*Blessings to S, of S'n'J, for his ad agent's mind on this one, and just for being an overall doll. Love these two fiercely. Can't help it, won't stop it, don't even want to. It seems right to dedicate this posting to these two, especially since they still told people they were dating maybe 7 or more years into being together. They are my personal heroes.
So, let's be real. Those of you not receiving the play by play in person (and even some of you who do, I suspect) don't want to hear the sordid details my dating life. Well, I know some of you don't. Like my auntie, if she is reading this. As liberal a lady as she may be... I mean, Highlights For Children bug article creation by day/ Soft Porn Romance writer by night? How much more liberal can an auntie get? And yet...
I am keeping it G-Rated. But several have asked about my New Year's Resolutions and so I will comply.
Background: As those with a better memory than me will recall:
2004 = Sar has still never made a new year's resolution. This works out perfectly.
2005 = Sar resolves to make new year's resolutions, beginning with... Sar Doesn't Date in 2005. Much like her ability to comply with Yom Kippur, Sar makes it through 2005 until about the year equivalent of 3pm on a sundown-to-sundown day (that'd be like ... Octoberish). So really you could say Sar Doesn't Date from 1-1-05 through the Lunar New Year through the Fiscal New Year and pretty much through the Jewish New Year.... But any way you slice it, Sar leaps by November into a frenzied dating whirl, which leads to:
2006 = (1) Year of Mediocre Poetry Creation and (2) Originally: Yes: Dating, No: Kissing, but at the behest of EVERYONE this was declared RIDICULOUS and thus was soon revised to become: First Dates Only in 06.
Always the commitment-phobe, this sorta lasted. There were a couple slip-ups in which I went on say... five first dates with the same person. I always ended up regretting it and thus back to the resolution I went. And of course, one thing led to another, which it always does in the living world, and those things eventually led to:
2007 = (1) Finish ONE short story (Check, Done!) and (2) See Posting Title While Simultaneously Avoiding Even Chatting With Married Men, Who It Turns Out, Cannot Be Trusted.
Apparently this one needs further clarification (er... justification?), presently morphing from 'Married Men' into 'Married Men Who Are Not Truly Fer Real Separated And That Includes Who Are Not Separated Just In Their Own Minds as well as Any of Those Who Don't UNEQUIVOCALLY avoid the use such phrases as What Happens in Cabo Stays In Cabo' (Editor's note: Euw. And yeah, especially if nothing happens, fer shur).
There you have it. Puttin' it in writing; the best way to keep an ethical gal honest.
1.31.2007
1.30.2007
And They Call This Grad School?*
* First, a shoutout to A of A'n'AA, who suggested both a title for this particular diatribe and reminded me, as I stood for an HOUR in a line at Best Buy at 8pm on a Tuesday night to PICK UP the Dance Dance Revolution and PS2 that I'd ordered on-line for my godforsaken classroom in order to avoid lines at Best Buy [Visualize: well-intentioned Best Buy employee repeatedly and quizzically digging through cabinet designated for On-line orders... all 20 of them, while Yours Truly says things in the background to her like... I'm pretty sure it is that PS2 on the shelf. The only PS2 there. That PS2... until she puts her hand on the PS2 box for the 50th time and says, 'Oh hey. I think it is this one. Was it a PS2?' and Yours Truly responds by slowly exhaling and bringing one finger to her eyelid, which has taken to uncontrollably twitching], that the beauty of my f#&@ed up life is that these blogs pretty much write themselves. Ode to joy.
But believe it or not, she was not referring to the particular pain of mass consumerism in the form of Best Buy. She was instead speaking to the commencement of a certain illustrious grad school institution's Spring Semester.
But prior to such unfortunate event recounting, and because I like to pretend to be a positive person for at least one minute every day, allow me to point out what has gone well this week (which is only two days old, really):
(1) I enjoyed the ever-pleasurable dinner company of S and J, and I am still enjoying the residual taste-memory of the sucking down of the most divine, airy, fresh from the oven, steaming lemon pudding cake formed in the hands of J, dinner co-host, former pants-suit wearing 70s housewife extraordinaire, and teacher of such gradient phrases as "girl, girlina, girltressa" and
(2) I survived the first night of class(es) by pondering this same host's livid distain for the phrases "garden vegetables" and "all-new episode," which thankfully caused my brain to pause and even stall.
On the other hand, what's gone less well this week? The start of Spring Semester.
All the classes I am to take all take place on Tuesday. Which could be good, right? Except they actually all take place atop each other like a mosaic, or a slimy mass of paper mache.
And because the Human Subjects Committee has thusfar not approved my field study research topic, I have been frozen from electronically adding classes.... except, weirdly, Ballroom Dancing (a General Ed class which couldn't possibly count towards my Masters, no matter how nuanced my mastery of bullshit is).
Thus I am required by this computer/bureaucracy mayhem to attend all of the "hoped for" classes, in the hopes that eventually, before the end of the Add period, I will be able to Add at least one class that remotely functions for what I need.
And on top of it, it's spring in the Sunset. Which of course means it is really fuckin cold the first night of class(es).
But I am not bitter, mostly because there are only a few things I can be bitter about at once [and I hadn't even gotten to Best Buy yet at that point in the evening]. I never was a great multi-tasker. A beginner but not ender of stuff? Yes. Good at that. But multi-tasker? Not so much. But enough asides.
My Tuesday night options:
1. Creative Short Story Construction One Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10-6:55pm.
My arrival time: 4pm.
Sighting and subsequent ignoring of 19 year old Drunken Ducky Writing Student from last spring's writing class [see previous blog entries on dating avoidance]: 4:15pm.
Arrival time of teacher: 4:25pm.
Weird teacher mannerisms: Various dropping of pens and pencils and books of teacher by teacher from 4:26 - 4:34 pm.
Final name called from roll: 4:50.
Stated Verdict: “There is no fucking way you are going to get in. Good fucking luck."
Departure time: 4:51pm.
2. Stress Management and Relaxation Techniques and Theories Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10-6:55pm.
My arrival time: 4:56pm.
Arrival time of teacher: Unknown.
Final name called from roll: Unknown.
Weird teacher mannerisms [See below]: 4:56pm - 5:11 at least.
PhD [to class]: “Feel free to do all 15 weeks homework, reading, and writing and take the two exams and be done with this class within the next two weeks, email it all to me and we never see you again. I invite you.”
Me: [Chin on Floor]
Another Student: “Can I still get an A like that?”
PhD [to class]: “Yes.”
A third student: "And we wouldn't have to do any group projects?"
PhD [to class]: “You'd become groups of one. You'd email me. No presentation. You'd just do the group project with you to me."
Me: [Chin on Floor]
SEVERAL MINUTES LATER...
PhD [In midst of Power-Point beginning lecture to class]: “Remember, the speed of thought is faster than the speed of life.”
SEVERAL MINUTES LATER...
PhD [to class]: "You will need two textbooks. They each cost approximately $100. They are not available used, nor have I put copies of them on reserve in the library. There is a lot of reading. A lot of worksheets. A lot of quizzes to prove you read. Everything will be on ilearn. There will be no exchanging of paper. There WILL be an overwhelming amount of work. This is a class to learn diverse techniques to reduce and manage stress. Now everyone stand up and extend your left large toe." [PhD proceeds to lead us through a stretch activity that ends in us collectively spiritually and physically hurling our stress out the door of the classroom.]
Me: [Experience backflashes to singing I am an Artist I am a Healer. The PTSD begins to set in, resulting in cold sweats.]
ONE MINUTE THAT FEELS AN ETERNITY LATER...
PhD [to class, prior to returning to Power Pointing the class to less stress]: "People drop this class not because of the work. No. It is because they fear facing themselves."
Me [to self]: Uh-huh. Not because he is very very scary. No comment.
Stated Verdict: ["Danny isn't here anymore, Mrs. Torrance"]
Departure time: 5:11pm.
3. Ballroom Dancing (the ONLY option for an evening dance class, FYI):
Listed time of class: 5pm - 6:55pm.
Arrival time of the 80 students trying to take the class: Unknown.
My arrival time: 5:17pm.
My name called from roll: 5:18pm.
Weird teacher mannerisms: Teacher makes comments that involve showing us moves and then saying, "Well, if you find yourself getting all twisted up in the other person's arms, you can either let go and start over or you can..." and proceeds to give us this convoluted explanation of throwing our legs over eachother's clasped hands in a pair-version of THE HUMAN KNOT teambuilder. Such comments turn out to be jokes, as far as I can tell. Dry Dance Teacher Humor. Which of course results in half the class grinning weakly while shaking their heads while the other half of the class, the Earnest Beginners Circle upon whom Dance Teacher Humor is utterly lost, furtively and continually attempt such unbecoming gymnastics. Sporatically from 5:29 - 6pm, as we hurl each other about like untrained monkeys around the room.
Dismissal of class: 5:54pm.
Sighting of and Chatting with My Own Former Students who turn out to be in this class: 5:55pm.
Stated Verdict: "Can I somehow argue to my advisor that the presence of former students from my work somehow legitimates the connection of this class to my Master's work? Hmmmm. Let me ponder that."
Departure time: 6:02pm.
4. Poetry Creation Two Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10 - 6:55.
My arrival time: 6:18pm.
Arrival time of teacher: Unknown.
Weird teacher mannerisms: Unknown.
Final name called from roll: Unknown.
Stated Verdict:
Prof - "And you are...?"
Me - "The writer of that little yellow note you are holding in your hand." [Which explained my situation rather cryptically and yet in long-hand to her in her mailbox at the Creative Writing Dept. Office the previous week because the dept secretary refused, I mean refused, to cough up an email address or office hours for anyone in the dept.]
Prof - "So you are not a creative writing major, 2006 was your Year of Mediocre Poetry Creation, and though you weedled your way into a creative writing class last year, you have never actually taken Poetry Creation One?"
Me - "I didn't realize that was a prerequisite."
Prof - "Huh. I guess that was not clear. Well, the class is full, but there is no waiting list, so I will contact you if someone drops out." [Subtext: There is no fucking way you are going to get in. Good fucking luck.]
Me - "I will look forward to hearing from you."
Departure time: 6:21pm.
Eating of falafel before heading to stand in line at Best Buy for an hour: 6:24pm.
Welcome back, dear friends. It is going to be a long spring.
But believe it or not, she was not referring to the particular pain of mass consumerism in the form of Best Buy. She was instead speaking to the commencement of a certain illustrious grad school institution's Spring Semester.
But prior to such unfortunate event recounting, and because I like to pretend to be a positive person for at least one minute every day, allow me to point out what has gone well this week (which is only two days old, really):
(1) I enjoyed the ever-pleasurable dinner company of S and J, and I am still enjoying the residual taste-memory of the sucking down of the most divine, airy, fresh from the oven, steaming lemon pudding cake formed in the hands of J, dinner co-host, former pants-suit wearing 70s housewife extraordinaire, and teacher of such gradient phrases as "girl, girlina, girltressa" and
(2) I survived the first night of class(es) by pondering this same host's livid distain for the phrases "garden vegetables" and "all-new episode," which thankfully caused my brain to pause and even stall.
On the other hand, what's gone less well this week? The start of Spring Semester.
All the classes I am to take all take place on Tuesday. Which could be good, right? Except they actually all take place atop each other like a mosaic, or a slimy mass of paper mache.
And because the Human Subjects Committee has thusfar not approved my field study research topic, I have been frozen from electronically adding classes.... except, weirdly, Ballroom Dancing (a General Ed class which couldn't possibly count towards my Masters, no matter how nuanced my mastery of bullshit is).
Thus I am required by this computer/bureaucracy mayhem to attend all of the "hoped for" classes, in the hopes that eventually, before the end of the Add period, I will be able to Add at least one class that remotely functions for what I need.
And on top of it, it's spring in the Sunset. Which of course means it is really fuckin cold the first night of class(es).
But I am not bitter, mostly because there are only a few things I can be bitter about at once [and I hadn't even gotten to Best Buy yet at that point in the evening]. I never was a great multi-tasker. A beginner but not ender of stuff? Yes. Good at that. But multi-tasker? Not so much. But enough asides.
My Tuesday night options:
1. Creative Short Story Construction One Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10-6:55pm.
My arrival time: 4pm.
Sighting and subsequent ignoring of 19 year old Drunken Ducky Writing Student from last spring's writing class [see previous blog entries on dating avoidance]: 4:15pm.
Arrival time of teacher: 4:25pm.
Weird teacher mannerisms: Various dropping of pens and pencils and books of teacher by teacher from 4:26 - 4:34 pm.
Final name called from roll: 4:50.
Stated Verdict: “There is no fucking way you are going to get in. Good fucking luck."
Departure time: 4:51pm.
2. Stress Management and Relaxation Techniques and Theories Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10-6:55pm.
My arrival time: 4:56pm.
Arrival time of teacher: Unknown.
Final name called from roll: Unknown.
Weird teacher mannerisms [See below]: 4:56pm - 5:11 at least.
PhD [to class]: “Feel free to do all 15 weeks homework, reading, and writing and take the two exams and be done with this class within the next two weeks, email it all to me and we never see you again. I invite you.”
Me: [Chin on Floor]
Another Student: “Can I still get an A like that?”
PhD [to class]: “Yes.”
A third student: "And we wouldn't have to do any group projects?"
PhD [to class]: “You'd become groups of one. You'd email me. No presentation. You'd just do the group project with you to me."
Me: [Chin on Floor]
SEVERAL MINUTES LATER...
PhD [In midst of Power-Point beginning lecture to class]: “Remember, the speed of thought is faster than the speed of life.”
SEVERAL MINUTES LATER...
PhD [to class]: "You will need two textbooks. They each cost approximately $100. They are not available used, nor have I put copies of them on reserve in the library. There is a lot of reading. A lot of worksheets. A lot of quizzes to prove you read. Everything will be on ilearn. There will be no exchanging of paper. There WILL be an overwhelming amount of work. This is a class to learn diverse techniques to reduce and manage stress. Now everyone stand up and extend your left large toe." [PhD proceeds to lead us through a stretch activity that ends in us collectively spiritually and physically hurling our stress out the door of the classroom.]
Me: [Experience backflashes to singing I am an Artist I am a Healer. The PTSD begins to set in, resulting in cold sweats.]
ONE MINUTE THAT FEELS AN ETERNITY LATER...
PhD [to class, prior to returning to Power Pointing the class to less stress]: "People drop this class not because of the work. No. It is because they fear facing themselves."
Me [to self]: Uh-huh. Not because he is very very scary. No comment.
Stated Verdict: ["Danny isn't here anymore, Mrs. Torrance"]
Departure time: 5:11pm.
3. Ballroom Dancing (the ONLY option for an evening dance class, FYI):
Listed time of class: 5pm - 6:55pm.
Arrival time of the 80 students trying to take the class: Unknown.
My arrival time: 5:17pm.
My name called from roll: 5:18pm.
Weird teacher mannerisms: Teacher makes comments that involve showing us moves and then saying, "Well, if you find yourself getting all twisted up in the other person's arms, you can either let go and start over or you can..." and proceeds to give us this convoluted explanation of throwing our legs over eachother's clasped hands in a pair-version of THE HUMAN KNOT teambuilder. Such comments turn out to be jokes, as far as I can tell. Dry Dance Teacher Humor. Which of course results in half the class grinning weakly while shaking their heads while the other half of the class, the Earnest Beginners Circle upon whom Dance Teacher Humor is utterly lost, furtively and continually attempt such unbecoming gymnastics. Sporatically from 5:29 - 6pm, as we hurl each other about like untrained monkeys around the room.
Dismissal of class: 5:54pm.
Sighting of and Chatting with My Own Former Students who turn out to be in this class: 5:55pm.
Stated Verdict: "Can I somehow argue to my advisor that the presence of former students from my work somehow legitimates the connection of this class to my Master's work? Hmmmm. Let me ponder that."
Departure time: 6:02pm.
4. Poetry Creation Two Class:
Listed time of class: 4:10 - 6:55.
My arrival time: 6:18pm.
Arrival time of teacher: Unknown.
Weird teacher mannerisms: Unknown.
Final name called from roll: Unknown.
Stated Verdict:
Prof - "And you are...?"
Me - "The writer of that little yellow note you are holding in your hand." [Which explained my situation rather cryptically and yet in long-hand to her in her mailbox at the Creative Writing Dept. Office the previous week because the dept secretary refused, I mean refused, to cough up an email address or office hours for anyone in the dept.]
Prof - "So you are not a creative writing major, 2006 was your Year of Mediocre Poetry Creation, and though you weedled your way into a creative writing class last year, you have never actually taken Poetry Creation One?"
Me - "I didn't realize that was a prerequisite."
Prof - "Huh. I guess that was not clear. Well, the class is full, but there is no waiting list, so I will contact you if someone drops out." [Subtext: There is no fucking way you are going to get in. Good fucking luck.]
Me - "I will look forward to hearing from you."
Departure time: 6:21pm.
Eating of falafel before heading to stand in line at Best Buy for an hour: 6:24pm.
Welcome back, dear friends. It is going to be a long spring.
1.24.2007
Umbalakade: Fish or Spice?
Hello long-neglected readers: It's 2007, the Golden Pig is practically nuzzling us for truffles, work is in finals, I am in grading avoidance, school starts Tuesday (look for Season 3 episodes to traumatize us both soon), and I appear to be ridiculously hot for someone who looks like a combo of a Smurf (but not blue) and Peter Dinklage (but not a vegetarian and without achondroplasia). So you can see why it is best for all involved that I take a writing break.
Welcome back.
So last week I was at AA'n'A's seasonal thematic potluck gathering and had many a fabulous conversation with many a delightful person, some of whose names begin with Hal (and some of them began and ended with Hal, which is quite convenient here). And one such conversation with one such Hal led to the vegetarians' love-hate relationship with Asian 'spices' that happen to have been sentient beings at one time. And this particular Hal had me promising to write to you all about it. Now, normally a promise-keeper I am not (and I am certainly not a Promise Keeper, insert skin shudder here), but I had had two divine pieces of cheesecake and couldn't really be held responsible for what came out of my mouth at that point.
So, while lagging, promises will be kept.
The issue at hand.... Is Umbalakade a fish or a spice?
[No, you cannot stay in the middle. This is my game and I am sick of both the fence sitting liberals and all y'all "both... and..." hippy types - even if I am one normally]
Evidence supporting Umbalakade as a SPICE:
(1) It is dry and flaky, crushed with a mortar and pestle, often.
(2) It is a unilateral ingredient used in Sri Lankan food. I mean, it is in everything.
(3) Sri Lanka has quite a few Buddhists, and a ginormous population of vegetarians.
(4) Umbalakade is in every single ounce of vegetarian food eaten by every super venerated and religious Buddhist monk and layperson in Sri Lanka.
(5) Sri Lanka is a small country, but this is still more than one hundred people, making its presence statistically significant, if you ask me.
(6) A vegetarian country is hardly going to stand for a staple ingredient being a fish. Please.
(7) Sri Lankans refer to Umbalakade as a SPICE. Even in English. As in, "Sar, will you grab that SPICE and add it in heaping spoonfuls to this completely vegetarian curry?" OR "Podiy, would you kindly mix the maldivefish spice into your favorite dish ever.... pol sambol?"
Visual A:
Visual B:
Evidence suggesting Umbalakade may be a FISH:
(1) Umbalakade (phonetic translation of Sinhala word) = Hiki-kandu mas (phonetic translation of... um... Japanese, I think) = Maldive Fish (English. Plain ol English.)
(2) Prior to being crushed, beaten, and pounded into a silvery, flaky powder in that mortar and pestle, the 'maldivefish' bears striking resemblance to a desiccated small silver fish, complete with tiny gills and little vacant eyeballs.
(3) Prior to being scooped up by the ton and shorn of all H2O, this spice swam about - perhaps minding hir own business, perhaps makin' trouble - in the Indian Ocean and South China Sea, much like a wee sardine.
(4) It smells like a fish.
(5) It tastes like a fish.
(6) One of its primary roles in Sri Lankan cuisine, besides that providing a certain salty flavour (see #3 above) is that it injects a serious dose of protein. Suspicious.
(7) It is processed in a fish cannery after being caught by fisherfolks.
(8) Some Sri Lankan Buddhists, while not claiming vegetarianism status, justify the eating of fish and meat by noting that the flesh in question "Was already dead" when they bought it. I am sure omnivorous Buddhists all over the world have taken on this particular philosophy, not just Sri Lankans, and so I am not sure this particular argument should even be given a number. Let's strike this as tangential.
SPICE Rebuttle to FISH Argument:
(1) Some U.S. vegetarians have as their full title: "I am a vegetarian who eats fish." Again, I am not sure this particular argument should even be given a number, so let's also strike this as tangential and just a load of crap.
There you have it, folks. If I could figure out how to put a poll up on this site I would. But.... Umbalakade: Fish or Spice - YOU DECIDE.
Welcome back.
So last week I was at AA'n'A's seasonal thematic potluck gathering and had many a fabulous conversation with many a delightful person, some of whose names begin with Hal (and some of them began and ended with Hal, which is quite convenient here). And one such conversation with one such Hal led to the vegetarians' love-hate relationship with Asian 'spices' that happen to have been sentient beings at one time. And this particular Hal had me promising to write to you all about it. Now, normally a promise-keeper I am not (and I am certainly not a Promise Keeper, insert skin shudder here), but I had had two divine pieces of cheesecake and couldn't really be held responsible for what came out of my mouth at that point.
So, while lagging, promises will be kept.
The issue at hand.... Is Umbalakade a fish or a spice?
[No, you cannot stay in the middle. This is my game and I am sick of both the fence sitting liberals and all y'all "both... and..." hippy types - even if I am one normally]
Evidence supporting Umbalakade as a SPICE:
(1) It is dry and flaky, crushed with a mortar and pestle, often.
(2) It is a unilateral ingredient used in Sri Lankan food. I mean, it is in everything.
(3) Sri Lanka has quite a few Buddhists, and a ginormous population of vegetarians.
(4) Umbalakade is in every single ounce of vegetarian food eaten by every super venerated and religious Buddhist monk and layperson in Sri Lanka.
(5) Sri Lanka is a small country, but this is still more than one hundred people, making its presence statistically significant, if you ask me.
(6) A vegetarian country is hardly going to stand for a staple ingredient being a fish. Please.
(7) Sri Lankans refer to Umbalakade as a SPICE. Even in English. As in, "Sar, will you grab that SPICE and add it in heaping spoonfuls to this completely vegetarian curry?" OR "Podiy, would you kindly mix the maldivefish spice into your favorite dish ever.... pol sambol?"
Visual A:
Visual B:
Evidence suggesting Umbalakade may be a FISH:
(1) Umbalakade (phonetic translation of Sinhala word) = Hiki-kandu mas (phonetic translation of... um... Japanese, I think) = Maldive Fish (English. Plain ol English.)
(2) Prior to being crushed, beaten, and pounded into a silvery, flaky powder in that mortar and pestle, the 'maldivefish' bears striking resemblance to a desiccated small silver fish, complete with tiny gills and little vacant eyeballs.
(3) Prior to being scooped up by the ton and shorn of all H2O, this spice swam about - perhaps minding hir own business, perhaps makin' trouble - in the Indian Ocean and South China Sea, much like a wee sardine.
(4) It smells like a fish.
(5) It tastes like a fish.
(6) One of its primary roles in Sri Lankan cuisine, besides that providing a certain salty flavour (see #3 above) is that it injects a serious dose of protein. Suspicious.
(7) It is processed in a fish cannery after being caught by fisherfolks.
(8) Some Sri Lankan Buddhists, while not claiming vegetarianism status, justify the eating of fish and meat by noting that the flesh in question "Was already dead" when they bought it. I am sure omnivorous Buddhists all over the world have taken on this particular philosophy, not just Sri Lankans, and so I am not sure this particular argument should even be given a number. Let's strike this as tangential.
SPICE Rebuttle to FISH Argument:
(1) Some U.S. vegetarians have as their full title: "I am a vegetarian who eats fish." Again, I am not sure this particular argument should even be given a number, so let's also strike this as tangential and just a load of crap.
There you have it, folks. If I could figure out how to put a poll up on this site I would. But.... Umbalakade: Fish or Spice - YOU DECIDE.
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