Rhubarb Pie

More about comments later.

Scheherezade Middlename Lastname, I will too scold you.  Right here in public.  Ms. Sherry, what on earth are you doing in a place so cold that your haircut matters to your comfort?  Your hair is part of your thermal strategy?  We are not birds who fluff up feathers to insulate ourselves.  We are not badgers who grow a thicker pelt in winter.  We are people, who only have skin.  This skin is obviously Nature's way of telling us that we do not belong in very cold places.  (The fact that we look better tan is summer's reinforcement of this message.)

Look.  You can romanticize winter all you like.  I know that you northern people have to do that to justify your lifestyle choices.  But the objective truth is that cold is unpleasant!  I know!  I tried it once!

*****

Independent of hat/scarf alignment, I think this haircut is going to be entertaining.  I went to sleep last night thinking "ummm, I dunno, maybe Clara Bow?" and I woke up this morning as a BLACK FUCKING PANTHER!  I forgot!  Three inch long thick curly hair?  Oh yeah.  Full on half-sphere afro in the morning.  There are many reasons that it is a shame I don't wake up next to someone every morning, but laughing at my hair has just jumped considerably up the list.

*****

You are right that we haven't been good about incorporating readers' emails into the front page and even more right that it is a shame.  They send us great stuff.  The one I regret not-posting the most was this lovely piece on giving someone a watch, from back when we talked about watches.

I read your posts about watches and timekeeping. It reminded me of this short "story" by Julio Cortazar. It is called "Preámbulo a las Instrucciones para dar cuerda a un reloj" or Preamble to the instructions on how to wind a watch. I have found an english translation and I am sending you both below. I always found this paragraphs quite beautiful.

Piensa en esto: cuando te regalan un reloj te regalan un pequeño infierno florido, una cadena de rosas, un calabozo de aire. No te dan solamente el reloj, que los cumplas muy felices y esperamos que te dure porque es de buena marca, suizo con áncora de rubíes; no te regalan solamente ese menudo picapedrero que te atarás a la muñeca y pasearás contigo. Te regalan —no lo saben, lo terrible es que no lo saben—, te regalan un nuevo pedazo frágil y precario de ti mismo, algo que es tuyo pero no es tu cuerpo, que hay que atar a tu cuerpo con su correa como un bracito desesperado colgándose de tu muñeca. Te regalan la necesidad de darle cuerda todos los días, la obligación de darle cuerda para que siga siendo un reloj; te regalan la obsesión de atender a la hora exacta en las vitrinas de las joyerías, en el anuncio por la radio, en el servicio telefónico. Te regalan el miedo de perderlo, de que te lo roben, de que se te caiga al suelo y se rompa. Te regalan su marca, y la seguridad de que es una marca mejor que las otras, te regalan la tendencia de comparar tu reloj con los demás relojes. No te regalan un reloj, tú eres el regalado, a ti te ofrecen para el cumpleaños del reloj.

Think of this: when they present you with a watch, they are gifting you with a tiny flowering hell, a wreath of roses, a dungeon of air. They aren't simply wishing the watch on you, and many more, and we hope it will last you, it's a good grand, Swiss, seventeen rubies; they aren't just giving you this minute stonecutter which will bind you by the wrist and walk along with you. They are giving you - they don't know it, it's terrible that they don't know it - they are gifting you with a new fragile and precarious piece of yourself, something that's yours but not a part of your body, that you have to strap to your body like your belt, like a tiny, furious bit of something hanging onto your wrist. They gift you with the job of having to wind it every day, an obligation to wind it, so that it goes on being a watch, they gift you with the obsession of looking into jewelry-shop windows to check the exact time, check the radio announcer, check the telephone service. They give you the gift of fear, someone will steal it from you, it'll fall on the street and get broken. They give you the gift of your trademark and the assurance that it's a trademark better than others, they gift you with the impulse to compare your watch with other watches. They aren't giving you a watch, you are the gift, they are giving you yourself for the watch's birthday.

Thank you for that, her b.  I loved it.

I still think it would be funny if we ran a joint advice column, answering questions separately and not comparing answers until we posted them.  My prediction would be that you would tell people to express their beautiful souls and I would be all "What the fuck did you do that for?!?!"  But we are not reliable correspondents, so I don't know that we should ask people to write us.

*****

Finally - look hon!  We can do this for another fifty years.

P.S.

I am going to get in real trouble here, because we haven't talked about this ourselves, in the back channel, and we believe in blogger solidarity.

But isn't it time to think about comments again? We love the email we get from people. Our readers are smart and funny and nice, and interesting.

We lied when we said we'd regularly take people's comments and make them into posts and responses. We don't do that, hardly ever.

So our readers don't get to see the thoughts other readers plant in our heads, or how they work their way through our ideas (or fail to resonate with us). Our readers don't know there are other readers out there.

I know you miss the feedback and challenge that you got from readers. And I think you don't miss all the angry oddballs who personally attacked you. I miss the sense of people reacting. I love the emails we get, but I assume (and wonder) about people who might be reading but not bothering to email. I wonder if our readers would enjoy one another.

I am much more likely to answer emails than I am to chime in with comments. If we open up comments, I'll read every one and almost never write anything back. I understand the model of comments as a conversation, and the role of blogger as facilitator, but I don't want to get into that, and I don't have the time for it. (Plus it's not fair to people who use feed readers.) Bloggers talk here in the posts, readers talk in the comments. I know you've always done it a different way, answering and participating and moderating comments to cultivate a vibrant and challenging conversation. Phew! I don't want that kind of responsibility, and maybe comments are no good if bloggers aren't vigilant about the rules and the tone.

Whaddya think? Is something missing without comments? Or is this better as a back-and-forth between two voices, with a friendly backchannel available by email? Readers, please email us your thoughts. Megan, scold me in public or in private. In public, probably. Well, wherever you want. I am ready.

Silly Girl

You don't cut your hair off in November! Your poor neck is going to get so cold, and you can pull down your woolly hat and pull up your collar but that's what hair is for, the insulation on that tender slice of skin between the scarf and the hat. When you go outside in the chilly half-dark morning with the dogs, a little bit sleepy because it's still gloomy and grey and so you don't double check for leaks in your armor, you will miss that hair.

No, you cut your hair off in late May, so the soft warm breezes can tickle the new, curious, hidden, extra-sensitive skin on the back of your neck, and you feel it as an awakening that mingles with the smell of fresh dirt and the emerging leaves and makes you want to burst with happiness.

For now, protect yourself. It's twenty-five degrees outside, for heavens' sake! Don't forget to take your soft cardigan to work, to hang on the back of your chair, in case your office gets cold. And some tea, to hold in your hands.

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I didn't set out to make this comparison, and maybe it it is grandiose, but I am embattled and prepared for a presidential loss. I see people like you, exposing themselves to hope, and I turn up my collar and wrap my scarf around myself another time. I actually get angry at the media now, going past the election, speculating about who might be in an Obama cabinet. Please, no, stop talking. This feels so dangerous, like a visceral threat. If I hope now the disappointment will be unbearable, and I guess I am afraid of that. I am afraid people will see it as a given, and won't bother to go vote, or the bad guys, infuriated, will do something very bad that changes the outcome. This seems like a reversal of our usual roles, me usually all full of rose-colored dreamy faith in people's goodness, you fierce and dismissive of the many fools who hold power, but there it is. I do not trust the world on this one point, and I am afraid that if I hope fully I will be heartsick on Wednesday.

I cut my hair off!

Even more off, since it was already pretty short.  Now it is more shorter.

And I took a blurry picture, which is think is sufficient to show you the important part, which is that I have bangs now.  I haven't had bangs in twenty years, but I'm embracing change.

I took some picture of the trees that we will see when you move here, and produce.

Better than a dream.

Every day for the past week or so, I've seen something new that makes me tear up, or sometimes sob. I remember crying like this twice before. I remember standing by the stove in my college kitchen and reading that Madeleine Albright was Secretary of State. A woman Secretary of State! I cried with relief and pride, and didn't even know why. My life hasn't been an experience in blatant sexism, but I was overcome to see a woman I'd never heard of reach an office that high. I cried one day at the only gay pride parade I've ever been to. The Dykes on Bikes led the march, and they were just so themselves, so unapologetic, revving the engines on that blue sunny day and I cried for their happiness. I didnt know I needed that either, to see dykes being open and loud. I don't usually see lesbians having to be anything in particular. So those were the times I surprised myself, crying in joy to see people rise into their full selves despite old -isms, when I hadn’t even known I cared they were oppressed.

I picked Obama early in the primaries, always thinking that the other two were good solid choices. In the end, I liked Obama's collaborative approach more than Clinton's skill at traditional politics, so I went with him. But a piece of me regretted the choice, because remembering the day that I cried to see a woman Secretary of State, I knew I'd be so glad, so proud and happy and relieved to watch a woman being sworn into the presidency. A small piece of me, one that doesn't even irritate or nag me anymore I am so used to it, that small piece of hurt would be lifted on that day. After that, I would always be better.

I talked to Margie about it and she agreed. Yeah. She'd be awfully happy to see a woman win the presidency. But then, she said, maybe black people need this more this time. Maybe there are more little black kids who need to know they can be anything than there are little girls who need to know that. I nodded. Maybe. It is hard for me to tell from my Californian world, where racism isn't black and white, but splintered and spread in every direction between dozens of ethnic backgrounds. It isn't the same; I don’t see the ugliest histories in my daily life. I simply do not have the firsthand experience to make any sort of comparison between the extent of the need for women to see a woman win and American blacks and multi-racial people to see one of their own move into his full, extravagant potential despite centuries of racism. (This is fine. Those comparisons are dumb.) So I held the question out, unanswered.

Until this week. This week I've teared up or cried from joy at least a dozen times. Oh. This amazing feeling, of vicious old wrongs dissolving. I don’t know if past wrongs can be righted and not everyone is whole yet. But the same wrongs aren't working this time. They weren't even wrong against me, but I can watch them lift and feel an echo of the pride and joy flooding my countrymen. That is a remarkable gift, unlooked for, because I didn’t know that old racism was making me sad and that shedding some of that shame and empathy would be joyous for me too. We are better, we are healing, even right now. Those of us who aren't at the center, we are so lucky to bear witness.

(I am so proud of my Mommy, who has been campaigning for Sen. Obama for months, traveling for weeks.)

(Links from everywhere, y'all.  Sorry for no hattip.)

Cut off from the thought economy.

So, like, I wrote some stuff about some stuff for work. And, like, there were some facts and a chain of reasoning and I'm pretty sure there are implications.  Normally, I would sound those out and try to write them in order so that laypeople and all y'all could critique them. Then I would read the freakshow libertarian objections and know I was on the right path.  People would write back and point me to essays or ask how I got somewhere and then my thought would be better.

But it occurred to me that maybe I shouldn't put my work up here for this stuff I wrote, because I think it is an Internal DRAFT. I asked my sorta-Bossman. "Sorta-Bossman, would it be OK if I talked about the stuff I wrote with my friends, because they think about stuff and know some stuff and all?" And he was all, "No. This is Important Secret Work and someone might Get An Advantage." I extrapolated that if I'm not allowed to talk to my friends about the Internal DRAFT, I probably can't put it on the internets.

I am suprised by how intensely I miss that right now. I would love to have your reviews and critiques and assurances and references. Until now, I hadn't realized how much I've come to count on this huge resource for me, your thought and attention. Oddly enough, you are willing to donate your time and thought for free, for no reason except that you are interested. Now that I can't use it, I want it back.

Go get 'em, tiger!

My dearest.  While I eagerly fling myself onto the bandwagon for every project you do (Shakespeare?  SHAKESPEARE!!!) and am interested in each and every one of your posts, I think that I will not follow your proposed diagnostic tool with the same enthusiasm.  I suspect it is valuable and a good use of technology.  But until the day I need it myself, I do not think I will follow this venture of yours.

I absolutely think that you can address and cure the colitis next year.  My only slight hesitation is that I hang out with people who do exactly this all the time.  I hang out with people who are extremely conscious of food and attentive to their bodies.  They try food theories and reject food groups and see results.  The good news is that it works.  The bad news is that it works and takes attention and self-monitoring and work.  And then you can't eat some things.  It looks unpleasant. (Although, since I don't experience the unpleasantness of the original ailment, I can't compare.)   

You're on your own for that project, but I will help in my small way.  Only tell me the results of your foodcure and I will accommodate them however I can.  When you move next door to me and we have a dinner group every single night, just tell me whatever regimen you land on.   I will make it as delicious as I can.

I'm Sorry About This

I've been really busy, blah blah blah.  But one of the real reasons that I haven't written much lately is that I've been mildly embarrassed to write about what's actually on my mind. Which is stupid, but you'll see why in a minute.  I've been thinking about this secret topic quite often -- multiple times a day, every day, without fail.  It's become another goal for 2009.  And it is the one thing in my life that I think about a lot that I have been pretty much utterly silent about.  I have no company in this preoccupation, nobody to bounce ideas off, no sense of whether I'm normal or really, deeply weird.  The reason is that to let anybody in would require talking about poop, which I am extremely reluctant to do.  It's one of the signs of adulthood, right, that talking about poop stops being exciting and funny and starts being something you take pains to avoid at all costs? 

They're professionals.

I was looking for tips on reading Shakespeare aloud and found this:

Not so SFW.

 

She must work out in the mornings.

It has been fun at the gym recently, because we are maxing, which means trying to see the absolute most you can lift one time.  Turns out that is all complicated.  If you're lifting really heavy stuff, you only get to try five or six times*  and you have to wait in between and you have to choose whether you want to start off heavy and go up by small increments near the top of your range or if you want to gently approach the heaviest lift, but risk not getting to your max within your five or six times.  Strategery.

Anyway, because of all the waiting between attempts, our little group cheers for the others and stretches and wanders around the gym.  It is fun.  Everything was good last night until I looked over at the Personal Record boards they put up.  My PR's are there.  And then there was this new girl.

"WHO THE HELL IS CHRISTINE?!"  Who is this Christine person, who posts a deadlift max exactly five pounds heavier than mine?!!  I've never seen a Christine, and I've not seen a woman at our gym who deadlifts more than me.

Now, I am not good at all the lifts.  I'm a mediocre bench presser, and we've only recently started very heavy squats, but I can already tell that they don't feel natural for me.  It is going to take an astonishing amount of concentration for me to hold good form.  There are lots of things I would cheerfully believe about the other women at my gym.  I'd believe some tiny princessy girl has a higher total max (bench plus deadlift plus squat).  I'd believe some sixty year old woman has more strength proportional to her size.  There are all sorts of ways to measure strength where other women may beat me out.  I have no problem accepting that.

But I am a pretty good deadlifter.  That's the one lift that felt right from the first time I did it.  And I want to know who this Christine is, with her five pound higher max.  There they are, both PR's on the board, and hers is higher.  This is killing me.  Oh Christine.  We start a new cycle of deadlift max next week.  I intend to WRITE SOME NEW NUMBERS next to my name on the board.  I intend for those numbers to be BIGGER THAN YOURS.

*I'm told that your body is limited by the amount of neurotransmitter it takes to fire all your muscles at once.  Once those are gone, doesn't matter if your muscles are still good to go.  I have not looked it up to confirm or deny this.