This image has absolutely nothing to do with this post. I'm in a hurry, is all, and I do like this artist's work quite a bit. His portraits are wonderful. Does the fact that I like this stuff make me an elite?
Antonello de Messina Hieronymus im Gehäus 1474

Animal postcards

Preface: I wrote this yesterday and then thought, "My writing has become too breezy. This is filled with memories that could be delved into with more insight and humor. Rewrite it!" Well, to heck with that! Another time, perhaps.

I mentioned in an earlier post that I collected cats-dressed-as-people postcards when I was a kid. I don't know what happened to that collection, which was quite large. Too bad, both because I'd like to look at the postcards in person, and because they are worth something.

It took very little time to find information about these cards, information that I never knew. You can read about them here, if you are interested. There's no reason for me to regurgitate this fine website's information. And I did not copy the image above from them (as they expressively asked not to!)

Oddly, even though the publishing company was in New York, I remember buying these cards in Gloucester, Massachusetts, when I was ten years old. I only visited there once, so I must have gotten them elsewhere, but I have no memory of where specifically. They were not easy to find and I do remember the joy of discovering a new place to purchase them!

I liked to collect things when I was a kid. My first collection was of "nice" rocks, which is a pretty common thing for kids to collect. I still do collect what I consider to be nice rocks. The other things that I collected when I was quite young were old portrait postcards and silver spoons. I would go to antiques fairs and play up my being a cute little girl. I used to marvel at my ability to dicker with people, for in every other situation, I was completely shy. I must have wanted these things badly to transcend my normal self, or perhaps I thought it was an interesting game. It's not like I'd ever see these people again, and, they were adults, which is an important distinction. I had very little idea of how to act like a child. It was not "natural" for me.

I loved these cat postcards so much way back when. They had all the qualities that hooked me: lots of detail, no people (very important), not modern. I still remember how much I did not like picture books that had people in them when I was still young enough to read picture books. But I didn't like my animals au naturelle - they had to be wearing clothing! I recall a favorite book, one where there was an apartment building of squirrels inside a tree.

I was a weird kid, of course. And now, to one of the children next door to me, I am a weird adult.

The shoutbox

Newsflash: My shoutbox has a limit of sixty posts an hour, which was not exceeded, but who am I to argue with its programmer? I will not be upgrading any time soon. Perhaps I should get a groupboard instead for the few times that there is convergence of real humans in real time.

My favorite scents, so far

I feel like I'm stuck on a selection of fragrances and that I can't find anything that compares to these. I thought I'd list them. As we say in Maine, "It's something to do."

Undying Passion:

L'artisan Passage D'enfer
L'artisan Dzongkha
Serge Lutens Chergui

Love:

L'artisan Safran Troublant
Serge Lutens Douce Amere
Serge Lutens Chypre Rouge
Serge Lutens Un Bois Vanille
Guerlain Jicky
Bulgari Black

Fickle Love:

Hermes Un Jardin sur le Nil
Guerlain Shalimar Light
Yves Rocher Rose Absolue
Chanel Les Exclusifs Eau de Cologne
CB I Hate Perfume Memories of Kindness
Diptyque Philosykos
Annick Goutal Neroli

Lost loves:
Chanel No. 19
Chanel Cristalle
An old bottle of White Shoulders
Hermes Caleche

There's many CB I Hate Perfume fragrances that I truly admire and find fascinating, but don't want to wear. I just like sniffing them.

Truthfully, there isn't anything by Lutens or L'artisan that I don't like to some extent. I wonder what it is about these two that appeals to me so uniformly. Any ideas?

Painting note: Francois Boucher La Toilette 1742
What to do for an image? Find something French. Well, that's done. I've never been one for the Roccoco period, but I find this absolutely charming. It reminds me of the paintings of cats dressed as people postcards that I collected when I was a child.

Procrastination

I've never had a big problem with procrastination. Sure, there are plenty of things that I've put off doing, but in this area, I think I'm in the "normal range" (whatever that means). Oh, what does that mean? I suppose I rate normalcy as not being overly one way or another. In the case of procrastination, there are some things that I put off and other things that I get to right away. Thus, normal.

However, I am having a big problem with my schoolwork. It has been so boring to me that I find it nearly impossible to engage with it. And since most of the work is online, it's quite easy to navigate away from the page (as I'm doing right now).

This is interesting: I realize that if there was a textbook, I'd probably be more engaged. This is the second "class" in a row without a textbook, and I had a problem with that course material, too.

Textbook or no, the course material is painfully dull. How much can one read about filing systems? I took an exam yesterday and encountered questions like how many filer drawers are needed for x amount of files. I did the math, but my answer was wrong. Of course, I didn't use the "official" numbers that were in the course, for I never wrote them down. I couldn't bring myself to take notes. . .I skimmed, over and over again.

I need to knuckle down, but I can't seem to. One thing I've never been was a diligent drudge. I've never been big on taking notes, for one thing. In the past, I've found that taking notes gets in the way of paying attention to what I'm listening to or reading. Now, I must take notes, for I've no textbook to refer to.

How do you push yourself to do something that you can't stand doing? Right now, I'm feeling like I'd rather subject myself to various forms of torture than do this work. Maybe I am subjecting myself to torture by doing this work. That's what it feels like.

Any suggestions would be truly appreciated!

Painting note: Henry Fuseli The Nightmare 1781
While searching for a painting of someone asleep, I found this. An artist I have never heard of, or seen (or if I did, I don't remember it).

The 161st post

Earlier today I was thinking "maybe I should stop blogging. . .perhaps I've run out of things to write about. . ." As faithful readers well know, I think this from time to time. Usually, this promotes a flurry of writing! When I noticed that I'd posted 160 entries since March, I was rather surprised. Considering how long most of my blog entries are (and the fact that there are many that I have taken down or never posted), I've done quite a bit of writing.

So, there was the preface to my 161st post.

Many thoughts are swirling around in my mind this evening.

I just watched a new television show, "The Mentalist", and while I enjoyed it somewhat, I wondered why I was wasting an hour of my time watching it. I also wondered why I like watching tv shows and movies about murder. I have always liked mysteries. When I was in elementary school, I read every single book Agatha Christie ever wrote (and that's quite a few). I used to read true crime books, but decided they were terrible for my mental health, especially as I was living in New York City when I was consuming these loathesome pieces of writing. I lived in quite a bit of fear and generally slept during the day time. I will say, (in defense of my neurosis), that New York was much more dangerous back then.

This past week, I've watched a quite a few violent movies (as per usual). Watching these movies feels particularly awful right now because I'm quite aware of the state of affairs in the real world, and they are not good. Some people watch fake violence, I would guess, to distract themselves from the real violence around them. When analyzing why I tend to like murder mysteries, suspence thrillers and the like, I think it's because I have always been fascinated with extremes of human behavior. But these days, it just feels like a bad habit.

The fact that the polar ice caps are melting, we are in the midst of an energy and financial crisis, I'm unemployed and worried about getting work, the winter is coming up here in Maine, the outcome of the presidential election is uncertain, a state trooper in my town had a nervous breakdown after witnessing a particularly gruesome accident, and all the rest of it, what some call the "full catastrophe", well, adding insult to injury by watching irrelevant violent movies just seems wrong. If I insist upon wasting my hours consuming entertainment, I think I'd be far better off watching comedies that make me laugh or documentaries about inspiring people or anything that's more healthy than murder and mayhem.

I suggested to others that they go out and look at the beauty of the world and what do I do? I sit in my living room watching crap. I didn't even own a television set for well over ten years. Now, the damned thing is on every night. On top of that, I almost obsessively read political blogs.

I would like to read Bruce E. Levine's book "Surviving America's Depression: How to Find Morale, Energy and Community in a World Gone Crazy". The only criticism I've heard of it is that the suggestions about community are a bit hard for those who live in rural America (sigh). Otherwise, it sounds like it'll be a great read. There: another book plug for a book I haven't read. I'll get back to you on it, I promise (sort of).

The tv show that I watched earlier must have been well written, for I just realized that I feel rather creeped out, and considering how frightening a lot of the stuff I watch is, I'm surprised anything can get to me. I've been watching Wire in the Blood, where Robson Green plays the completely crazy criminal profiler Tony Hill. I had always thought the British were more subtle than the Americans in their television fare, but this show is more gruesome than anything on this side of the pond. And in spite of my continued avowal to stop watching this stuff, I keep on doing it.

Now I've forgotten everything else that I meant to write about. This blog is becoming too much of a daily journal, I'd say. I need to get myself in line.

I also am well aware that people like to read short things. I am in deep trouble. You probably didn't even get this far. And I can't say I don't blame you.

If you did get this far, the last paragraph was a good example of the kind of self-deprecating remark that I always point out to others when they give voice to their self-dislike (I hesitate to say self-hatred). What good can it possibly serve? Is it a plea for a "oh, no, that's not true!" response or yet another bad habit? Probably both. I'll watch for it. And no, I am not depressed. Just pensive. It's not like twelve hours of meditation is going to completely overhaul my personality. . .

Painting note: Francis Bacon - Head I 1948
I've always found Bacon's work to be quite disturbing. For some reason, I was given the impression in art school that he was an artist not to be taken seriously. I realize I know nothing at all about him, so I should probably go read the link I've supplied here. I fear this will not be uplifting.

Zaftig

Oy vay. The word "zaftig" is an American word. Here's the etymology: Yiddish zaftik, literally, juicy, succulent. Zaft, juice: Middle High German: saft, earlier saf, juice, sap + -ig, -y.

Well, now I know that I've been called "juicy" by relatives. Ick! But I'm guessing they hadn't a clue. They just thought they were using a nicer word than the American "chubby", which is slightly better than saying one has a lot of baby fat (and no one over six years of age can still have the cute form of that).

Last night, when I stayed up late (with one eye open) after mistakenly drinking a large cup of dark roast coffee thinking it wouldn't affect me (ha), I was thinking about how I used to be heckled by guys when I was young. I found it annoying and threatening, especially when I was hissed at.

Some years back, a friend mentioned how much she enjoyed going to Spain and Italy, where men would verbally harass her on the street all the time. She didn't use the word "harass", but I don't remember what word she used because I was so surprised. She actually enjoyed this attention?! Yes, indeed. In fact, she bemoaned the fact that now that she was in her thirties, she didn't get as much attention on the street as she used to. This perspective was a surprise to me. For the first time in my life, I thought "I might be a puritanical American".

Since I haven't lived in New York City for over twenty years, I hadn't noticed that I was no longer being harassed (or paid attention to) by strange men on the street. After hearing my friend talk about it, the next time I was in a city, I did in fact notice that noone said a word to me. I had become an invisible woman. And frankly, even though I may have felt less harassed, I realized that I had missed something terribly important. I had missed that I had once been a beautiful young woman. How sad.

Though I don't advocate yelling at women on the street (not in the least), I realize that I miss being wanted. Not by those strangers, no, not that. It's more of a general thing. When I look in the mirror these days, I think, "Who would desire that?" I sure wouldn't (and don't). Just as they say you need to love oneself before others can love you fully, I think one needs to find themselves their own sex object before one can be truly wanted. And if you think feeling desired is of no consequence, just wait until you're not and see how it feels.

Of course, in this society we do put too much emphasis on physical desirability. And people who are in long term relationships can see each other in ways that others do not. The elderly woman who's been married for fifty years, well, in the best of worlds, her husband still sees the young beauty he fell in love with long ago. At least that is what we all hope for, isn't it?

Last night I was also thinking about my mother. She had a full face lift in 1984, before it was all that common for middle class women to do this. She spend all her savings on that face lift, which I found most disturbing. The odd thing is that I do not recall if I saw her afterwards. She died that year due to a car accident. When I had to settle her accounts, she had less than five hundred dollars in the bank, not even enough to buy a plain casket. All that surgery had been for nothing, but how was she to know?

I judged her quite a bit for that face lift. I wondered why she couldn't accept getting old. And when she died, I thought that she was spared the business of becoming elderly, which I could not imagine her doing. My mother cared so much about the externals - clothing and weight. She regularly took people under her wing and gave them complete makeovers. She'd take dorky guys shopping, oversee their haircuts, give them advice on making witty conversation. And if they wound up with more dates, hooray!

I feel badly now, thinking that I felt my mother was spared, for I am moving into the same territory of age that she was having difficulty with. My mother looked far better than I at the age I am now, but that's because I haven't cared all that much about these things.

I have also harbored a delusion of pretty big proportions: Thinking that I was an unattractive woman, I figured I wouldn't notice the changes that middle age would bring. I figured there would be no sense of lost. Oh, how wrong I was!

Painting Note: Peter Paul Rubens (again). A portrait of his zaftig wife, Hélène Fourment.

Addendum: I don't know if it'll change by the time you get there, but if you click on the link for yourdictionary.com's definition of zaftig (not the one I used above), you will find something I found rather disturbing. There's ads for shoes, shoes and more shoes plus lots of pink ads for the movie "Sex in the City" and shoes, shoes and more shoes. There's got to be a diet link on there somewhere, but all that pink made me want to go away fairly quickly. And I do like pink, but just not in such large quantities.

Jeans update: This morning I realized the absurdity of a 5'1" woman wearing a pair of 38 inch jeans. I am not morbidly obese. If I think I'm actually hiding my fat by wearing these, I'm mistaken. Well, maybe I am, 'cause my neighbor said to me reccently after I declined a size 8 pair of pants someone gave her, "I can't tell what size you are - everything you wear is so baggy!" But the gals at What Not to Wear would have a field day with me (and I wish they would!) so I'm giving these jeans to Dick. Hope he likes them. (Note: I put the link to the show there, but I don't know if it's still any good: Trinny and Susannah are gone!)

Size(s)

I have steadily gained weight over the last few years. Not being happy with this, I came up with a strategy, not a diet: I decided to eat like I was living alone Monday through Friday and share meals with Dick and friends on the weekends (unless something special came up). I instituted this new eating policy in the late Spring and assumed it would work well, for I've always been thin when I've lived alone.

I'm a social eater. I don't sit alone and nibble on food while watching TV. I like eating meals. I'm not a grazer. Though I often get cravings for iced cream or popcorn (especially while watching movies), I can live without either. As far as eating goes, my greatest pleasure is eating with others while engaging in lively conversation. The second biggest pleasure is eating in silence and savoring each bite of food for all it is worth.

So, the plan made all the sense in the world. But, it did not work. I have gained at least ten pounds since I changed my eating habits. I went from being chubby to being big, and it's a shock.

I have never stayed the same size for too long. Three years is probably the maximum time limit I've had on any one size. But going from a size 0 to a size 6 is not such a big deal. I was way too thin when I was a 0 (though I didn't think so at the time). Size 6 was nice. It was this past Spring when I hit the double digit number of 10 and decided to do something about it.

And now I'm even bigger. Who is this person? I am unrecognizable to myself.

I needed to buy a new pair of jeans today. Nothing fit. Looking in the dressing room mirror (which I tried to avoid) was frightening. Not only am I fat, but everything is sagging. My extremely white skin makes it all the worse looking. I tried to look and not think such self-loathing thoughts. It can't possibly be good for my mental health to think such things as "you are disgusting." But I could not turn off these sorts of thoughts.

I wound up buying a pair of men's carpenter jeans that are insanely huge. I need to use a belt pulled up tight in order to keep the jeans from falling down. I may be big, but I'm nowhere near a size 38! I've always liked the look of too-big pants and a tiny waist, but now I'm missing that all important component (the tiny waist). And when I cinch in the waistline of the jeans, they ride up so high that there's only a few inches to go before one hits my boob line.

I am a short, fat and middle-aged woman. And I have limp brown shoulder length hair. Ugh.

I loved it when I was really skinny and had a shaved head. I was androgynous. I felt strong. Now I look an awful lot like my grandmother. No one in their right mind would mistake me for a boy. And for someone like me, who doesn't feel all that gendered, this feels almost as strange as wearing a frou-frou dress (actually - it's far worse). Unfortunately, unlike a dress, I can't just remove the excess fat from my body in one fell swoop and throw it on the floor in disgust.

I don't know what to do. I don't eat all that much, and I eat healthy food. I haven't been as active as I used to be, but that doesn't account for it all. I know that I am on medication that can put on the pounds, and that may account for quite a bit. Plus, I am no longer a young woman. No woman in my family was thin in their older years (and I remember none of them overeating).

I may have to resign myself to this. I realize that being okay with it, and with myself just the way I am, is far harder than any diet I've ever been on. And there may be a lot more merit to achieving that kind of self-acceptance and love than being my "ideal size".

Painting note: Rubens "Venus Before the Mirror" 1615 I always turn to Rubens when I feel gross. When I was a kid, folks called overweight women "zaftig". I am typing with one eye open (yep, that's how tired I am), so I'm too lazy to look up what the exact meaning of the word (German, I presume) means. Anyone like to inform me?

Addendum: I tossed off this post in a hurry while fighting sleep. I think this is an important topic. Weight and size are huge issues for women, and theses issues, in my opinion, are far larger than the amount of energy they use up. I may wind up taking down this post and re-writing it when I can think more clearly, and if I do not, this surely won't be the end of the topic.

As an aside, I notice that I write about myself instead of writing theoretically. This, I've discovered, is quite "feminine" of me. I assume that by your reading of my experiences and feelings, you'll think about your own experiences and feelings. I may be making a wrong assumption. But, I suspect not.

Cobie Smulders picture gallery

Jacoba Fransisca Maria "Cobie" Smulders is a famous television actress and former international model.

Cobie Smulders was born to a Dutch father and a British mother on 3rd of april 1982.
She was very eager to become an actress and her first role was as a guest in the Showtime sci-fi series Jeremiah. But Her first permanent series role was in the short-lived ABC series Veritas: The Quest.

Name: Cobie Smulders
Birth Date: 03-04-1982
Birth Place: Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada

Courteney Cox wallpaper gallery

Courteney Bass Cox is also known as Courteney Cox Arquette, is an American actress, former model and film producer. Courteney Cox is known for her role as Monica Geller in the famous TV sitcom Friends and as Lucy Spiller, in the television drama "Dirt".

Cox was born in a wealthy family in Birmingham, Alabama. Her parents were Courteney and the late Richard Lewis Cox. Cox has two older sisters, Virginia McFerrin and Dottie Pickett, an older brother,Richard,Jr. on june 12, 1999,Cox married David Arquette and On June 13,2004, she gave birth to their first child, daughter Coco Riley Arquette.

Name: Courteney Bass Cox
Birth Date: 15-06-1964
Birth Place: Birmingham, Alabama United States
Spouse(s): David Arquette (1999-present)

Star Summer Style 2008 - Sexy Star Bikinis

Vanessa Hudgens

Gisele Bundchen

Eva Longoria Parker

Blake Lively and Maria Menounos

Nicky Hilton

Hilary Swank

Paris Hilton

Kristin Cavallari

Ashlee Simpson

Penelope Cruz

Sienna Miller

Mena Suvari

Mischa Barton

Ashley Tisdale

Drew Barrymore

Kate Walsh

FALL FASHION TRENDS 2008

Blake Lively

Tailored Jackets

Blake Lively dressed up her skinny jeans and Henley tank with a navy and white jacket from Smythe. Gold buttons on the double-breasted blazer added nautical flair.

Anne Hathaway

Rocker

Anne Hathaway rocked a single-shoulder design from Sophia Kokosalaki. She kept her leather ladylike with classic black pumps and a curled coif.

Emma Watson

Feminine

Emma Watson looked refreshingly girly in a white lace dress by Charles Anastase. Satin fabrics and ruffle details also work to capture this feminine look.

Camilla Belle

High-Waist Pants

Camilla Belle was an updated Annie Hall in rib-grazing trousers from Giorgio Armani. A tucked-in tank and leather blazer kept the silhouette strong and sophisticate

Nicole Richie

Floral

Skip all-over pastels—this autumnal update requires a darker palette. The gray hues in Nicole Richie’s Dries van Noten gown render it a sophisticated and perfectly appropriate choice for an evening affair.

Kristin Davis

Floral

Flowers are no longer just for spring! Make the look fall-appropriate by adding heavier accessories—like Kristin Davis. The actress grounded her Michael Kors dress with a black bag and heels. Cover legs with black or gray opaque tights when the temperature drops.

Michelle Trachtenberg

Full Skirts

Michelle Trachtenberg oozed sophistication in the high-waist Chanel skirt she wore to the design house's boutique opening in L.A. The young starlet's solid tank and pumps let the crystal-detailed skirt take center stage.

Penelope Cruz

Full Skirts

Penelope Cruz was very much a lady in a ruffle knit top, Oscar de la Renta pleated skirt and peep-toe pumps. The actress stayed true to her romantic style here in New York.

Claire Danes

Metallic

Claire Danes shimmered in a draped and belted dress by Gucci. Matching metallic sandals and diamond bracelet made the dazzling frock even more golden.

Fergie

Slouchy

Fergie’s LBD is anything but basic. The slouchy draping and keyhole gives a nod to sexy, while the leather catch keeps it edgy. The songbird added a touch of glamour to the look with a diamond cuff and jeweled heels.