Oh, there are so few hours in the day.
I’ve been marking my little butt off for the past few days - in no short part because of my excess of blogging last week (amongst other reasons).
We will return to our regularly scheduled vague outrage tomorrow.
For tonight, I’m going dancin’ and Buffy-watchin’.
Oh, um, so America might collaspse, huh?
Sphere: Related ContentAs part of a dinner party last night, I hung out with a five-year-old. We bonded over Irish dancing, and, by the time dinner was served, I’d made a new friend.
I amused her by figuring out what she’d had for dinner through her belly (it’s a ’skill’ of my mother’s, which now that I’m an adult seems pretty simple: it consists only of knowing what a kid’s eaten and then expressing great surprise upon ‘feeling’ carrots, etc.).
And then we also had this exchange:
“Excuse me. What’s your name again?”
“Brie. It’s a kind of cheese if that helps you remember it.’
“Oh, does anyone call you ‘Cheddar’?”
“Yeah, sometimes.”
“Do they call you Cheddar because you talk a lot?”
I’m not sure how those two things got connected in her mind, but I’d be hard-pressed to say she’s wrong on the second count.
But she thought Avi was my dad, so just goes to show how smart she is.
Ha! I am a meek and sensitive wallflower.
Sphere: Related ContentRemember how for the last several months everyone, everywhere has been like, “Boo China! Boo! Torch, human rights abuses, Beijing is a smoggy nightmare, military crackdown, boo!’
The Age has been running at least a story a day about how horrible everything is in China.
Until today. Today’s age.com.au is more or less: ‘Shiny, happy, pretty! Oi, oi, oi! OMG, can you wait for the swimming?!?!’
And no, I can’t wait, because the US is going to kick some overachieving antipodean ass. And Michael Phelps shaved off his mustache, so that’ll probably skim another 87 million seconds off his times. We will crush you. (Sorry guys, swimming is about the only thing I get patriotic about.)
And the swimming’s also about the only Americans I’m likely to see on the TV. (Seriously Channel 7, the Australia v Belarus women’s basketball game? The only thing interesting about that match up was how many air balls there were. Apparently the women’s shooting was really cool - the Czech Republic upset China - but no…)
Women’s gymnastics doesn’t even seem to be on the schedule, which has to be a mistake. (I also get vaguely patriotic about gymnastics.)
Anyway, given the chance for Aussie gold in the men’s cycling, we’ll be showing that all afternoon. It’s kind of nice, actually. They let one of the Chinese riders lead the pack through most of downtown Beijing. And all the cyclists are taking it easy through the first section, chatting and smiling with people from other countries.
It’s what the Olympics are all about!
SBS is running women’s beach volleyball, which is so only an Olympic sport because there are women in bikinis. Norway versus Belarus (again!). How do you get into that sport in either of those countries? It’s the middle of summer, and it’s freezing in Norway. Belarus is landlocked (though they appear to have some nice lakes…)
Bikinis!
Which, as I mentioned above, is more or less what China’s doing. But, you know, with fireworks.
Oh, I also learned this morning that equestrian dressage commentary is what hell is like. They had nothing. During the two and a half minutes I watched it, the two commentators completely ran out of things to talk about. Actual quotes: “Oh, and I hear he’s quite the singer. Yes, yes, he definitely enjoys singing.”
Mix that with watching a horse trot and you’ve got the best reason for putting dressage on in the morning when no one is watching.
Except people who are avoiding work!
Sphere: Related ContentSometimes you get what you pay for - sometimes you get a lot less.
I’ve been going to the Biba Academy to get my hair cut since I’ve lived here. Like the Aveda School, they’re generally good and all supervised - I’ve gotten one relative dog of a haircut, but whatever.
My hair’s pretty easy to cut - being stick straight and all - and the uptick in Australian salon prices is one of the few cost adjustments I just haven’t gotten used to. (My housemate, Kass, and I now judge the price of big ticket items in terms of how many of her accidental $200 haircuts they cost. For instance, a pair of $150 boots are only 3/4 the price of a haircut. Sold!)
But I’m making more money now, so I thought about treating myself to the lifestyle of those not living off student loans. But in the end, I figured, what was the harm? I’d have them keep it long, and if I didn’t like it, I could go somewhere more expensive in a couple weeks.
So much for that.
Despite my exhortations to keep it longish, but to take some length off the back and generally cut into it to keep it interesting, I am now NOT the proud owner of about two-thirds of my hair.
I have to take my glasses off during haircuts, so it’s always like my own little version of an Extreme Makeover reveal when I put them back on. I can see shapes, however, and I could tell that this was going a bit weird.
We got to the end of the cut and it was pretty blunt and conservative. So her supervisor and I were both like, “Okay, add some layers and break up the line.”
Suddenly, there was lots more cutting. (And pulling, jesus she was like removing follicles to razor my hair). Getting nervous, I joked, “Heh. Better watch out or I’m not going to have much hair left,” as she continued her flurry of inspiration.
About a minute later, I was done joking. “You need to stop cutting. Now.”
The long and the short of it (mostly short) is that my ‘keep it long just in case it’s not what you want plan’ is stuffed. And the front won’t stay behind my ear enough to stay in my helmet, so biking is going to be a joy. Not even Sunny’s grilled pork sandwich has rallied my flagging spirits.
I was having a chat with Avi the other day about how even if we made it super rich, we wouldn’t live in crazy flash houses and the like. We’d be able to live the same or a little bit better and just work way less. (Avi did, however, want one Lamborghini).
Apparently, Pluto, god of money, doesn’t see it the same way. I feel I’ve been punished for considering vaguely excessive expenditure and then rejecting it.
Well, at least I have no split ends. (That, of course, would be impossible considering there is not a single hair on my head that avoided losing several inches of its length.)
Actually, I can sum up the haircut in one quick moment. She went to get a mirror to show me the back, but then stood directly behind me, making it impossible to see anything. I kept trying to get her to move to the side so I could engage in this pointless activity (there was no chance I was letting her back at my head even if it’d been weird), but she just kept standing there. I was literally waving my arms to the right, trying to get her to move, but to no avail. I was like, “Okay, it’s fine. Where’s my coat?”
Sphere: Related ContentSometimes I didn’t spend so much time reading the news. It’d be easier to be annoyed by rising food costs at the Vic Market, if I hadn’t read this story in the Guardian today:
Haiti: Mud cakes become staple diet as cost of food soars beyond a family’s reach
Even the cost of mud cakes is rising beyond what people can afford.
This is a good article that actually goes into some depth on a crisis, something often lacking in such reporting. Haiti’s land is stripped of nutrients from slash and burn farming (numerous people have documented the stark visual contrasts between Haiti and the DR, which share an island).
Haiti’s gotten from all sides for years:
The woes were compounded by a decision in the 1980s to lift tariffs, when international prices were lower, and flood the country with cheap imported rice and vegetables. Consumers gained and the IMF applauded but domestic farmers went bankrupt and the Artibonite valley, the country’s breadbasket, atrophied.
And now food prices are higher, so…
I haven’t read Aids and Accusation - Paul Farmer’s ethnography about AIDS in Haiti - in years, but I remember a particularly disturbing story that I’m almost certain came from it. The United States, concerned about ‘Africanized’ pig flu in Haiti, which never really came to fruition, talked Haiti into killing all of its pigs, which would be replaced with US pig stock.
Except that the pigs we sent down there were Iowa hogs, which didn’t have a chance of surviving in the hot, sunny Haitian climate (North American pigs get sunburned easily). So they all died, and when Haiti complained we were like, “Well, you should have taken better care of them.” So, they just had no more pigs. (These two sites have some background, but I can’t vouch for them - or my retelling of the story for that matter.)
Anyway, the Guardian article is definitely worth a read, but it is a sobering one.
Sphere: Related ContentGiven the fact that I’m routinely told that people’s first impression of me is ‘terrifying’ (and here I am just a snugly little panda), I am sometimes amazed by the things people to whom I haven’t even been introduced will say to me.
Will it surprise you to find out that there’s an example?
Perhaps it’s my penchant for dodgy karaoke bars, but here is an actual interaction I had last night:
Some Guy: Can I ask you a question?
Me: Sure.
Some Guy: You’re a pretty girl with nice boobies.
Me: That is… not a question.
Some Guy: Oh yeah. Can I try that again?
Me: By all means.
Some Guy: There’s a beautiful girl here with nice boobies.
Me: Yeah, still not a question.
He later informed me that I had a ‘nice ass’. It was also not in the form of a question.
A girl could want for a larger pool of adjectives.
I can’t decide if I’m a good feminist or a bad feminist for thinking this was a hilarious interaction. (I was more annoyed by the random who decided to play with my hair at one point - because, no touching).
So here’s the question - why do I appear to frighten those who wind up becoming my friends, whilst people I would never associate feel totally at ease with me?
Are you guys just masochists?
It’s my nice boobies, isn’t it? They’re so nice, it’s scary.
Sphere: Related ContentOr not me.
Chris sends me a link to this video today, with instructions to watch the Chicago section at 2:25:
I’ve watched the girl in the center like a hundred times now. That’s fucking got to be you.
Chris’ filthy mouth aside, he’s almost right. The girl, standing a little bit in front of the crowd making an ostentatious fool of herself ought to be me.
But it’s not.
An edited version of our conversation says more about how my friends view me (and how I view myself) than just about anything else:
Me: That’s not me - though I grant that her spastic movements might lead you to think that.
Chris: It’s a combination of things. The glasses and hair are reminiscent of yours, as is the “I’m being funny right now” facial expression. And the black tank top/cropped pants combo seems like a plausible outfit for you. I feel like if you were to replace whoever that is, the difference in grainy internet footage would be pretty much indistinguishable.
Me: Yeah, it’s really the mouth-open facial gesture during the ’sexy bit’ that makes it seem like me. If she’s from Chicago maybe it’s just something they taught us in public school.
Between this and the girl from Iowa, I’m not as unique and precious a flower as I’ve always assumed.
Though I am disappointed that Chris thinks I would wear those shoes.
(Btw: To Matt, the creator of the film - why such short shrift to Melbourne? We get half a second of Fed Square at 0:56 and that’s it!)
Sphere: Related Content…for not posting.
I mean, it does. I know that more than one of you check this blog regularly for new and (ahem) insightful content.
But I can’t control your poor life choices.
So I’ve been tempted this week to blog about the lovely and soul-inspiring weddings of biddies - because obviously that’s awesome.
I think if you can’t be happy for 80+-year-old women getting married you don’t really understand what life is about. There’s fundamental level at which you don’t understand happiness.
[Ed. note - Um, Firefox 3, vaguely appealing though it is, does not seem to have incorporated spellcheck in a timely manner. This is absolutely disastrous for your editor, who can't spell her way out of a very small shoebox.] [Oh thank crap, it kicked back in; I had spelled disastrous wrong. I'm more of a big picture kind of girl.]
Anyway, I’ve been sick and also working/marking/watching Angel, so it’s really a grab bag of reasons why I’ve lacked the wherewithal to fulfill the blogging duties that - I will remind you - come with little to no financial reward.
I had something to say. I think it was this:
I know the Administration only has a short number of months (yay!) left in office, but this doesn’t mean that they should drive down their game.
It will potentially frighten several of you to learn that my father is a Republican. Not of the truly alarming variety - he just believes in lower taxes, etc, etc. (whereas I believe in stealing from the rich, etc., etc.).
Anyway, he sends me an article last week in which George Will (displaying the youngest picture GenXers have ever seen of George Will) is all about drilling in ANWAR and everywhere offshore because the Chinese are already doing it.
Eh, they’re not.
But, if the story gets repeated enough times, it looks like good enough impetus for Bush to advocate drilling off all our coastlines a few days later. The NYT, however, is not so impressed with that, considering it won’t lower gas prices until 2030.
But hey - talking points trotted out in the press ten days before they become ‘policy’ is just typical. Could these guys try anymore? I mean, where are those bold policy suggestions of yore? Isn’t there a country we should think about invading?
Oh, or is it just that we’ve gotten lazy, considering the oil contracts with one that we’ve already invaded?
Personally, I’m happier thinking about old ladies getting married.
Congrats to them and everyone taking the plunge (especially to Elissa and Keith, who I love with all my heart… even though they’re not gay. It’s not, like, a definite criteria for my support of your union).
Sphere: Related ContentI am many things, but - as anyone who has watched me move can attest - graceful is not one of them.
Charming stories of my disastrous exploits can be found here, here (with picture) and here.
My inherent calamity-proneness is why black table tops against black carpeting in dark bars are a terrible, terrible idea. And, the use of marble is also a no-no.
That part that looks yellow? That’s all a bruise (exacerbated by the fact that I slipped on the bathmat the other day and slammed that area straight into the tub. Nice.)
Anyway, so I clearly walked into a table at the bar. Fair enough.
But it was also raining that night. And as I rode home, my bike slipped riding over the tram tracks and my tire went straight in the groove. Off I went, managing - amazingly - not to damage parts I’d already damaged:
I’m happy to say that my right leg bore the brunt of the insanity, including that amazing bruise on the inside/back of my right knee. That, my friends, is a difficult place to bruise.
I think it’s worth a 9.7 from the Russian judge.
Also notice the lumpage on the knee in the bruise picture. Awesome. (The left knee also took a hit, but the left shin stayed out of it, thank god. It does not feel good as it is.)
Anyway, all these pics are four days later and my tire needs some serious truing.
To be fair though, by bike took what should have been an obscene disaster and turned it into only a few bruises and a bit of a banged knee. I still have the utmost confidence in her.
Black marble tabletops, however, are on my shit list.
Sphere: Related Content
