Auntie Fatcat's

Derek's Latest Disneyland RIde

2009-03-01T12:00:00.002-08:00

Are you ready? Make it say "The New Ride That Derek Made, But They Made It Before Him." But my ride is kinda different. So I will tell you the ride. First, you have to get into Disneyland and when you get right into Disneyland, you see a big, giant, giant, giant, giant, giant ride. And then you see a huge line and everybody's in it. But I was there first. And they just opened it up today. And they said, "It's for a dollar." And it's one of the scariest rides you will ever see. I think they should make a park called The Scary Rides and put it in there.

And when you get in, you ride on the ride and you go up this big, big, big, big, big mountain and then you go straight down and then you see this weird kind of thing with a vampire. It's like a big, hairy thing; I thought it was a werewolf atfirst. But when you keep on going in the ride you see these weird kinda things hanging from the ceiling; I don't know what it is. And then this thing tries to shoot you, and it's like a big kinda monstery thing. And then a big werewolf comes right in front of you and it jumps over you, and this little freaky guy with a chainsaw cuts the wheels off with his chainsaw, and then a big, big boulder comes and hits the guy with the chainsaw. But we still don't have any wheels. Then the big boulder hits us and we go in this big cave and then the bats and Dracula are chasing after you.

And then you go right into this thing, and it's weird, because it doesn't look like anything, but my brother telled me after the ride, my brother said, "Did you see the big cave with the big, giant teeth everywhere?" And he said there was a shark teeth, and a dinosaur teeth, and a werewolf teeth. And then you're done, and it's all over. And then we went on it again and again and again until the whole day was done. And that's the story about the ride I wanted to tell you.

by Derek, age 7, as transcribed by Aunt Beverly

Rant o' the Day: "Defense of Marriage"

2006-08-21T12:26:00.000-07:00

A recent unpublished letter to the editor:

It's completely disingenuous for Sen. Dan Swecker to insist that the state's interest in promoting exclusively heterosexual marriage is all about the children ["Defending the Legislature's right to defend marriage," editorial, Aug. 16].

If it really is that important to focus government resources on promoting families of children and their biological parents, then that should be the qualifying standard for state-sanctioned marriage: one man and one woman who have produced at least one biological child together. Straight couples with no kids? Nope, it's all about the children. Straight couples with stepchildren or adopted kids? Sorry, Sen. Swecker says that's not kids' best interest. Letting such imperfect folks into the marriage club "would simply reduce resources available to sustain children and families of traditional marriages and reduce societal commitment to this one most important union."

I urge Sen. Swecker to introduce a bill requiring this new standard. If he really is concerned only about the children and not about imposing his religious beliefs on our state, then he should put his vote where his mouth is.

Following Up

2006-05-21T12:44:00.000-07:00

After some time away from the blogosphere, I figure I owe anybody still reading this an update on subjects from past entries:

Going to Disneyland: I did in fact go to Disneyland with Rick, Kathy, and Dave last October. The boys flew down while Kathy and I drove, making the trip in two days each way. Due to Kathy's careful planning, we managed to see pretty much everything we wanted to see at both Disneyland and California Adventures in the few days we were there. I emerged from the experience exhausted and slightly sunburned, but otherwise unscathed.

Disneyland was every bit as surreal as I was expecting, but it surprised me by feeling more magical than disturbing. The editor in me particularly appreciated the attention to detail in the way everything from light fixtures to bathrooms reflected the theme of the surrounding area, often in clever ways. My foodie side found plenty of well-prepared and interesting things to eat, though I suspect this was because Kathy knew where to look. I was also pleasantly surprised to find Disneyland includes several very talented wandering musical groups, who frequently entertained me while the others were off riding "scary" rides (meaning anything that could trouble a motion-sick three-year-old). And I even enjoyed most of the rides I dared go on, particularly the Peter Pan one, the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, and the Haunted Mansion, which was done up with a Nightmare Before Christmas theme, including gigantic jack-o'-lantern-headed snow angels that freaked me out just a little.

Really, the only things that annoyed me about Disneyland were the unavoidable: it takes too long to get there (or requires flying), lots of other people go there too, and that big, shiny thing in the sky makes it too hot and bright for this Seattle girl. I strongly suspect I'll be back, particularly since Derek's mom has promised him he can go when he's five, which will happen next December.

Shakti is a Good Girl: Most of you know by now that Rick and I lost our good girl to chronic renal failure in February. There are no words to say how much we all still miss her--though Morgana tries daily to invent them, and comes closer than I can with her mournful yows. I am glad my blog is there to celebrate and remind us what a good girl Shakti was.

The Girl Who Ate Eggplant: Not unlike my blog, this project started with more energy than it got later on. I did discover that savoy cabbage is good if braised in the juices of nicely roasted meat, though I seriously doubt I will ever cook well enough to duplicate this feat. I also found a cauliflower dish I liked all right; apparently if you smother the stuff in garlicky alfredo sauce and melted cheese, thereby chucking it clean out of the vegetable food group, it will taste fine. Several vegan curries taste good but do bad things to my digestion, so that's a wash. And I fully admit I never really gave eggplant and oranges a fair try.

The one big success in all this was finding the right brand of brown rice pasta: Tinkyada, available at PCC stores or online. It doesn't work well cold, so it's no good for pasta or macaroni salads. But its mouth-feel is surprisingly good if it's hot or even reheated, and I like it well enough to replace all the wheat pasta in the house. Now wheat-allergic Rick and I can eat pasta together again, and I can feel less guilty about it.

Now that you're no longer in suspense about how the Disneyland and food-appreciation experiments turned out, I can return you to the suspense of wondering when, if ever, I'll get around to posting more blog entries :)

The Best Disneyland Ride Ever

2006-05-16T19:19:00.000-07:00

Aunt Beverly: When we went to Disneyland--

Derek: Me too! I goed to Disneyland!

Aunt Beverly: You did?

Derek: Uh huh. I tell you the best ride ever?

Aunt Beverly: Okay.

Derek: First you get in the boat and you go up all the way of a big mountain. And after that, inside the mountain are lots of animals.

Aunt Beverly: Real ones?

Derek: No, pretend ones.

Aunt Beverly: And they sing songs?

Derek: No, they try to bite you. But I hit them with my brother's baseball bat and they ran away.

Aunt Beverly: I guess it's lucky you were there, then.

Derek: Uh huh. And after that, you go down a big slide into the water.

Aunt Beverly: Does it splash you?

Derek: Yeah, all over you with water. And after that, you go up another big mountain and into a dinosaur's mouth.

Aunt Beverly: Really? What's it like inside a dinosaur?

Derek: It's ucky. You get oil all over you.

Aunt Beverly: That doesn't sound very nice.

Derek: No, it's ucky. And after that, you go down a big slide and out him's tail.

Aunt Beverly: He has a hole in his tail?

Derek: No, in his butt. It's ucky. And after that, you go through a big volcano, and you get lava all over you. But you don't die because it's pretend lava.

Aunt Beverly: What's it made out of?

Derek: Water. And after that, Chewbacca comes and you go in his spaceship and fight Darth Vader.

Aunt Beverly: How do you fight him?

Derek: With your thing like this. [Makes slashing moves.]

Aunt Beverly: With your lightsaber?

Derek: Yeah. And after that, after you die him, Chewbacca takes you to Mickey's house.

Aunt Beverly: Oh, dear. I bet Mickey doesn't like having lots of ucky, oily people in his house.

Derek: And after that, you take off all your clothes and take a bath. And after that, Mickey gives you new clothes and makes you dinner.

Aunt Beverly: That sounds nice. What do you have for dinner?

Derek: Ice cream.

Aunt Beverly: Really? What kind?

Derek: Chocolate. And any flavor.

Aunt Beverly: So, two scoops then.

Derek: Uh huh. And after that Buzz Lightyear comes and you go in his spaceship way up in the sky. And after that, the aliens come and you shoot them with your blaster.

Aunt Beverly: Sounds like you really get your money's worth on this ride.

Derek: Uh huh. And after that, you land in the parking lot and after that, you go home.

Aunt Beverly: What did you say this ride was called?

Derek: Disneyland Magic Kingdom Ride.

Aunt Beverly: I don't remember seeing that one when I went to Disneyland last year.

Derek: Oh, I saw it a long time ago.

Aunt Beverly: You're four years old. It can't have been all that long ago.

Derek: It was when I was a baby. That's why I can't remember it.

Letter to the Editor

2005-09-02T11:21:00.000-07:00

By popular request, I'm noting that a letter of mine was published in the Seattle Times today. You should be able to read it here; if not, let me know and I'll email you a copy.

Wilson/Rove Fundamentals

2005-07-19T21:51:00.000-07:00

Joseph Wilson said, "The story about Saddam buying yellowcake in Africa is a lie." So Karl Rove said, "Don't listen to that guy--his wife sent him."

Yeah, 'cause that's a defense. Apparently, I'd have to watch Fox News to understand why "his wife sent him" = "he must be lying." I guess I'd better not send Rick to the store, because if he came back and told me they've got soy milk on special but they're out of blueberries this week, I'd have to assume he's lying.

The Saddam/yellowcake story was the lie. RNC talking points claim Wilson and his report were "inaccurate," but I note they're not calling out any specific points or providing any evidence on that. Wilson did say his wife wasn't involved in sending him to Niger when it turns out she recommended him for the trip, so I guess that's a smudge on his name. But Rove made out like the trip was all her idea when it really came from her superiors, so he's all smudgy too.

In the end, I don't give a rip who sent Wilson to Niger. It matters only if it biased the accuracy of his findings, and everyone from the 9/11 Commission to the Bush administration eventually admitted that his fundamental conclusions--including no yellowcake for Saddam--were spot on. (A few wackos are still writing letters to the editor defending the yellowcake story, but it's a mighty lonely chorus.)

I also don't give a rip if Rove or anybody else committed a crime in outing Wilson's wife. Not that I would mind seeing Rove clapped in irons and made to walk the plank, but all this attention on his slimy methods sadly distracts us from the greater sliminess of his underlying purpose.

Wilson exposed a lie the White House still needed us to believe. So Rove smeared a whistle-blower--to sell us a war, no less--and far too many Americans believed him. Rove's talent for maligning truths and truth-tellers that inconveniently fail to support Bush administration policy is a much bigger problem than anything a special prosecutor can tag him for.

I just wish the American public would remember who lied and who didn't every time the Republican spin machine tells us to believe Bush and discount his critics.

Fundamentalist Wins Election

2005-06-25T22:24:00.000-07:00

I read an article in today's Seattle Times about the election of conservative Islamic fundamentalist Mahmoud Ahmadinejad to the presidency of Iran. The article clearly shook its head in worry that the election of such an extremist hard-line religious leader would spell doom for democratic reform in Iran (code for improvement in relations with the United States).

Funny, I seem to recall another country that elected a religious extremist president who cares little for improving relationships with other countries. Let's explore the parallels, shall we?

The new president uses "support from the country's ruling clerical hierarchy and its vast military [or military-industrial complex] to restore total control of the government to Islamic [or Christian] fundamentalists and end an eight-year experiment in reform." Check.

"Voters divided by class and ideology had gone to the polls" with the uneducated poor favoring the fundamentalist and the affluent liberals a centrist in reformer's clothing. Check.

". . . Conservatives regained control by painting the reformist camp . . . as corrupt, ineffectual and out of touch with ordinary people." Check.

Some candidates who tried to run were kept off the ballots and "there were complaints of irregularities at some Tehran [Ohio, Florida] polling stations." Check.

The new president "talks tough toward Iran's [the United States'] enemies and promises to reverse what he views as the watering down of Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini's [former President Ronald Reagan's] militancy. He has a strong following in the military and the bazaars [stock market] and among the clergy." Check.

The president's foes fear he will "take the country backward," increase regulation of sexual issues, "and bring on isolation, economic decline and a heightened risk of confrontation . . . over human rights and nuclear weapons." Check.

Many voters were unhappy with both candidates. Oh, definitely a check.

Voters who supported the new president said things like "He's good, because he is a fundamentalist. He's pious." Check.

Guess we have more than one religious fundamentalist president to shake our heads about.

Customer Care

2005-04-27T22:11:00.000-07:00

This morning I glanced at an article in the Seattle Times about how increased costs related to Amazon.com's discounted shipping programs were one of the chief causes of the company's 30% quarterly profit drop from a year ago, which caused its stock price to drop 2.5% in response. I usually don't read the business section that thoroughly, but this article contained a quote that caught my eye. David Garrity, an analyst for Caris & Co. (whoever that is), said, "It appears that consumers are rewarded rather than shareholders."

That's right. Favoring consumers over shareholders is apparently a shocking thing to do and must be punished. No wonder the U.S. economy sucks. If you're just trying to make money and you don't care about what you're doing or the people who are buying it, then it's either not going to happen or it's not going to last. If more companies focused more on excellence in their fields--and I mean real excellence, not the smarmy kind that comes on posters with pictures of skydivers or mountain climbers--the profits would come on their own. Not immediately and temporarily, but slowly and sustainably. Worked for my company anyway, at least until the shareholder-fawning suits bought it.

Guess I'll be making myself a big, fat order from Amazon.com.

The Dictatorship of Relativism

2005-04-20T16:36:00.000-07:00

So they have a new pope. Quickly and unsurprisingly, the College of Cardinals has elected former Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger to be Pope Benedict XVI. I'm mildly disappointed to see that the new pope is a hard-line conservative: strongly opposed to divorce, birth control, liberation theology, women or married men in the priesthood, and homosexuality anywhere. I was kinda hoping they would notice the huge Catholic population in Latin America and choose someone who would focus his ministry, as Jesus did, on the needs of the poor, the sick, and the oppressed. That would take the Church back to its biblical ideals of love and compassion while putting the pope in a great political position to enthuse and activate the most faithful and massive of Catholicism's faithful masses. Instead, they've chosen to fixate on the relatively petty concern of micromanaging people's bedroom activity. Okay then.

That said, I do agree with the new pope on one thing. At a mass shortly before the papal election conclave began, Cardinal Ratzinger said that modern society is creating "a dictatorship of relativism which does not recognize anything as for certain and which has as its highest goal one's own ego and one's own desires. . . . Having a clear faith, based on the creed of the church, is often labeled today as a fundamentalism." Take out the part about the creed of the church, and I'm there.

Like most liberals, I dislike and distrust fundamentalism of any stripe for its rigid insistence on imposing a comprehensive, one-size-fits-all set of rules on everyone. But I think its opposite number--the belief that there are no rules, or that everyone has the right to pick their own rules--is almost as bad. When I took management training back in my Wizards of the Coast days, we were taught that good managers impose as much structure as needed and no more, allowing employees as much room to innovate as possible while retaining clarity of roles and responsibilities. I think the same is true of morality; there must be a few universal rules, but only the minimum you need to clarify rights and responsibilities. After that, do what ye will.

I'm guessing that most people would agree with that general position, and come to blows mainly in arguing what the few rules should be. Healthy moral debate is a good thing, particularly if we can stick to persuading and keep away from demonizing and fisticuffs. Just keep in mind, while we debate, that there's a difference between being a jerk and being immoral, that sins aren't always crimes and virtues aren't always requirements, and that all beliefs are not created equal. And however high the bar may be for setting universal moral rules, the bar for turning those rules into enforced laws is higher still.

Boys' Lessons

2005-04-13T22:24:00.000-07:00

My beloved nephews David and Derek came to visit me for most of last week, along with their parents. We went to a Mariners game, took in the zoo, saw the animatronic dinosaurs at the Pacific Science Center, and watched the IMAX version of Robots. While all this was going on, I had plenty of exposure to the wit and wisdom of nine- and three-year-old boys. Here's what I've learned:

1. My name is Aunt Spiderman Buddy, and I had best answer to this. Quickly.

2. Baseball players are to be judged not by their prowess on the field or with the bat, but by how well they do what you want in your baseball video game.

3. The child who is not particularly heavy the first time you "up" him ("Me-me no see! Up me!") will have gained approximately one and a half tons by the time he develops an acute case of "owie toes" and must be carried home.

4. No matter where you go to eat, the kids' menu will offer a cheeseburger and fries, and the kids will choose this 80% of the time. The remainder of their choices will be macaroni and cheese (10%), cheese pizza (5%), and quesadillas (5%). The real mavericks might pick cheese enchiladas or grilled cheese sandwiches, but offerings not involving cheese are unacceptable.

5. The Mariners' mascot is not a moose, but a reindeer. He works for Santa in the winter and the Mariners in the summer. The Sonics mascot is not a Sasquatch, but a doggie.

6. Live butterflies can be scary if they fly right past your head. When fleeing from scary butterflies, it's important not to flee into the neighboring "Bees & Wasps" exhibit.

7. Small boys often have superpowers. Among them are the ability to make crosswalk lights change and the ability to see my house from each and every one of the binocular things on the observation deck at the Space Needle.

8. M&Ms and Skittles mixed together don't taste as bad as you might think.

9. Komodo dragons are cool, even if they are not as scary as butterflies.

10. Just because a person is wearing his Spiderman jammies does not mean he should be addressed as Spiderman. Sometimes Superman has to wear his Spiderman jammies when his mommy makes him put his Superman jammies in the wash.

Today I got a nicely illustrated card thanking me for showing "my boys" a great time. I say thanks to them, for reminding me what a great time looks like.

How 'Bout That Richie Sexson?

2005-04-04T18:43:00.000-07:00

First pitch as a Mariner, and he whaps it out of the park. Second at-bat, he flips it over the center-field fence, just to prove the first one wasn't a fluke. Guess you get what you pay for, at least for today, so thanks to the Ms for putting up the bucks for once. And a shout out to Ichiro and Jamie for proving that there's more good to this team than the new kids on the block, happy as we are to see them.

There's a long season ahead and plenty of worries coming off of last year's dismal performance, but right now things are looking mighty fine from the cheap seats.

It's Opening Day, and life is good.

Rant o' the Day: Discrimination in Academia

2005-04-01T10:36:00.000-08:00

Harvard President Lawrence Summers recently suggested that the underrepresentation of women in the sciences may be due to women's lesser aptitude for advanced scientific work, or perhaps their innate preference for more social professions. Many conservatives supported him in this view. Now the Seattle Times tells me that conservatives themselves are also vastly underrepresented on our nation's campuses.

I eagerly await President Summers' assertion that this may be due to conservatives' lesser aptitude for advanced academic work, or perhaps their innate preference for more lucrative occupations. And I particularly look forward to hearing George Will call critics of this opinion "hysterical."

Overheard at Norwescon

2005-03-29T10:36:00.000-08:00

"But they put in the restraining order first, so now she can't come to the con."

"I'd love to do something like that, but I don't have any free time for the next three years."

"The difference between science fiction and erotica is that it's more fun to read about science than to do it."

"Neoprene is a lot more comfortable than it looks, but I don't recommend it for underwear."

"Mine had the word smacking in it."

"It's all fun and games until you start making money."

"Take off your wings before you go potty, please."

I Miss Me

2005-03-14T18:43:00.000-08:00

For the last three days, I've had either a nasty head cold or the most hideous allergy attack I've ever had in my life. I won't bore you with a long and sordid list of symptoms; I'm miserable and cranky and that's probably already more than you wanted to know.

The most annoying part, however, is that I have also gone stupid. It's as if my brains have been largely replaced with snot. I wander around the house trying to do stuff, but I can't maintain enough attention span to remember what. I wonder why I'm standing at the top of the stairs with an empty toilet paper tube in my hand, and then wonder where I put the zinc lozenges I had a minute ago. (Turned out they were in the little dish I put my rings in when I'm in the shower. Don't ask me why.) I, who have made my living helping people articulate things, can no longer communicate simple concepts like "Kitty barfed under the bed again" because barfed and bed have suddenly left my vocabulary. (Which, BTW, I just typoed as vocabluarly and then "corrected" to vocabuarly. Spell check is good for something after all.)

I know I will get over this sooner or later and be back to my clever self. But in the meantime, I sure miss me.

The Eavesdropping Game

2005-03-08T11:27:00.000-08:00

One of the great things about having a PDA is that I always have a convenient place to write down those "special" quotes: the things people say that make perfect sense in context but sound pretty goofy or X-rated standing on their own. For your amusement, I've decided to post the top ten I've accumulated so far.

For my amusement, and to see if anyone besides my mom reads this, I'm also making it into a game. Two of the quotes below are things said in the context of playing a game. Two were said by or to children under the age of ten. Two were said by grandmothers. Two were said by grown men. Two were said by me. Two fall into more than one of the above categories, leaving two that fall into none of them. Anybody who correctly categorizes each quote wins. People who were present for the uttering of more than half of these quotes (that means you, sweetie) are not eligible.

"I bet Nicholas Cage has a lot of fluid in him."

"Errgh, I'm a flake of halibut!"

"I was a boy until seventh grade."

"Have you been beating me?"

"That's good, because I wanted to be mounted."

"Will someone please give me a wedgie?"

"Honey, hand me that cow."

"Why don't you look in your pants? That's where you usually find it."

"Hold on real tight, then put it between your legs and bounce."

"I like drooling."

The Girl Who Ate Eggplant

2005-03-05T15:10:00.000-08:00

I have a new hero, and his name is Jeffrey Steingarten.

I've been reading Mr. Steingarten's first book, The Man Who Ate Everything, which I enjoy immensely for its wit, appreciation of good food, and persistence in pursuing the capital-T Truth as it applies to eating. I don't always agree with his conclusions, but the rigor with which he tests commonly held food beliefs and the sheer extent of the crazy stuff he's willing to put himself through to find that elusive best way to make something truly impress me.

In fact, you can call me inspired.

As the introduction to his book relates, Mr. Steingarten was a Harvard-educated lawyer until 1989, when he became the food critic for Vogue magazine. Like a good perfectionist, he worried that he couldn't properly uphold the responsibilities of his new job because he, like most of us, favored certain foods and didn't like others. To him, a food critic who doesn't appreciate all foods is like "an art critic who detests the color yellow." So he put his methodical lawyerly skills to work and designed a program to eliminate all his food prejudices. Within six months, he had taught himself to like or at least appreciate almost everything on his "most yucky" list, including kimchi (a Korean dish like a fermented spicy sauerkraut), anchovies, clams, lard, and Greek food.

Now as you can tell from the name, Auntie Fatcat is not the sort of person who needs to eat more. I already gladly eat more different foods than most people I know. I have only one serious food allergy to hold me back, and am not burdened with the ability to stay on any sort of healthy diet that bans particular foods. My husband's favorite neighborhood restaurant is the one that only offers six things, because he knows even I can decide what to order in less than ten minutes. Usually.

But I got myself to the Auntie Fatcat stage largely by eating too much of the many delightfully tasty things that are bad for me and not enough of the sadly yucky things that are good for me. So if I could follow in Mr. Steingarten's footsteps and develop a taste for more of the healthy things on my own yucky list, I could eat much better without changing the basic format of the only diet I can stick to: eating what I want, but choosing the healthiest of the appealing options.

So here are the six foods I'm going to try to teach myself to like this year:

Cabbage. I already kinda like sauerkraut, but since I mainly like it in the context of Reuben sandwiches and bratwurst hot dogs, it doesn't really count as healthy food. I'd like to like coleslaw because it's often the only vegetable choice in restaurants where it's served, and I'd like to not be picking the big purple things out of my salads. I'd also like to like the cooked version in things like stir fry, vegetarian casseroles, or those Vietnamese cabbage wrap things. But cooked cabbage smells like feet to me, so this is gonna be a tough row to hoe.

Eggplant. This is the biggest "Oh, please, no" food on my list. The only thing I like about eggplant is the color; the flavor and texture both gross me out. I have been known to like certain forms of baba ghanouj (a dip made from pureed smoked eggplant), but the ones I like best are the ones that are the least eggplanty. I'm hoping that my love of Italian food will help me out here (eggplant parmigiana, torta di polenta), or that cutting it into teensy, tiny pieces and mixing it with lots of other stuff will work.

Cauliflower. I've tried it in stir fry, I've tried it raw with onion dip, I've tried it deep-fried with tahini and lemon, and as my mother can confirm, I've tried it hidden in mashed potatoes. Nothing makes this thing taste good or feel okay in the mouth except pureeing the crap out of it and mixing it into a nice fennel and lemon soup with chive oil on top. And even that, my friends, is not good enough to be worth the effort of making it. I'm not sure how to approach this one, but will seek it out on menus and see how other people eat it.

Brown rice. This is on the list not because I actively dislike it--I actually like it better than white rice--but because I don't like it enough to choose it over less healthy starches like potatoes, bread, or pasta. Rice in general sets off a texture issue for me; I don't tend to like things that involve lots of little tiny thingies vaguely stuck together. Here I'm hoping to develop something like a risotto or paella that works with brown rice; the more sauce, the less thingy-like it feels. I'll also try working with 100% brown rice pasta, which probably isn't as healthy as the rice itself but is a step up from semolina pasta, and also edible by my wheat-free husband.

Oranges. I know, I know; who doesn't like oranges? I've known supposedly carnivorous cats who like oranges. Even I like the flavor all right; I'll drink strained OJ and eat dishes with orange zest, like that yummy-spicy orange-peel beef. But citrus texture is another one that just makes me shudder. So this is all about finding a way to like the fruit itself. If I have to cheat and include tangerines and such, I will.

Veganish curries. Mr. Steingarten had a whole food category on his list, so I thought I should have one on mine. And people whose diets are disgustingly healthy always eat this stuff. Since college I have successfully taught myself to like curry, but mostly just the kind with a cream-based sauce over lamb or chicken. (Frankly, you have to work at it to make lamb taste bad to me.) So I'll be nibbling off the hubby's vegetable jalfrezi, channa masala, aloo gobi (counts as cauliflower, too!), and whatever else I can convince him to order. If they use a wee bit of butter so it's not strictly vegan, I'll look the other way; I need all the help I can get.

So if any of you have a great recipe featuring one of the above foods or know a restaurant in the Seattle area that does a particularly good job preparing them, please let me know. And if you want to be part of the support team that finishes off the rest of the plate after I've eaten as much of this stuff as I can stand, I'm taking volunteers. Progress reports will follow as the situation warrants.

Wish me luck.

Stuff We Don't Talk About: Sex

2005-02-23T11:10:00.000-08:00

Of all the things we're not supposed to discuss in polite company, sex has got to be number one. And yet, we talk about sex all the time. You can't watch TV, walk into a bookstore, or even drive down the street without getting smacked in the face with somebody's attempt to titillate you into buying something. We eat up "news" articles about who's having sex with whom or how to get more and better sex. And the public arena is dominated by two loud voices: one trying to control everyone else's sex life and the other demanding approval of whatever they choose to do with their genitals.

Enough, already.

Sex will always be one of those shiny objects people just have to look at when they see it, and people trying to sell things (including news) will always put their shiniest objects forward. That I can't change. But I do have a modest proposal for limiting the constant need to discuss sex as a policy issue.

First, for the "I demand approval!" people:

Please recognize that insofar as your sexual actions affect the public at large, society as a whole does have some right to set limits on what is socially acceptable. That means if you want acceptance, you have to kindly minimize negative impacts on other people.

For example, the public has a right to protect itself from sexual abuse. So you should get meaningful consent from anyone and everyone you want to engage in sex acts with. Meaningful means everyone giving consent must do so of their own free will, without coercion or bullying. It also means they must be capable of understanding what is being asked, including the ramifications of their choice. (That means no animals, children, intoxicated or comatose people, or people with mental problems that prevent them from thinking clearly, among others.) Consent means informed consent to all significant aspects of the acts you wish to perform with them. Obtaining consent via lies of commission ("I'm on the pill"), omission (not mentioning you have an STD), or deliberate vagueness about your intentions is not okay. And even if you get consent, it should be understood that this consent may be revoked at any time by any party who becomes uncomfortable with it. (Okay, revoking it afterwards is too late, but if anybody says "Stop!" you have to stop.)

The public also has a right to protect itself from inadvertently witnessing your sex acts. Sure, people who deliberately go to sex clubs, peek in windows, read sexually oriented email lists, or watch X-rated movies can't complain if they see or hear something naughty. But regular folks going about their everyday business should reasonably expect not to suddenly find themselves confronted with you and your co-worker groping each other in the copy room. And all those people on the bus with you don't need to hear you yakking loudly on your cell phone about all the explicit details of the great sex you had last night.

Finally, the public has a right to protect itself from the biological consequences of your sexual choices. That means if anybody has or could have an STD, use protection. And if the sex you're having could result in conception, please be sure all parties involved want and are prepared to have a child before you decide you don't need birth control. If you are sorry afterwards that you didn't do these things, please have the guts not to blame other people for your choices.

Anything you want to do within the above guidelines should be socially acceptable, if not universally appealing. (Yes, this includes some stuff I personally find icky. But I don't have to participate in it or witness it, so I'm willing to deal.) Be happy with that. Don't try to argue that society has a moral obligation to let you "act naturally" with no strings attached, or claim that anybody who isn't interested in doing what you're doing, watching you do it, and/or throwing you a party afterwards to celebrate must be unnaturally repressed. That kind of stuff gives sexual freedom a bad name and sends folks over to the other side.

Now for the "You can't do that!" people:

Please recognize that while other people's sex acts may offend you, violate your religious morals, or gross you out, they're not actually your business unless they affect you or the public clearly and directly. (And no, "contributing to the general moral decline of society" doesn't count, especially if your proof that it does is that James Dobson said so.) If everybody around you is properly keeping their fun and its consequences to themselves and their consenting associates, you should be able to live an active, virtuous life without taking part in or witnessing any sexual acts that bother you. Be happy with that. Don't try to argue that society has a moral obligation to impose your every sexual rule on the world, or that people who disagree with your rules are unnaturally perverted and generally evil. That kind of stuff gives sexual morality a bad name and sends folks over to the other side.

Now that that's settled, can we please talk about something else?

Shakti is a Good Girl

2005-02-17T22:26:00.000-08:00

Most people who have spent more than five minutes with me know that Rick and I have two sixteen-year-old cats, Morgana and Shakti. With children, the rules of parenting state that you're not supposed to admit to having a favorite, but since the cats aren't likely to read this, I can tell you that I have always loved Morgana just a wee bit more.

Most cat-tolerant visitors agree that Morgana is easy to love. She's adorable to look at: dainty build, delicate face, fluffy ruff and tail, black-and-auburn tortie markings, and tiny black paws. She's generally well behaved: always uses the litter box, grooms herself nigh-obsessively, won't scratch or bite unprovoked. But mostly people love her because she's a people cat. She welcomes adult human company, likes to keep tabs on what everyone's doing, and often charms guests into letting her do things she's not supposed to. Though she's not as fond of children because they're noisy, she tolerates a great deal from them and has even been known to voluntarily sit on my delighted three-year-old nephew's lap. She "talks" frequently with a wide vocabulary of songlike miaows that cajole, admonish, praise, announce, and exult quite clearly. And the lavishness with which she bestows affection on her chosen ones certainly gratifies the ego.

Shakti, on the other hand, is an acquired taste. The gray tabby fur on her back sticks up in little tufts and bunches because she's too fat to reach anything but her chest and stomach when she decides to clean herself--and she pitches a hissy fit every single morning when I try to brush her. Somewhere along the line she decided that the appropriate potty material is carpet, so we live in a house with all hardwood and tile floors and blanket the litter box area with a set of special "pee rugs" that have to be laundered every couple of days. Her voice sounds like she's had a pack-a-day cigarette habit for forty years. And when it comes down to it, the only people she's really nice to are Rick and my brother, who fed her chicken mole exactly once during a visit five years ago and somehow won a permanent spot in her cranky little heart. When she's in a good mood or wants attention, she's willing to settle for me (the source of food) or Auntie Linda (who feeds her when we're away). But she prefers to avoid pretty much everyone else, and those who attempt to force themselves on her usually come away in need of Bactine and possibly stitches.

In short, if Morgana were a person, she'd be a society matron wearing a vintage Chanel suit and red lipstick to host a charity luncheon. Shakti would be a tough old broad wearing stretch pants and a food-stained blouse to yell at the neighbor kids to get out of her yard.

Morgana is easy to love because she embodies all the things society tells us make a woman lovable: beauty, proper behavior, friendliness, expressiveness, and sweetness. Shakti takes more patience because she acts more like a real person--like me. I'm fat too, and my hair tends to stick up no matter how much I fuss with it. I don't pee on the rug, but my frequent need to find a bathroom combined with my pickiness about bathroom quality can be socially awkward. I get cranky often enough, particularly around people I don't like. And the list of people I like is not all that long.

Morgana is still my favorite--I can't help it--but I'm now aware that the difference in my affections doesn't reflect how I feel about Shakti so much as it reflects how I feel about myself. Now that I'm paying attention, I can see that Shakti also shares many of my good qualities: intelligence, persistence, perceptiveness, and the ability to devise creative entertainments for herself, among others. So every morning when I sit up and Shakti jumps on the bed to demand attention, I make sure to pet her in the special rough way she likes so she knows I think she's a good girl too. And I keep on petting her until I love myself for real.

Good Folks: My Beloved

2005-02-14T09:17:00.000-08:00

I first met Rick in high school when I was a sophomore, he was a junior, and we were both on the Knowledge Bowl team. Remember that previous blog entry where I said intelligence turns me on? Rick blew me away with his deliciously plump brain chock full of information on every subject Knowledge Bowl covered: math, sciences, history, arts, languages, civics. And he didn't just know a lot of random stuff; he could also apply and express his knowledge. I vividly recall walking into a classroom and seeing him sitting cross-legged on a desk surrounded by four or five other "smart kids" all arguing against him. They kept haranguing and baiting him, but he stayed calm and talked more sense than the rest put together. The only thing that stopped me from falling for him then and there was that I had just started a brand-spanking-new relationship with somebody else.

A year later the bloom was off that particular rose, and I ran into Rick increasingly often as our twin geek circles of science club and Dungeons & Dragons group intersected. I took a chance and flirted with him; he liked it, we wrote poetry at each other for a couple of weeks, I dumped the other guy, and we've been together ever since. That makes 21 years, 3 months, and 28 days so far.

When you find the love of your life at 16, you grow up together. Your beliefs, quirks, and habits haven't crystallized yet, so you have the unique opportunity to rub off all the prickly spots and shape each other so you fit together perfectly. With the wrong person this could work out very badly, but half the reason I adore Rick is that the little nudges he gives me have always made me stronger, braver, wiser, deeper, and happier. With him I fret less, play more, and appreciate life. And the shaping process has worked so well that we are sometimes scarily in sync. You know those significant looks couples give each other to say things like "Let's get out of here"? On a good day, he can tell I'm saying, "Let's get out of here, pick up Indian food, stop by Scarecrow Video, and spend the evening watching an Oscar-nominated drama with British actors, preferably including Kate Winslet." He knows this because that's exactly what he wants to do too.

I love my love for these big things, but also for a host of little reasons. Rick appreciates quality; I can trust him to discern not only the difference between a good thing and a bad thing, but also the difference between something good and something excellent. When he makes a mistake it's usually because he didn't do what he meant to, rather than because he chose badly. He makes an effort to like everyone and everything I like, and on the rare occasions when he fails he makes it hard to tell. He's charming, compassionate, enthusiastic, nuanced, and just the sort of guy you want around if your basement is flooding or the conversation has turned awkward. If I ask him to, he'll willingly go upstairs and make me a sandwich just the way I like it, even if he knows the only reason I asked was because I didn't feel like doing it myself.

Oh, and lest I forget to mention it, Rick is also very easy on the eyes. Not "my wife thinks I'm cute" cute, but "cuter than baby animals" cute. And I can prove it. One time we went to a baby animal petting zoo and this strange woman walked up, asked if she could pet him, and started stroking his hair without waiting for an answer. Next thing we knew, there were several of them and they were forming a line. (I'm not making this up.) Baby chicks, ducks, goats, lambs, and even bunnies all around us waited for pets, but nearly every adult woman in the place lined up to put her hands on him instead. I rest my case.

Like any couple Rick and I have our ups and downs, and just as he is uniquely able to delight me, he is also uniquely able to drive me nuts. But on the whole I count myself very, very blessed that all the well-meaning people who told us "Young love never lasts" turned out to be wrong.

So happy Valentine's Day, querido. I still love you best.

Stuff We Don't Talk About: Religion

2005-02-10T11:01:00.000-08:00

I contend that we are both atheists. I just believe in one fewer god than you do. When you understand why you dismiss all the other possible gods, you will understand why I dismiss yours.
--Stephen Roberts

Do you believe in God?

The people who ask this question expect one of three answers: yes (theist), no (atheist), or I don't know (agnostic). As a kid, I was brought up to say yes; I recited the Apostles' Creed so many times I can still remember it word for word. In college, I was exposed to a variety of alternative beliefs and couldn't think of any good reason to believe they were less truthful than my own. So I briefly tried them all out: first simultaneously, then a Frankenstein's monster bits-and-pieces approach. Eventually I figured out that shopping for the most appealing religious beliefs wasn't a good method for arriving at truth, so I gave up and said I didn't know. Then I read somewhere--Marx, I think--that agnostics are just atheists who lack the courage of their convictions. While I doubt that's true for all agnostics, I decided it was for me. So my short answer is now no.

But my real answer is another question: Does it matter?

Most of the people I hear arguing for the necessity of belief in God claim that their primary reason is to save folks from going to hell. Now, as Presbyterian Sunday school taught it to me, lack of faith in a guy who refuses on principle to definitively demonstrate his own existence is enough to get me on God's bad-girl-go-to-hell list. And faith is a matter of belief, not of action; I must believe genuinely, on both intellectual and emotional levels. Merely professing to believe or acting as if it's true just in case--that doesn't count with God. (Which is fine by me; I wouldn't want lip service from people who were just hedging their bets either.)

Some folks do believe deep down in their hearts. If you're one of them, and it makes you a happier, better person, then good for you. I remember how that feels and honestly don't want to take that from you. But I need pretty clear evidence--the kind God specifically chooses not to provide--to continue believing things that deeply. Have you ever tried to make yourself truly believe something you had serious doubts about, even something you really wanted to believe? The only way to do it is to close your mind and heart to all possibility of contrary evidence. If you remain too open to wondering if you're wrong, then you can't commit fully to your belief. The foxes of doubt creep in and spoil the vineyard.

So according to the "believe, that thou might be saved" crowd, God wants--no, demands--that whenever I see a reason to question his existence, I must close my eyes, stick my fingers in my ears, and sing "La la la" until it goes away. For me at least, persistent, willful self-delusion is worse than hell. It's hard enough to find truth when I'm looking for it; deliberately not looking isn't going to help. (Those of you, like my mother, who are now concerned about my eternal soul may take comfort in the fact that striving to keep my mind open means that if evidence of God does present itself, I'm more likely to see it. Eventually.) If mind-blindness is what it takes for me to be saved, then sign me up for the other place.

Another popular reason for believing in God is that it's necessary to make one a moral person, either because we need God to define what's right and wrong or because we need the carrot and stick of heaven and hell to motivate us. There's a grain of truth to that; belief in God and his rules probably does make moral behavior easier for people who either can't or don't care to ponder ethical issues for themselves. But it's hardly necessary. Right and wrong are not arbitrary; there are reasons why some acts are moral and others immoral, and those reasons are generally neither inscrutable nor ineffable. There's certainly room to argue about specifics and the validity of any given reason, but because there are reasons, I can figure out a basic code of ethics without divine aid. Then I can compare my thoughts to others' to continuously refine and expand my ethical ideals. And because I understand why various acts are right or wrong, I don't need the threat of punishment or promise of reward to motivate good behavior. I can be good simply because it makes sense.

So if I don't need to believe in God to save myself from hell or be a moral person, I come back to my question: Does it matter if I believe?

I noticed a funny thing on my careening path through the various stages of faith and skepticism: whatever changes I made in my beliefs about God didn't seem to have much effect on what I actually did. Okay, so I stopped going to church, I don't read the bible very often, and I no longer say my prayers (other than the occasional fervent "Please let it not be time to get up yet," directed presumably at my alarm clock). But I still have the same values, the same desire to improve myself, the same capacity for joy, the same ability to feel spiritually moved by art, nature, and the human world around me. All that changed was a few labels in my head, a sort of mental rearranging of furniture.

So no, I don't think it matters. And I'm glad, because it sucks not to be able to definitively answer a question that matters.

Hot Mamas

2005-02-04T21:54:00.000-08:00

The other day I read an article in the Seattle Times about how hip mothers don't want to dress "like moms" anymore. Inspired by TV moms like Teri Hatcher's character on Desperate Housewives, they're apparently changing diapers in stiletto heels and raiding their teen daughters' closets for low-rise jeans and navel-baring tops. The "hottie moms" interviewed for the article asserted that dressing this way made them feel powerful and allowed them to reclaim their sexuality.

Now I'm not a mom, and the one and only time I intentionally displayed my belly button in public was at a pool party in 1984, so maybe I'm not qualified to talk about this. But something smells wrong here.

I have no problem with the idea of mothers as powerful, sexual beings. Breaking down the old madonna/whore stereotypes is a good thing by me. I also eagerly applaud the disappearance of the once-popular "mom uniform" of sweat pants, T-shirt, and hair scrunchie. As those of you who have witnessed my marathon morning routine know, I advocate lavish self-pampering and stylish dressing as a confidence booster. So my discomfort with this article isn't a knee-jerk anti-sex or anti-fashion response.

The image of a woman changing diapers in stilettos disturbs me because they aren't appropriate for the activity. Wearing stilettos to do childcare is just as bad as wearing sneakers for a night on the town. And dressing seductively all the time makes it seem like these moms have not only reclaimed their sexuality, but allowed it to reclaim them. There is and should be a time to be sexy, but there's also a time to run through the sprinklers with your kids--and if you do that in stilettos we'll both be embarrassed, because I'm going to wet myself laughing.

The image of a woman raiding her teen daughter's closet for skin-baring clothes also bothers me. I can get over the part about the teen daughter having such clothes in the first place because I understand the desire to show off what you've got while you've still got it (hence the pool party incident). But styles designed for a teenager generally don't look right on her mother--no matter what Mom has or hasn't still got. British fashionistas Trinny and Susannah from the BBC show What Not to Wear call this phenomenon "mutton dressed as lamb" and decry it as bad style. But I have deeper issues with it as well.

In her book Scheherazade Goes West, Islamic sociology professor Fatima Mernissi explores artistic and literary images of the sexually desirable woman in both Islamic and Western cultures. She concludes that while Islamic culture confines women with veils and harem walls, Western culture confines women by limiting its image of the sexually ideal woman to a teenage girl: young, slim, naive, and submissive. I initially thought this idea, though interesting, was an oversimplified interpretation. Then this article showed me mothers of teenagers--women old enough to know a few things and at least somewhat successful at the mating game--equating dressing like teenage girls with reclaiming their sexual power. That's disturbing.

I'd like to think that Western culture also allows for the sexy older woman, a woman whose hard-earned knowledge, experience, confidence, and leadership serve her as well in love as they do in life. I'd also like to think that this woman wouldn't want to raid her daughter's closet because her own would be well stocked with clothes that attract attention in a more sophisticated way. Even if our romantic peers reject this image to chase young girls--and the ones worth having generally don't--we need to embrace it for ourselves and celebrate it in others. Because if we allow ourselves to be trapped by the idea that only youth is sexy and beautiful, we get stuck playing a game that time won't let us win.

Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson.

Going to Disneyland

2005-01-30T18:10:00.000-08:00

My name is Beverly, I'm thirty-seven years old, and I've never been to Disneyland.

As a child, I learned about Disneyland from several lucky, lucky kids I knew who had been there. They described a magical place full of nothing but rides, games, toy stores, junk food, fireworks, parades, and cartoons come to life--in short, kid heaven. The address of my fantasies quickly moved to southern California.

Alas, my parents' idea of a good, affordable family vacation tended to run more along the lines of car trips to visit relatives. Looking back, I was far from deprived. We got to go some cool places, like visiting my cousins in Colorado, and I got sent to every sort of camp imaginable: church camp, Girl Scout camp, 4-H camp, sports camps--yes, even band camp. All of these experiences probably provided at least some of the fun and a great deal more educational value than a trip to Disneyland. But I was still jealous of my mouse-eared friends.

Eventually I got over this by deciding that Disneyland was for babies. In college, caught up in newly discovered ideals about corporate greed and cultural sterilization, I even bragged about never having been there. By the time I developed the financial ability to go, I had convinced myself that Disneyland was not for "my kind." We were intellectual and sophisticated; our vacation spots would offer fabulous museums, amazing artistic performances, and historical character. And when our brains got full, we could always shop in darling little mom-and-pop boutiques and dine in a nice bistro.

A funny thing happened, though. An increasing number of people I had already firmly designated as "my kind" turned out to be big Disneyland fans. And they kept wanting me to go with them. Every time I'd say, "Nah, that's not really my sort of thing," they'd point out that I do, in fact, own and enjoy a number of Disney movies, or that most of the rides aren't designed to induce vomiting. They'd start speaking of the place in the same hushed-yet-excited tones that my childhood friends had used, and I found myself thinking, "Well, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. But I don't really care if I go or not."

Enter my friend Kathy. When my other friends said, "Let's go to Disneyland," they meant, "If you organize a trip to Disneyland, we'd love to tag along." When Kathy says, "Let's go to Disneyland," she means, "Unless you stop me, we're going to Disneyland." I haven't stopped her, so it looks like this October we're going to Disneyland.

Part of me is still nervous that I'll find the whole thing too busy, too cheesy, too tacky, too much. But if I get overwhelmed, I've decided to think of it as anthropology. I can explore and analyze an American pop-cultural icon while secretly finding out what kind of place could inspire grown, intelligent people to the excitement of children. At the very least, the next time I'm accused of being an elitist intellectual snob out of touch with the mainstream, I'll be able to say I've been to Disneyland.

Stuff We Don't Talk About: Politics & Taxes

2005-01-26T22:18:00.000-08:00

I’m always surprised when I meet a smart, compassionate Republican.

This isn’t because I assume everyone who disagrees with me must be a selfish dumbass. I’ve known a number of intelligent people who opposed me on a variety of topics, and I’ve learned that other people are right disappointingly often. Most of the time, when somebody with brains disagrees with me, that’s my clue to look at the issue more closely. Even if I turn out to be right, chances are I’ll learn something.

Smart, compassionate Republicans confuse me because it seems clear that the vast majority of people are better off when the government follows traditionally liberal policies, particularly in tax policy. Maybe I’m missing something somewhere, but I can’t see much of anything in the Republicans’ anti-tax sound bites that isn’t strictly manipulative propaganda.

Republican politicians often try to bribe voters with tax cuts. Paying less is good—until you look at the ramifications of cutting taxes. First and most obviously, lower taxes means less revenue for the government. While I won’t try to argue that the government spends all its pennies wisely, I’m willing to bet it usually runs about as well as any real-life large organization can—at least as efficiently as most large corporations, which have their own tendencies toward Dilbert-style fraud and waste. And if “making government smaller” would necessarily make it more efficient, then Republicans ought to be arguing for breaking up Microsoft and Time/Warner/Everybody instead of screaming bloody murder that antitrust lawsuits jeopardize megacompanies’ ability to do business effectively. After all, seems like “what’s good for business is good for everybody” is the Republican Party mantra. So if we’re “running the country like a business,” growth is good, right?

Now if the government gets less money and can’t get significantly more efficient, it has to make up the difference. The George W. Bush method for handling this appears to be running up massive deficits and pretending it will all magically get better sometime far enough in the future that we don’t need to worry about it now. In the real world, the government usually bridges the gap by gutting public services. Raise your hand if you like having fewer cops, firefighters, teachers, food inspectors, animal control officers, garbage haulers, librarians, maintenance guys for roads, parks, and utilities, and similar folks taking care of things for you. When these budgets get slashed and these people go home, we citizens end up doing without or paying out of pocket for private security, private tutoring, road tolls, park fees, and so on. It’s like going to a restaurant where you used to be able to get spaghetti and meatballs with a salad for $10 and finding out the spaghetti is now $8, but they want $2 for the meatballs and $3 for the salad. Sure, nobody’s gonna make you get the meatballs and the salad, but if you do you pay more and if you don’t you get less. Either way, you can’t honestly say you’re better off.

I’ve heard Republicans argue in favor of “a la carte government,” insisting that people who use more services should pay more. Unfortunately for this theory, the heaviest users of government services are the folks who can’t pay more. All the fatcats like me already opt for premium private services whenever we can, because we’ve got the cash to blow and want better quality than the cost-cutting government can provide.

So what happens when you vote to cut taxes? If you’re poor, you don’t see any refunds (because you don’t make enough to pay much in taxes anyhow) and you get screwed out of the public services you depend on because you can’t pay the use fees for private ones. If you’re middle class, you get a couple hundred bucks back, but end up paying that and more to make up for public services you lost, or else you do without. If you’re rich, you get back a wad of cash, keep using your private services like you always did, and walk away tsk-tsking that the government sure doesn’t provide much value anymore and maybe we should cut taxes again. (And if you think rich guys are chomping at the bit to use their tax refunds to create good-paying jobs for anybody in this country, I’ve got a Medicare prescription “discount” card to sell you.)

So it’s clear the poor and middle class, the vast majority of citizens, are better off without Republican tax cuts, thank you very much. But I’ll argue even we fatcats would do well to remember that our wealth relies to some extent on the overall success of the U.S. economy, and it’s hard for the economy to do well when too many of its own citizens can’t afford to buy the products it produces. Even with Wal-Marts providing cheap, imported sweatshop merchandise (thus helping Americans outsource their own jobs), average folks are accumulating huge debts in record numbers. It won’t be a happy time for the banking system when more and more of them default, particularly if the dead-broke government defaults along with them. Don’t think it can’t happen.

Finally, while our own kids may be privately educated, the kids whose public education we shortchange now will later be the idiot adults we have to deal with every day. You know, the ones who give us incorrect change, enter the wrong data on our credit reports, misfile our medical records, miswire our electrical systems, repeatedly screw up tasks for which we’re forced to employ them, and—fate have mercy—vote Republican.

Good Folks: Dr. Philip Nordquist

2005-01-24T17:23:00.000-08:00

From time to time, I plan to regale you all with tales of some of the wonderful people who have influenced me. This year, one of my two favorite professors, Dr. Philip Nordquist, is retiring from Pacific Lutheran University after a long and storied career teaching European history to undergraduates. I originally wrote this essay for a memory book about his career, but since I didn't get around to doing this until some time after the request went out, I'm not sure it's going to make it into the book. So I thought I'd post it here, where it can kick off my Good Folks series.

My Life as a History Major in Business

At the end of my freshman year at Pacific Lutheran University, I decided to major in history. Almost everyone I knew immediately asked what I planned to do with a history degree. “Teach, I guess,” I answered, knowing this was what they expected to hear. A nagging voice in my head pointed out that a girl who hated digging up obscure research materials and who became nauseous at the thought of speaking in front of more than five people might not be the best choice for a career in academia. But I had my reasons for choosing history, and the primary one was Dr. Philip Nordquist.

I met Dr. Nordquist when he taught my first class in PLU’s innovative Integrated Studies program. I can’t remember the course title, but the class covered most of Western thought and culture from the Greeks through the beginnings of the Enlightenment. Immediately afterward, I started looking for ways to work his other classes into my planned English major. When I discovered that switching to history would let me take his classes and have him for my advisor, the deal was sealed. In the end, I only got to take two more courses from him: the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. But the lessons I learned from him then were among the most memorable of any I took away from my college years--and among the most useful in my later work as a game publishing company’s executive editor.

The first thing I noticed about Dr. Nordquist’s teaching style was that he always addressed his students formally. While it took me a while to get used to being called “Miss Marshall,” it did eventually teach me that demonstrating respect for those under his authority encouraged us to behave respectfully as well. Later on when I used this lesson in the business world, I found it also encouraged my subordinates to respect themselves, which made them more eager to contribute their ideas and energy.

Back in Integrated Studies one day, we were discussing the nature of the soul and whether animals had souls. Thinking of my beloved cat, I argued passionately that there was no reason to believe they did not. Dr. Nordquist heard me out and then said, “That was an interesting argument, Miss Marshall. If I may ask, are you a vegetarian, and are those leather shoes?” This taught me to consider all of the ramifications of a line of reasoning, not just the ones I was interested in at the moment. I have no doubt this helped me make better choices in my life and work.

As a straight-A perfectionist, I used to get very frustrated that Dr. Nordquist kept giving me A-minuses on my papers. I knew the same level of work had always earned me As before, and still did in my other classes. When I finally asked him about it, he said, “I know you can do better. And so do you.” Initially, I considered this a lesson in going the extra mile—the good being the enemy of the best and all that. But later on in my work life, it came back to me as a lesson in the importance of maintaining high standards even when it seems nobody notices the difference. Eventually, the CEO of my company credited my insistence on high editorial standards for our products as one of the things that shaped the company’s direction and made it successful.

On the first day of his Renaissance class, Dr. Nordquist went around the room and asked us all to state our majors. After each student answered, he mentioned how developments in his or her field of study influenced or were influenced by an event of the Renaissance. I walked away with the best lesson a writer or editor can learn: to discover the underlying interests of my audience and tailor my words to them. I can’t tell you how many times knowing this made the difference in my ability to explain or persuade effectively in writing.

When I took Dr. Nordquist’s class on the Middle Ages, my friend Dave Howell signed up as well. Dave had always had trouble with history classes; he just wasn’t able to focus on memorizing dates and names and places. But Dr. Nordquist often presented his lecture material in the form of stories that illuminated both the forces at work and the personalities involved. To this day, if I ask Dave about the Investiture Controversy, he might look at me blankly. But if I mention Henry IV waiting outside Canossa for Pope Gregory to forgive him, a light goes on and he remembers the whole thing, investiture and all. This taught me that the best way to present complex and possibly dry information is to turn it into a story about people--which proved very helpful in such endeavors as getting my departmental budget increased.

So yes, I chose to major in history--not because I wanted to teach or even had any idea what I would do with the degree, but because I knew I would learn the most from the best teacher, whatever the subject. And I was right. Though I know I disappointed Dr. Nordquist by choosing offices and meeting rooms over lecture halls and libraries, I hope he knows that the time and attention he lavished on me was not in vain. As he taught me, no matter what sort of work we end up doing, history most definitely teaches us something.

Making the Bed

2005-01-22T16:09:00.000-08:00

My grandmother always used to say that there are only two good reasons to leave the house without making the bed: 1) it’s on fire, or 2) the contractions are less than five minutes apart. As a kid, I thought she was nuts. Why make it when you’re just going to mess it up again every night?

Flash forward thirty years. My husband and I are watching the episode of Friends in which Richard catches Monica remaking the bed because he did it wrong. As she explains that he has failed to tuck the sheets in properly and turn the bedspread so the pattern is facing the right way, I point to the television and scream “Yes! Yes!” Rick grins indulgently at me and says, “It figures that Monica would be just like you.”

How did this happen?

My friend Linda’s blog recommends the Flylady website, which offers housecleaning and organizing tips. While I don’t think the Flylady system is for me, she does have some useful ideas (meaning stuff I was already doing anyway). One of them is the idea of designating one little spot in your home that you always keep perfectly clean, tidy, and as it should be. That way, when chaos reigns around you and you get discouraged, you can look at your inspirational spot and tell yourself you’re not a failure because you at least got that one thing done properly.

Flylady suggests using the kitchen sink as your inspirational spot, but I find this too easy for a lazy fatcat like myself. (All it takes to keep your sink perfectly clean is to eat out all the time, which is tempting enough already.) Besides, there’s no place to sit in my kitchen, and I can’t really see my sink from anywhere else, so I can’t lovingly contemplate its sparkling beauty. No, I’m all about the bed.

For most of us, the bed is the part of the house where we spend the most time. It’s also the biggest thing in the room, so if it looks nice it makes the room as a whole look tidier. Even if you’re a control freak like Monica and me, it doesn’t take long to make it. You can do it in the morning as soon as the last guy is out of it (cats don’t count), and it’ll probably stay done all day, unlike the sink. And then you have this nice, big, flat surface on which you can spread out other things, knowing that you won’t be tempted to leave them out past bedtime.

But the best part of making the bed is that it’s all for me. Only people who have pajama rights (meaning people I allow to see me in my pajamas with no makeup and scary bed-head) are going to see it either way, and they mostly don’t care. So when I’m folding the top three inches of the sheet back over the blanket and tucking everything in tight, I’m telling myself that my own pleasure is worth the effort. Making the bed every day means acknowledging every day that it’s a good thing to take as much care with the tasks I do for myself as with those for other people.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go lovingly contemplate my bed.

Stuff We Don't Talk About: Money

2005-01-21T15:13:00.000-08:00

“So, by this time tomorrow,” said my friend and top boss Peter as we were sitting down to lunch, “you’ll be a millionaire.”

I knew, of course, that Wizards of the Coast’s shareholders had voted to sell the company to Hasbro for $325 million. I also knew how many shares that $325 million would be split among, and how many of those I owned. But I’m really not good with math, and until Peter said that, I hadn’t realized that my share would have seven figures in it.

“I guess so,” I said, distracted by attempts to do mental long division.

“What are you going to do with it?” Peter asked. “Promise me you won’t give it all away.”

“Ha ha, of course not,” I replied.

Actually, I thought giving a good part of it away sounded quite nice. I knew I didn’t need that kind of money. Wizards had been growing like mad for several years, and as one of the original employees I had risen with the tide to a significant place in the organization. I was earning a salary roughly twice what I had, at age 21, calculated to be the most I would ever need to make to live comfortably. Since then I had learned to define “comfortably” significantly more comfortably, but I still wasn’t prepared for the idea of being like the little Monopoly guy with the top hat and striped pants.

My mother comes from German Calvinist stock, folk who believe shit happens because you didn’t work hard enough. My father raised me to be a good liberal, firm in the belief that shit happens because greedy rich guys hoard more than they need. I decided to keep working hard, live comfortably off my salary, buy a few cool things, and squirrel the rest of that big check away in the bank until I could figure out what to do with it. Gifts and charitable contributions would figure prominently.

Then two things happened.

First, it turned out that Hasbro had some different ideas about how to run Wizards. My job, once stressful but fun, had become mostly just stressful, and I was getting tired. Though I still loved working with many of the people at Wizards, that alone couldn’t lift my spirits. I came to the conclusion that the joys of my job had meant more to me than the money, and nearly all the joys had left the building. Calvinist ancestors forgive me, I wanted out.

Second, the nice men at the bank had stopped laughing long enough to inform me that you can’t just plop that kind of money in a savings account; you have to invest it in stocks and bonds and financial instruments with a probable rate of return above the inflation rate, or else you effectively lose money. So I let them invest most of my money. Then Bill Clinton left the White House, the stock market crashed, and I found out how you lose money even more effectively.

There’s nothing like needing more and having less than I planned to make me sit down and do serious math. I figured out how much I’d need to keep living at the new “comfortably” level, take care of my extended family, and plan for my own golden years. Then I threw in what I thought was a reasonable cushion against further investment losses, family catastrophes, or other unforeseen expenses. Then I looked at the total.

Gee, being a millionaire ain’t what it used to be in old Monopoly Man’s day.

So my philanthropic dreams will have to wait. I still want to give away a big wad of cash someday, and if my investments do better, my planned-for catastrophes fail to materialize, or I find another job I can love, I’ll be grinning ear to ear as I write the checks. But in the meantime, I can settle for more modest grants: a house for my folks, a college education for my sister-in-law, school clothes for my niece, cheap loans to friends and siblings in need of houses, debt relief, or business startup costs.

Don’t worry, Peter; I’m still going with the new “comfortably.”

Pivot Questions

2005-01-07T20:47:00.000-08:00

My favorite thing about Inside the Actors Studio is the list of questions that host James Lipton asks each of the guests toward the end of the episode. It’s called the Pivot Questionnaire, named after Bernard Pivot, who apparently used it on some French show a while back. Since we’re in the “getting to know me” phase of this blog, I thought I’d take a crack at answering the Pivot Questionnaire myself. (I’d love to hear any of your answers, too.)

What is your favorite word?
I actually keep a list of words I really like. The winner right now is toothsome, but there are a couple dozen runners-up, including widdershins, torpor, lachrymose, callipygian, and thews.

What is your least favorite word?
Like most editors, I despise utilize. It’s just use with a cheap suit on.

What turns you on?
Intelligence, more than anything. I prefer my intelligence in a nice emotionally stable sauce with a side of moral integrity, but even the plain stuff smells good to me.

What turns you off?
Willful stupidity. People who aren’t very bright but still try their best don’t bother me (much), but people whose brains have rusted shut invoke my desire to smite.

What is your favorite curse word?
For everyday usage, nothing beats the f-word. (I’m not normally so delicate, but I know my mom’s gonna read this.) I also like the old medieval swears, like God’s wounds or God’s balls. The really best swears, though, are Catholic swears, like my friend Lisa’s jumping Jesus cows. It doesn’t make enough sense to be blasphemous, yet it’s quite satisfying to say after you’ve just sneezed while brushing your teeth and gotten toothpaste all over the cat. Believe me, I know.

What sound or noise do you love?
My smaller cat purring herself to sleep at night. It’s very comforting, particularly when my husband’s away.

What sound or noise do you hate?
The hacking sound that means another round of “Find the Cat Barf” has begun.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
I’d enjoy being a philanthropist--at least, I’d enjoy the part where I get to identify worthy causes and write them big checks. I’d probably be less good at raising and managing the funds, though. Any conversation that includes terms like financial instrument and equity assets tends to make my eyes glaze over.

If that didn’t work out, I think I’d make a pretty good advice columnist. My column would be something like Miss Manners, but instead of solving etiquette dilemmas, I’d help people sort out effective ways to say difficult or emotionally touchy things. Like how to tell your boss you deserve a raise, or how to persuade your spouse that having your in-laws over for a whole week is not a good idea, or how to answer questions like “Does this make me look fat?” I think I could handle that, and it’d be fun to see what kinds of questions people would come up with.

What profession would you not like to participate in?
Anything that involves making split-second decisions of life-or-death importance. Military, law enforcement, medicine, air traffic control, any of the sort of things they make movies and TV shows about because they’re so inherently fraught with drama. I can handle either weighty decisions or light-speed decisions, but not both at once.

If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
I think all of us, in our hearts, want to hear the same thing: “I always loved you best.”

Anytime

2005-01-05T16:15:00.000-08:00

Last night on Inside the Actors Studio, Morgan Freeman said that when Clint Eastwood directs, he never says “Action!” or “Cut!” Instead, he says “Anytime” and “Well, that oughta do it.”

I’ve been thinking for some time that it would be cool to start a blog, but I’ve been afraid to say “Action!” What if I don’t have time to keep it up? What if I get engrossed in blogging and neglect all the other stuff I should be doing? What if all my friends and family (see, I’m not kidding myself about who’s gonna read this) get offended and/or bored and decide they don’t love me anymore?

Doing something new always brings out the irrational panic in me, even though I’ve got plenty of evidence to show that my fears are unfounded. My friend Mike (michaelgryan.blogspot.com) manages to keep up his blog despite having both a full-time job and a small child, neither of which is an issue for me. My husband Rick (rickmarshall.blogspot.com) posts infrequently, but always makes me think. My best friend Linda (lindamry.blogspot.com) doesn’t try to post deep, important thoughts every day, but periodically shares recipes, advice, links, and other useful stuff. Even my 70-year-old father, who is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, has a blog (johnwamarshall.blogspot.com). They have all survived the experience, and everyone still loves them. (Some people probably love Mike even more since he started blogging, but then, he’s awfully clever and interesting.)

So a few months ago, I decided to go ahead and do this. But I waited for the right time. I thought maybe I’d write several entries first, so I could have backups for days when I didn’t have time to write. I’d write about deep stuff that would take too long to write about on a normal day, and then say “Action!” when I got a week’s worth of important thoughts lined up. I’d start on the deep stuff when my houseguests went home. Or when I had all my holiday prep done. Or when the holidays were over. Or when I got over being sick.

I’m still not really ready to say “Action!” But if you all are willing to bear with some fits and starts, and a mix of important and not-so-important stuff, I think I can say “Anytime.”

Well, that oughta do it.