Lobster from Sunday, with serrano chile, avocado, mango, mint and a few other mystery ingredients (I was talking (as usual) and didn't totally pay attention).
yes, it was as delicious as it looked.
no, he is not available for parties. ;-)
I've got your oranges, right here:
Take a photo of something orange.
It all started with the wisteria. I love it because it's pretty, smells nice and gives us good privacy from neighbors who are way too close. But it's an invasive vine. And a trespasser to boot. It has absolutely no respect for property boundaries and this morning I realized that if something wasn't done, I would receive a letter from The Association (who live for that kind of crap).
So I got out my gloves and clippers and started whacking away. And when I realized the wisteria had successfully climbed the (worthless) lemon tree and was now climbing up our neighbor's rain gutter I got out the ladder and unraveled (and hacked at) the intruder. Then I realized that the (worthless) lemon tree was at least 20 feet tall and that my friend had said something like "citrus trees should be bushy, not tall" so I whacked at that too. And then I saw that the roses had a bunch of dead heads on them. Whack. And then I saw the weeds. Whack whack whack.
Two hours passed.
I brought out the garbage can and began stuffing it with the fruits of my labor. I had to jump up and down in it, with both feet, three different times, a la "I Love Lucy." Happily this didn't happen.
I broke a sweat, in fact I was downright stinky, so I'm definitely counting this as exersize. I'm scheduled to see my trainer again tomorrow and when he asks me what I have been doing (and eating) since I saw him last, this is what I will talk about.
The middle of the day was filled with errands (yawn).
When we returned home I figured out how to make a decent mojito (to make my husband happy) and homemade candy (to make my girls happy). Pink for Juju, blue for Cassandre (who is now too old for pink).
Now Xav is busy in the kitchen, cooking up these fellows, which makes me happy.
Only two hours until Deadwood.
I see me every day.
And I see Vox every day.
And I even see me in Vox every day (so to speak).
But not like this.
'Cause I just er, acquired this shirt the other day.
Shhhhhhhh.
Capture a new angle on something you see every day.
…Is it still [good]?
I’ve been blogging for about a year and a half now. A relative newbie and an older one to boot. For the longest time I didn’t tell anyone I was doing it. The word “blogging” was kind of embarrassing and really, it was just a little outlet I was trying on.
I had always enjoyed writing, but I never felt inclined to write a book or become a journalist or even write a diary (not since I was 12). I was realistic: my stories are mostly about me, so unless you know me, why would you care about them? At least this is what I told myself.
The truth is that once I started writing it became important for someone other than me to read my words. It didn’t have to be a big crowd of people, just a few who cared enough to read my stuff regularly. That would be enough.
So while I hid my TypePad blog from the search engines, I let a few friends and family members know that I was writing and where they could find it. I was relieved and heartened to receive positive feedback from them, and while no one ever commented on the posts, I had stats to show they were visiting regularly.
When I started up with Vox it was a richer experience. I loved the diversity of posts from the people in my neighborhood. I loved the ability to insert audio and video and to make my Vox blog reflect my personality – not only from a design perspective, but also from building out the books/video/audio sections.
The thing I loved most about Vox was the feedback. I didn’t get huge amounts of it, but whenever it came it was like a gift. Someone had read my words and something had resonated. It was both satisfying and validating. That sense of connection with another person made the experience of posting more meaningful. It closed the circle: think –> write –> get feedback –> think some more.
Whenever I get a free moment I go exploring around Vox. I see a lot of first posts and some writings that sound a little bewildered. What am I doing here? Gee it’s pretty. Do I really need another blog? What am I supposed to do? And it touches my heart when I see these calls go unanswered.
So every now and then I answer them. “Hi, welcome. Nice post. Hope you like it here.” I don’t know these folks, and I don’t want to come off as a weird, stalker type (at least not until they know me better) and yet I want people to feel connected in this community. Connected such that they want to bring their friends. Because the more cool people that join Vox, the richer the experience will be for all of us.
The thing I don’t want to happen is for people to get discouraged and think that no one is hearing them – especially since someone almost certainly is, they just aren’t leaving any traces behind them. Stats would help, because we would at least have some visibility into our readership, but I don’t think stats are possible – how could anyone tell if someone read your post in their neighborhood stream?
This means that if we want people to feel encouraged, we are going to have to be the ones to encourage them.
And that means that commenting is one of the keys to Vox. I know, by now you’re saying “duh” and maybe even “good lord, when will she ever stop talking?” (soon, I promise) but I’ve seen so many posts go without comments that I think it bears saying out loud. Actually, I think it should be a rally cry: when you see something you like, say so!
Your feedback doesn’t have to be Shakespearean, just sincere and positive (feel free to ignore the stuff you don’t like, that’s what my grandmother always told me to do). There are a range of options, from simply checking [this is good] to actual words of cheer. I think most people will appreciate the feedback. So many of us are in here to creatively express ourselves, positive feedback is one way to ensure that we all keep doing it.
Need more butter
Taking a cue from Scott, my favorite class had as much to do with the teacher as anything else. Larry Vilaubi was one of those once-in-a-lifetime teachers. He taught art history to a tough crowd: high school seniors. He did it with a fantastically sarcastic and irreverent sense of humor. No one was safe, not even Caravaggio.
Larry insisted we open our eyes and really look at the world around us. He gave us extra credit for seeing movies like Erendira, Gallipoli and Montenegro. Two of those movies were borderline porn (ok, art porn, so they were moody, pretty and had plot lines). The other was the most serious condemnation of war I had ever seen. Ok, I was 18 and didn't know much about war. I wasn't even sure I wanted to vote yet. Larry fixed all that.
Every year Larry took a dozen graduates on an art history tour of Europe that covered six countries in 30 days. For most of us it was the first time we'd left home much less traveled overseas. We hit all the big museums and lots of private galleries. We stayed in youth hostels and traveled by bus. We drank - a lot. We saw the Parthenon. The Eligin Marbles. The Sistine Chapel. The Tomb of the de Medicis.The Mona Lisa behind bullet proof glass. And so much more.
In Pompeii I did one of the stupidest things I've ever done in my life. I suffer from motion sickness and we were set to travel by ferry to Greece that afternoon, so in the morning I took some Dramamine in anticipation of the trip. Then, suffering from a very sick stomach, I took some prescription medicine I got from "my dad's a pharmacist" Billy. Then, because I was perhaps the silliest girl on earth at the time, and I thought that being 5' 7 and 108 lbs was not thin enough (I was an extremly picky eater at the time) I skipped my meals that day.
Pure brillance.
Sometime around noon we were walking around Pompeii marveling at the perfectly preserved city. It was fantastic. Until the room started to spin and I could no longer walk. I looked at Larry and said "I think I need to sit down" and he turned white as a sheet. He called his wife Adrian and the two of them took me outside to sit down. I didn't move again under my own steam for many hours.
Adrian kept telling me to breathe in and out, which was really annoying. All I wanted to do was go to sleep, why did they keep talking to me? It was so bright that I couldn't keep my eyes open and all I could hear were Larry and Adrian talking to me. "Breathe Karen. In and out. Good. Take another one. Really deep this time." Then, "Drink this." Someone pressed a can of putrid orange soda to my lips and made me drink it. GROSS! It helped right away. The shock of the sugar was enough to keep me from going under.
Larry picked me up and carried me across the city. I still couldn't open my eyes and had no idea where we were. We walked through some kind of outdoor cafe and bumped into a woman. "Oh my God!" she gasped. I thought, wow, I must look really awful right now.
Behind the cafe there was a place to lay down (I guess people pass out in Pompeii a lot) and I laid in one of those little beds for the better part of a day and night. Adrian, Larry and my fellow travelers took turns feeding me ice chips, and then tiny, rolled up balls of bread. After many hours I could sit up, but it was a full day or more before I could walk without assistance.
It turns out that when you mix Dramamine with anti-diarrheal medicine they play a fierce game of Fight Club in your brain. One drug is saying "move faster, move much much faster." The other drug is saying "slooooooow waaaaaaay dooooooown." Guess who wins?
No one.
The brain, in response to all of this stimulation, throws up it's hands and says "I quit." And since the part of the brain in question handles breathing and circulation, quitting is a really bad choice. If Adrian and Larry hadn't forced me to breathe, I might not have ever done it again. Wild, don't you think? (Of course this was not my mother's reaction, but that is a different story).
So I love Larry (and Adrian too). Not only did he take me on the best trip ever, and open up my life to the world of art, but he saved it as well.
What was (or is) your favorite subject in school?
What's your morning beverage of choice? Coffee, tea, juice? Homemade or store-bought?
Peet's decaf mocca-java.
Decaf because it's better for everyone within a 50-foot radius that I avoid caffeine pretty much all the time. I'm insufferable enough without it. With it, I'm impossible. "Let's go somewhere! Let's go there NOW! Let's RUN!"
It's prepared the night before (purists feel free to gasp now) so that I can wake up to the smell of fresh coffee.
I drink it with a bit of 1% milk. Warmed up first so that it doesn't make my coffee cold.
One of my best friends-who-should-be-in-Vox-and-claims-she-will-try-it-except-that-she-is-too-damn-busy-to-actually-do-something-about-it introduced me to the concept of "baby coffee" a few years back, it's basically a giant cup of warm milk with a tiny bit of coffee. It's super yummy and was great when I was pregnant and not supposed to drink real coffee. I've since given it up. A girl can only have so much milk in a day before she starts to look like a cow...
