Smokers’ Paradise

Last weekend I had the opportunity to visit Las Vegas to meet my brother and sister-in-law for a visit. Las Vegas is a strange place, to say the very least. Everything seems to be legal there from gambling to prostitution. I saw lots of people gambling, but no one engaging in prostitution. I did see lots of people smoking. In fact, with the exception of myself and my party, everyone seemed to be smoking. Not just a cigarette or two, people had a cigarette hanging out of their mouths at all times: in the restroom, at the slot machines, in restaurants, outside on the street, in their cars, in the halls of the hotels.

The conclusion I reached was that people don’t go to Vegas to gamble, they go to smoke. Las Vegas seems to be the last place in the United States (maybe on earth—even the French are banning smoking in restaurants) where it is legal (and maybe compulsory) to smoke in all places and at all times.

Now, I’m surprised that the high paid ad execs who do the marketing for Vegas haven’t seen this angle yet. Imagine the new visitors this would encourage; who cares about night club shows, roulette tables, and outlet malls when you can actually smoke anywhere you want?

I mean, Las Vegas could be located out in the middle of nowhere, or in the middle of a desert and people would still go.

Ooooh, look at my new moon phases dealie. Too cool.

Clearly, more avoidance behavior. I am working a lot, really.

But a moon phase dealie--everyone needs one.

It's good to be back. Blogging cheers me up. Working does not.

Teaching does, but that's not actually working.

Anyway, it's nice to be blogging again.

Besides, now my fifteen readers will be happy I'm back.

Okay, off to grade.

Plutonium

Well, the big news is out this week, and what a relief it is. We can
all rest easy now. I know you, like me, have been up nights worrying
about this, but now you will sleep like a baby. The news of course,
is, that Plutonium does not decay as quickly as we used to think it
did. Scientists and military officials are thrilled because this means
that the nuclear bombs we made thirty years ago are still good.

Which of course means that we could USE THEM. It also means that our nuclear waste is staying radioactive even longer than we thought.

Thank the heavens above and the earth below.

Whew, that was close.

Sweet Potatoes

My post Thanksgiving thoughts are all about sweet potatoes. Sweet potatoes you say; isn’t Thanksgiving a turkey holiday, you say? Maybe, but today, my thoughts stray to sweet potatoes.

First, after peeling the fourth sweet potato, I turned to my husband and asked, “Do you think this is enough sweet potatoes?” He asked, “Who likes sweet potatoes?” I said, “No one.” He said, “Then that’s enough.”

Second, while transferring the butter and maple syrup glazed sweet potatoes to their serving dish, my mother in law said, “You better tell people that they’re sweet potatoes and not carrots so they’ll eat them.” See comment above.

Third, I flinched when my mom said, “Pass the yams.” I’m not saying it again people—they’re sweet potatoes, not yams. Chances are, you’ve never eaten a yam. Yams aren’t grown in the United States. Yams aren’t eaten here, unless you eat a lot of Asian or African cuisine. Your grocer lies to you. “Yams” are a marketing ploy ‘cause some yokel wanted to differentiate between his sweet potatoes and some other yokel’s sweet potatoes, so he started calling them yams. They’re not yams. Go to your recycling bin and take out that can of “Candied Yams” and look at the ingredients: yep, it says “sweet potatoes;” nary a yam in sight.

The New Yoga Mat

I finally did it—I finally broke down and bought a new yoga mat. It’s not like I needed one. It’s not like every time I did an inversion, little purple bits snowed down on me. It’s not like I didn’t leave a little purple trail everywhere I carried the mat. The mat was not presentable enough to take to yoga classes. So, I finally did it, and bought a new one.

The new mat is eco-friendly. I asked the clerk what that meant. He proceeded to explain the term “eco-friendly.” I said, “No, I know what ‘eco-friendly’ means, what is the mat made of?” The clerk did not know. He also didn’t know whether or not it would off-gas. I hate waiting for a new mat to finish off-gassing. It’s one of the reasons that I put off buying a new mat—though I’ve needed one for over a year now.

So I tried out the new mat this morning, and it’s nice. It’s firm, and sticky, and doesn’t leave small spongy bits of itself wherever it goes.

Did I mention that it’s pink? Actually, it’s not pink, it’s PINK. It’s brighter than ballet pink. It’s brighter than rose pink. It’s brighter than cotton candy pink (really). It’s PINK like the color of the little hard candy beads on those candy necklaces that little girls love so much. No, I don’t know what I was thinking. There was a limited color selection, and in the store filled with many other objects in brilliant Indian colors, the pink didn’t stand out.

In my muted living room it does. In my house the thing positively glows.

By the end of this morning’s session I was getting used to its PINKNESS (and the off-gassing), so I guess it’ll work out. I just need to be careful to use it only in daylight hours, so as not to wake the neighbors.

It’s All a Matter of Perspective

Last week the moonrise was stunning. There was a haze of smoke in the air from the fires burning all over the West. The moon was a golden glowing orb, with strands of smoke clouds blowing over it.

I said, “It looks like a Chinese painting.”

My son said, “It looks like something from a Harry Potter movie.”

My husband said, “It looks like the moon from the Peter Pan ride at Disneyland.”

The Title of This Blog Appears at the End

I don’t generally like movies, and the few I do aren’t run of the mill, to say the least. If I would ever finish the list of my favorite movies and post it here, then you would know what I mean. Suffice it to say that my taste runs to the offbeat.

Well, the problem with offbeat films, is that since they aren’t formulaic, it is impossible to decide at what point it is safe to leave to the theater to use the facilities. Now—don’t laugh--I never make it all the way through a film without having to use the restroom. Usually, this isn’t a problem, as with most films I (or anyone for that matter) can figure out exactly what will happen, and even generally when it will happen, in the first five minutes of the film. I can choose to go during one of the many chase scenes if it is an action flick. Or, if it’s a love story, I can choose to go during the part where they fight and decide they’re not right for each other, before they get to the part where they really do love each other after all. Or, it the fight seems as though it will be more entertaining, I can wait until they promise undying love. Easy.

However, if the film is not formulaic; if it doesn’t march along inexorably in all of its banality, it is impossible to know when one can leave.

Today, I saw such a film. You will rarely hear me say that I liked a movie, but I have to admit, that something about Stranger Than Fiction kept me sitting uncomfortably in a freezing theater waiting to see what might actually happen to the off center characters assembled there. So, I guess maybe you should see the movie—but be sure you don’t drink a large cup of tea before heading out the door, and just accept the fact that you will not be able to leave the theater at any point during the film, even if you really need to use the bathroom.

Also, be prepared to make cookies.

Now, for the title: my son suggested the perfect title for this blog: To Pee, or Not to Pee.

Excuses

I did my best to get your papers back this week.

I tried really hard.

You only had to write one--I had to grade 40.

I have other classes you know.

I was sick.

My kid was sick.

My dog was sick.

My computer was down.

I forgot you’d want them back.

My other class didn’t mind my turning them back late.

Yes, those excuses sound just as lame when the teacher gives them as when the students give them. I can’t use these excuses to excuse myself from grading student papers, but student papers can provide a nifty excuse for not blogging.

See, I was going somewhere; it just took a bit.

The real reason we have cell phones

You might think that the real reason we have cell phones is to call for help when stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire.

You might think that the real reason we have cell phones is to make business deals from restaurants.

You might think that the real reason we have cell phones is to give us something to do while stuck in traffic.

You might think that the real reason we have cell phones is to text our friends and lovers.

You might think that the real reason we have cell phones is to call our significant other and get him or her to stop at the store for milk on the way home from work.

You might think that the real reason we have cells phone is to call for pizza delivery on the way home, so it’s waiting for you when you get there.

But, I know the real reason for cell phones.

The real reason we have cell phones is to call the rest of our party when we are standing in the middle of Toon Town waiting for them, only to find out that they are in fact in Fantasyland waiting for Snow White.

That’s the real reason for cell phones.

Vicious Sea Lion?

The reason you haven’t heard much from me lately, is that I have been buried under student term papers, and haven’t had the time to blog. It’s not that I’m truly caught up, but I just couldn’t let this one get by.

The San Francisco Chronicle reports that a woman was bitten today by a probable sea lion while swimming in San Francisco Bay. The woman belongs to the Dolphin Club, whose members swim year round in the Bay.

Now, I have only one thing to say about this: San Francisco Bay--is this woman insane? It’s November; the Bay is frigid in August, what would possess anyone to swim in the Bay in November? This woman shouldn’t complain about being bitten by a sea lion, she should be grateful that she isn’t dead of hypothermia. What was she thinking?

I’m thinking, some time under observation in the local mental ward is in order.

Oh, and by the way, this woman is quite possibly the fourteenth person bitten by this sea lion, according to National Public Radio. Who are these people?

The Dolphin Club could not be reached for comment. Yeah, I wouldn’t answer the phone either.

Election Night

My son’s favorite television shows are The Colbert Report and The Daily Show, in that order.

It’s fifteen minutes until the polls close here on the West Coast.

My son is currently in the living room watching the East Coast election results on C-SPAN. A few minutes ago he cheered out loud at Bob Mendez’ (New Jersey) acceptance speech.

My son is eleven years old.

He better not grow up to be president.

And so,

Because I know you are fascinated by the minutiae of my life,

Because I haven't written in awhile, and I don't want you to think I've dropped off the face of the earth,

Because a picture is worth a thousand words,

Here is a picture of my lunch:






It is a bento style lunch with fried rice, chicken and broccoli. It is packed in a tiny Japanese lunchbox that stacks and has a carrying handle. Note the obligatory bunnies on the lid. All of the best bento boxes have bunnies. I have yet to figure out why.

The lunch by the way was delicious.

Dogs Will Eat Anything

Occasionally I give my dogs table scraps or other treats. One of my dogs, Tula, the Italian Greyhound, lives for treats, and she will eat all kinds of things: meat, veggies, potatoes, and she even tasted an apple core I once offered her. Now, I generally think of dogs as indiscriminant eaters, but Buddy, my Jack Russell Terrier, is actually quite finicky. I find this hard to believe in a dog that will troll the floor for any particle of edible matter, including the random dust bunny. Buddy also eats lizards; he prefers the head, feet, and tails, leaving the body for us to find. For goodness sakes, Buddy eats sticks.

But just try offering him eggs. Tula loves eggs, and prances around while I empty them into her dish. Buddy, stands by his dish as I spoon the eggs in, and then he looks up at me with a positively injured expression—as though I have just hit him. Then he checks his bowl again to be really sure that it is eggs after all. Then he looks over at Tula’s dish to make sure that she has also received eggs. Yes, she has.

Then he looks at me again. Then he looks at the eggs. Then he sighs. He really does, a big breathy, the world is such a disappointment, sigh.

Then he eats the eggs. Not because he’s hungry. Not because he wants them. Not because he loves me. He eats the eggs so Tula can’t.

He is a dog after all.

Sushi Burrito?

Yesterday at my favorite Japanese café, I saw a guy leave by the back kitchen door. Nothing unusual about that, except that he was eating a burrito. Is this one of those “only in California” things?

The bad thing is, now when we go there, my son, who gets tired of eating Japanese food (imagine that), will want a burrito. Do you think we could get them to make us one?

I can hear the order now:

One order teriyaki chicken
One order California roll, 12 pieces
One order gyoza
And a bean and cheese burrito to go

I’m thinking--no.

Procrastination Pays?

I’ve been meaning to clean out the service porch for months now. It is a very small room that houses the washer and dryer, the water heater, the furnace, a utility sink, my vacuum cleaner, pet supplies, tools, cleaning supplies, and several bottles of purified water. Not bad for a 6.5 x 9 foot room. At any rate, as you may imagine, it gets cluttered and dusty, and needs periodic clean outs.

So, I’ve been meaning to do it.

Last night the water heater started leaking, and it didn’t stop. Out came the towels and buckets, and everything else in the room needed to move to the living room. A few hours of mopping, sorting, and rearranging bins, and the service porch is now clean.

What I want to know is this: did the cosmos lend a hand in inspiring me to get this job done that I was planning on doing anyway, or is this a case of “be careful what you ask for?”

The Real Reason for Yoga

Yes, yoga is all about health, relaxation, and if you’re of a religious inclination, enlightenment. But yesterday, I learned what yoga was really for.

Yesterday at the beach, we had been walking barefoot in the sand (yes it was cold), and when I went to put on my shoes, I realized I had the usual beach dilemma: could I put my shoes on without getting sand in them? There were no benches anywhere in sight, and sitting in the sand would have simply compounded the problem. So, I did the only logical thing: I balanced on one foot, wiped the sand off my raised foot by brushing it on the other jeans’ leg, held my coffee and handbag in my left hand, and my hair in my right hand, and then inserted the now sandless foot into my waiting shoe. I repeated on the other side, and voila, no sand in the shoes.

That’s what yoga is really for.

Where at the Mall Do They Sell That?

This weekend at the mall, I saw a man flossing his teeth. Really. Now, I’m all for dental hygiene, but don’t you think people should floss at home? I don’t want to watch him floss; I don’t want to think about the bits of tartar he is flicking in the process of flossing.

Where did he even get the floss anyway? Does he carry it with him in his wallet next to his library card and his spare condom?

Do they sell dental floss at the GAP or Orange Julius? Floss R Us?

Floss at home people. Some things are meant to be done without witness.

Figs, revisited

My neighbor Jack, of “Jack and the Broomstick” (6/30/06), just brought me another bucket of figs. It’s the second this week. He so has my number.

A student, Wes, stopped by office hours today and delivered a bag of jujubes, not the candy, but a delicious fresh fruit. A few weeks ago, he brought Asian pears. I am such a lucky woman.


Happy Birthday to a person who wishes to remain anonymous. Don't worry--she knows who she is.

October!

Finally the cruelest month is finally over—September. Yes, I know that March is supposedly the cruelest month, but not around here. March is one of the best months where I live, but September is the worst month. It starts out hot and humid and it ends hot, dry, and windy.

I have no money in September, because even though I’ve been working since late August, I don’t get paid until September 30; it is one of the joys of working for the gov.

Football season starts in September—need I say more?

The only good thing about September, besides it finally being over, is my wedding anniversary, which we missed this year because my husband was out of town.

No, September is definitely the cruelest month.

Besides, it can’t be March; my birthday is in March.