waiting for the right meal

no_foodOkay, really I don’t have much to say here.

That’s not true, actually. What I don’t have is much time to say much here. Apparently I do have enough time to say that I don’t have much time to say I don’t have much time.

Where was I?

Oh, right. I thought I’d share this Onion article, brought to my attention by a couple of friends (who are shamefully blogless):

Study: Abstinence-Only Lunch Programs Ineffective At Combating Teen Obesity

According to the findings of a recent Department of Health and Human Services study, school lunch programs that teach children to avoid all contact with food may not be an effective method of reducing teen obesity rates.

Please go read the article. It’s very, um, informative. Especially if you read through the end of the article.

I also thought I’d try out the new WordPress ratings feature.

utensils (PhotoHunt)

masher1

masher2

masher3

measuring_spoons

This week’s PhotoHunt theme is untensils. With my history of utensil-themed posts¹, how could I resist sticking my fork into this one?²

For more people’s interpretations of the theme, go visit tnchick.com.

———————

¹ My utensil drawer includes photos of spoons, a list of forks and spoons, a list of knives, a utensil quiz (along with photos of giant utensil sculptures). Plus you can find “runs with spoons” and “It’s a Wonderful Knife.”

² Or in this case, my measuring spoons and potato masher.

14 juillet, 1989

The summer of 1989, I was living outside Paris with my mother and stepfather. I had just finished my last year of high school, and my best friend from California came to visit. Her visit overlapped with the 14th of July, known in France as “le quatorze juillet” (or “The 14th of July.”) Also known as Bastille Day, the anniversary of the start of the French revolution. This was to be the bicentennial celebration. There was lots of excitement about the the holiday, and my friend and I made plans to be in Paris for the big day itself.

We got to stay in a studio apartment that belonged to a friend of mine from high school. She was away, and knowing what a long train ride I lived from Paris, had offered the apartment to me for my friend’s visit. It was in the 8ème arrondissement, within walking distance to the Place de L’Étoile and the Champs-Élysées.

The night of the 14th was a beautiful one, and rather cool. I don’t remember what my friend and I did during the day, but by evening, we made our way back towards the Champs-Élysées to watch the big parade that everyone was talking about.

The metro and the streets were packed. Moving from the metro stop, it felt like I was being swept up in a wave of people. We were jammed together so tightly, with people pressing from all directions, I had the sense at times that if I stopped walking, I would be carried along by the crowds. (More likely I would have been trampled.) I find it remarkable that my friend and I didn’t get separated.

As we reached the expansive width of the Champs-Elysees, the crowd thinned enough for us to breathe easier and walk at our chosen pace. We strolled a bit and looked for a place to sit among the crowds on the sidewalks.

I remember very little about the actual parade. I couldn’t tell you who was in it, or even how long it was. I remember my friend’s confusion about why the people along the sidewalks would periodically shout “Ozzy! Ozzy!” (They were really shouting “assis! assis!” to get people closer to the street to sit down and stop blocking the view of those sitting further back on the sidewalk. It could be that part of why I remember so little about the parade was that I could actually see very little of it.)

I do remember that there were big tanker trucks from which people sprayed massive quantities of confetti over the street and spectators.

When the parade ended, after some amount of time, my friend and I got up and walked up the Avenue towards the Arc de Triomphe.

Feeling a bit bruised (possibly literally) from our arrival, we hung back a bit, and didn’t hurry. As we got further up the avenue, the amount of confetti on the ground increased. It had piled and drifted into heaps of little white paper dots. There were still plenty of people around, and the mood was festive. People started to scoop up handfuls of confetti from the street and throw them like snowballs. My friend and I joined in, laughing and tossing confetti at each other. Occasionally, some stranger would lob a heap of confetti our way. At one point, a group of teenage boys came up behind me and dumped a whole shopping bag of confetti over me, leaving me with a purple bag over my head. My friend, rather than coming to my assistance, laughed at me. Understandably.

We continued tossing confetti at each for a while, gradually still working our way up the avenue. At one point, I bent down to scoop another handful, and as I stood up, laughing, met the eyes of a fireman who must have been working crowd control. As soon as I met the fireman’s eye, he sprayed me with a fire extinguisher full on in the face, and turned to spray my friend as well. Perhaps he felt threatened by my hands full of confetti, or perhaps I looked particularly maniacal with my hair full of confetti and my gleeful laughing. (Of course, everyone looked rather wild at that point.) Perhaps it was just his way of joining in the fun. But, man, getting a face full (and a mouth full, since I’d been laughing) of fire extinguisher spray was pretty nasty.

With that acrid taste in our mouths, we continued on up towards the Arc de Triomphe, much more subdued (and rather baffled) after our run-in. By the time we reached the Place de l’Étoile, where traffic was still stopped from the parade, we were feeling pretty tired and dragging our feet a bit. There were still lots of people around, mostly also appearing to be heading away from the scene.

Suddenly, as we walked in front of the Arc, fireworks started directly overhead. Really, I should say capital-F-Fireworks. It was the most spectacular display I’d ever seen, and I’d never been so close to such large-scale fireworks. At times, it seemed as if the sparks would actually fall all the way down to us. (But they didn’t.) The fireworks lit up the smoke-filled air like daytime, and the beauty and awesomeness of the display was almost enough to wash the bitter aftertaste of the fire extinguisher from our mouths.

What’s more, it felt like we had stumbled across a completely unexpected treasure. We hadn’t known that there were fireworks scheduled at that location or time, nor apparently did the various others walking across the Place de L’Étoile that night. We all stopped together in wonder. Had we been in more of a hurry, we would have already been tucked away in the depths of the apartment building, perhaps hearing the muffled booms as we brushed our teeth. Instead, we found ourselves with front-row seats to a once-in-a-lifetime show.

The June Just Posts

buttonjune2009

Welcome to the June edition of the Just Posts, a monthly roundtable of posts about topics of social justice and activism in all shapes and sizes. Holly and I are pleased to share this wealth of posts that inspire and move and make us think.

The beginning of June saw the commemoration of the 20th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square protests in Beijing in 1989. Not even two weeks later, the world’s eyes turned to Iran as news came through of suspected fraud in the results of the presidential election. Reports and images of large scale protests of the disputed results were followed by those of violent crackdown against the protesters.

Each month, I have been highlighting a protest song in my introduction of the Just Posts list. The Tiananmen anniversary and the ongoing crackdown against protesters in Iran bring to mind the song “Ohio,” by Neil Young:

Gotta get down to it
Soldiers are gunning us down
Should have been done long ago.
What if you knew her
And found her dead on the ground
How can you run when you know?

The song was written in response to the the 1970 shootings at Kent State University in Ohio, in which 4 unarmed students were shot during a protest of the Vietnam War.


    (This is a concert performance by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, with not-so-great sound quality. You can find a better quality acoustic version by Neil Young here.)

Whether or not the Iranian election results are legitimate (and I’m inclined to doubt their validity), it has been inspiring to witness the passion of so many in Iran as they call for reform in their government and demand that their voices be heard and their votes be counted. It has also been sobering to see the violent and repressive response from the government of Iran and the conservative supporters of that government, who have been acting to suppress the free flow of information.

While there is little that we can do to help, as individuals outside of Iran, recent technologies (like Twitter) have empowered those who are speaking out within Iran, and provided tools for organization and communication in the face of official attempt to silence the protests.

I’d like to take this as reminder that the act of speaking out by an individual can be part of a powerful movement for change. To speak out against the violent crackdown against protesters in Iran, you can add your voice to those of others around the world, such as by signing the petition organized by Avaaz.

I would also like to cheer on those people in the list below for speaking out on topics that are meaningful to them. I’d like to entreat you to visit their posts and encourage them to continue to speak out. Please click on the links!

And now, here are the June Just Posts:

This month’s readers:

Please drop by Holly’s to see what she has to say this month.

If you have a post above, or would just like to support the Just Posts, we invite you to display a button on your blog with a link back here, or to the Just Posts at Cold Spaghetti. If you are unfamiliar with the Just Posts, please visit the information page.

buttonjune2009-120px

summer skies

IMG_2414

IMG_2473

We had a wedding to go to up in New Hampshire this weekend, and Phoebe got to be a flower girl. It was a fun trip, if largely hectic with various functions and family commitments. I’d write more about the weekend, but I’ve got some work to catch up on. I actually didn’t even bring my laptop on the trip with us, knowing how tight our schedule (and cargo space) would be.

On Sunday, one of John’s cousins invited us up to spend a bit of time with her family at a beach in Maine. So we headed up there after checking out of the hotel, and attending the last of the wedding-related gatherings.

The setting was gorgeous, and the weather was perfect.

This “summer” has been one of the coldest, rainiest ones I can remember, so it was a real treat to have warm sunshine this weekend. Now we’re back to chilly rain and thunder, the afternoon sky so dark outside the window that it makes me feel like climbing into bed. As I sit here hunched over my laptop trying to do work, I find it hard to tear myself away from the photos that tell a different story about these days of summer.

—-
p.s. I forgot to mention that it’s time for the Just Posts once more. If you have read or written posts on topics of social justice, send ’em in!

Channel V

Dee of On The Curb has posted a playlist of some of her favorite “vagina music,” with her post entitled exceeding my bandwith on the word vagina.¹ (You should go check out Dee’s blog, by the way. In case you haven’t guessed it, she’s freakin’ hilarious.)

Dee doesn’t quite give a definition of “vagina music,” but she gives quite a few examples. If I had to summarize, I’d say that the songs are ones that move her down to her…um…core, and tap into her emotions. And perhaps also those that remind her that she is biologically female.

Further, Dee has requested comparable lists from others. In her words, “I show you mine, you show me yours.”

Okay, Dee. I’ll show you mine. While I’ve never thought of this music in quite those terms², this is my response playlist:

  1. Save Me – Aimee Mann (listen)
  2. Thief – Belly (listen)
  3. Lucky – Bif Naked (listen)
  4. Bulimic Beats – Catatonia (listen)
  5. No Need To Argue – The Cranberries (listen)
  6. Virgin State Of Mind – K’s Choice (listen)
  7. Autumngirlsoup – Kirsty MacColl (listen)
  8. Your Ghost – Kristin Hersh (listen)
  9. Famous Blue Raincoat – Leonard Cohen (listen)
  10. De Cara A La Pared – Lhasa (listen)
  11. Wild Is The Wind – Nina Simone (listen)
  12. Down By The Water – P J Harvey (listen)
  13. Dancing Barefoot – Patti Smith Group (listen)
  14. Haunted – Poe (listen)
  15. Glory Box – Portishead (listen)
  16. Possession– Sarah McLachlan (listen)
  17. i am stretched on your grave – Sinéad O’Connor (listen)
  18. Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me – The Smiths (listen)
  19. Anchor – Trespassers William (listen)

How about you. Wanna show me yours?

—–

¹ Dee is not shy about using the word vagina. In fact, in her post, she uses the word vagina no fewer than 38 times. (Yes, I counted. One vagina, two vagina, three vagina, four. Five vagina, six vagina, seven vagina, more…) And that, my friends, is a most impressive feat.

² The thing is, though, I’m not a big fan of the word vagina. In fact, this post here marks the first time I’m using the word on my blog. (Yes, I did a search.) Also the 2nd through 15th times. (Yes, I counted.) Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against vaginas. Or vaginae, if you prefer. I’m glad I have one of my own, and all. I just find the word vagina awkward.

Now spleen, on the other hand, there’s a word I like. Spleen. It’s a word that amuses me. I also appreciate its range of meanings. Some of you may know the spleen as an organ in the lymphatic system. But it was once esteemed as “the seat of spirit and courage or of such emotions as mirth, ill humor, melancholy, etc.” Me, I’m all about the mirth, the ill humor and the melancholy. Then there’s the whole archaic meaning of splenetic to mean “melancholy.” And my playlist is pretty darned melancholy.

So maybe you can consider this my spleen music.

The Princess and the Bag of Tools

One of the presents Phoebe got for her birthday, when she turned three back in February, was a “Pretty Princess FeltTales” felt board set. It’s actually quite a cool toy, consisting of a felt-covered board with some background scenery, and a bunch of smaller felt cut-out pieces. This particular set has three girls and separate clothing (a bit like paper dolls), a horse and carriage, a frog, a castle, and some other assorted princessy accessories:

The Pretty Princess FeltTales set, as shown on the company website.
The Pretty Princess FeltTales set, as shown on the company website.

Here’s how the website describes how a kid might play with the set:

“Pretty Princess” lets you get ready for a night at the castle. Dress your princess in her favorite ball gown, and add a cloak as the evening approaches. Gather her handmaidens and travel by carriage. Make a wish and kiss the frog, and perhaps….

Here’s how Phoebe set up the board.

Phoebe's version: The mechanic get her bag of tools to fix the car after the accident.
Phoebe's version: The mechanic gets her bag of tools to fix the car after the accident.

A: So what’s going on here, Phoebe?
P: Well that’s the bag of tools.
A: Yeah? Now why do they need the tools?
P: Because that’s an accident.
A: Yeah.
P: It’s a car
A: Okay. And who’s got the tools?
P: That’s the mechanic, though.

Damn, I love my little girl.

gathering moss

The first time I ever moved was when I was three years old. My family lived in a rental house in Sausalito, California. It was a tiny house built into the hillside overlooking the San Francisco Bay, with 30-odd steps leading up to the house from the sidewalk. One of my earliest memories was of moving day. The movers put down big pieces of plywood over those steps so that they could slide the boxes down to the street level.

That move sent me and my things in two directions, as my parents were separating. My mother rented an apartment a few towns away, and my father rented a house in a neighboring town. My sister and I would go back and forth. A couple of years later, my mother left the apartment for a rental house in another town, and my father rented the same apartment vacated by my mother.

When I was six, my mother, my sister and I moved our things in with my new stepfather, into a big newly built house. My father died that same year, and my mother and stepfather cleared out the apartment that had been one of my two homes for three years. I remember trying to save all I could get away with.

When I was nine years old, my mother, my sister and I moved to France to start anew. We packed up what we could fit in a few suitcases and a big trunk, and headed to Paris. We travelled a bit, stayed in hotels here and there, and finally settled in an apartment in a Paris suburb, near the school my sister and I would attend.

We stayed there a year before returning to the US. We moved in with my Grandmother in her house in a small, rural town in the mountains of Colorado. The following year, we moved to another Colorado town, where we rented a log cabin-style house.

We stayed there for just over 3 years, which up to that point was the longest time I’d spent in any one residence. Part way into my freshman year of high school, we moved to Honolulu, Hawaii. We got rid of lots of things, put some into storage, and moved over with little more than a few suitcases. A few months later, it was back to the mainland, where we settled once more in California. A couple of years later, my mother married a Frenchman and moved back to France. It was the spring of my junior year of high school, and I moved in with a friend’s family for a couple of months to finish the school year. That summer, I moved to France with a few suitcases, though I recall I had my mother’s full sterling flatware set in my carry-on bag.

The next year, I headed back to the US for college. Over the 4-ish years of college, I lived in 2 dorms and 4 apartments. I also had a semester studying abroad in Brazil. If I’d had a car at that point, I could easily have fit all my belongings into it.

In addition to the homes I lived for stretches of months or years, there were more temporary places. Hotels or friends’ homes for a few days here, a few weeks there, filling in the gaps between moves.

How can I count the places I’ve lived? 5 US states and 2 other countries? (Do I count differently the times I moved back to a place after moving away? That happened twice. Unless you count coming back from Brazil, then it was 3 times.) Was it 15 towns, or do I count those other transitional towns? (There were at least 2.) Was it 9 schools during K through 12, or do I not count changes in the same district? (That happened once.) There have been 8 different houses and at least 11 different apartments. (And that one apartment where I lived twice.) Or do I just count the number of times I packed up all my belongings? (Because I doubt I can figure that one out.)

When I was 24, John and I moved up to Massachusetts. When we moved out of that apartment, four years later, it was the longest time I had ever been in one place. Amazingly, that was 10 years ago, as of last month. In May of 1999, we bought our house. That was the last time I moved.

I’ve been in Massachusetts for 14 years now, in New England for nearly 20 years. I never imagined myself staying in one place for so long. (And I never imagined how much stuff I could accumulate.)