My nephew, who is adorable (all my nephews are adorable), had a recent photo session. In princess costumes. The whole ball of wax. Several costume changes. Satin, sequins, feathers, tiaras. And let me state for the record, he looked just darling. And not at all upset about the momentary fudging of his gender identity.
My sister-in-law is pregnant with her third boy, and coping with the fact that this means there will be no girls. She hasn’t had any easy pregnancies, and had decided ahead of time that if this wasn’t a girl, it wasn’t meant to be. She’s a terrific boys’ mom. Steady, tolerant, no-nonsense. But she definitely had wanted that daughter experience.
So, while her second is small enough (a year and a half) to not have any real ideas about what girls do or boys do, she took advantage of a trip to visit the boys’ little friend who has a princess dress-up box, and got him dolled up. And took pictures. Which the whole family has seen. My mother, of course, thinks he looks precious. My father did a very good job of not freaking out about his grandson in toddler drag. My sister and I giggled, but with reservations.
Not that I think this is going to be some precursor to a lifestyle choice. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But, the kid is all boy. I’m guessing they’ll have enough trouble in the future getting him into clean clothes, let alone worrying about him favoring chiffon trapeze dresses and kitten heels. What both my sister and I know, painfully, is that our family has a long, long memory for childhood indiscretions. And he will be catching a ration of crap regularly, at every family reunion, for having once been the belle of the ball. Especially given that there is photographic evidence.
But honestly, why? I’ve never been all that tense about gender identity. In my humble opinion, there would be far fewer guys messed up about their manly-manitude if they were allowed to play around without prejudice as kids. At the very least, I’m sure that dress up time was no harm, no foul. The kid is grinning from ear to ear and playing to the camera. And he’s destined to be the middle child. Something my brother should understand all too well. Let him have his moment in the sun where he’s showered with attention and all eyes are on him, and he’s got his mama all to himself.
And he really did look adorable.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
Weird Sh**
Have you ever noticed that some places are just magnets for weird sh**? Like there’s a news story about some unbelievably weird event that goes down, and you are just amazed until you here it happens in _________. And then you think, “Oh, well if that’s where it went down – ‘nuff said.” So, I present my list of Top 5 Places Weird Sh** Happens:
5. Abandoned Mental Hospitals – If you are watching a “reality” ghost show, and they’re on a field trip to an old psych ward, grab the popcorn, cause it’s about to get good. Moving shadows, ominous feelings, foot steps. It will all go down in the Wildwood Hospital for the Mentally Whoopsy. Ghosts? Doubt it. The accumulation of bad energy that sits in that kind of place? Yeah, I’m just hippie enough to go with that. I’m more likely to believe that people will be more open to the weird if they are sitting in the dark in Hannibal Lecter’s old cell.
4. Kingman, Arizona – Cults + survivalists + UFO investigators + lots and lots of desert. You do the math.
3. In Large Vans – Statistically speaking, weird people like vans. Big vans, with small tinted windows. And whether that’s because they have a love of shag carpet and a airbrushed picture of a blue tiger on the side that says “Sex Machine” on the side, or because they snatch women and children off the street for nefarious purposes, ultimately doesn’t matter. The van gives them ample room for their weird to unfurl. Don’t park next to vans, kids. Don’t get in the van. Ever. There’s a reason they’re called Psycho Killer Vans.
2. The Ramada Inn – from murders, to FBI sex & drug ring stings, to Promise Keepers meetings, to alien abductions. If you see a reporter standing in front of this moderately priced hotel chain, call in a friend to watch the “strange news” report with you. People will not believe you unless you have a witness.
1. Florida – you know it’s true. Politics. Crime. Swamp critters. Hillbillies. Drugs. Planned communities designed by Disney. Whatever it is, it will be 296% weirder in Florida. Guaranteed. And I know what you’re thinking, “Hey, wait! You live in TEXAS. Like you have room to talk.” I’ll grant that. But this a Places Weird Sh** Happens list. Not a Places Where Stupid Sh** Happens list. There's a difference. One is where a guy shoots himself in the eye by ricocheting a bullet off of a frying pan that was swallowed by a 9 foot gator. The other is where someone shoots himself in the foot to see what it feels like. Florida. Texas. Weird. Stupid.
5. Abandoned Mental Hospitals – If you are watching a “reality” ghost show, and they’re on a field trip to an old psych ward, grab the popcorn, cause it’s about to get good. Moving shadows, ominous feelings, foot steps. It will all go down in the Wildwood Hospital for the Mentally Whoopsy. Ghosts? Doubt it. The accumulation of bad energy that sits in that kind of place? Yeah, I’m just hippie enough to go with that. I’m more likely to believe that people will be more open to the weird if they are sitting in the dark in Hannibal Lecter’s old cell.
4. Kingman, Arizona – Cults + survivalists + UFO investigators + lots and lots of desert. You do the math.
3. In Large Vans – Statistically speaking, weird people like vans. Big vans, with small tinted windows. And whether that’s because they have a love of shag carpet and a airbrushed picture of a blue tiger on the side that says “Sex Machine” on the side, or because they snatch women and children off the street for nefarious purposes, ultimately doesn’t matter. The van gives them ample room for their weird to unfurl. Don’t park next to vans, kids. Don’t get in the van. Ever. There’s a reason they’re called Psycho Killer Vans.
2. The Ramada Inn – from murders, to FBI sex & drug ring stings, to Promise Keepers meetings, to alien abductions. If you see a reporter standing in front of this moderately priced hotel chain, call in a friend to watch the “strange news” report with you. People will not believe you unless you have a witness.
1. Florida – you know it’s true. Politics. Crime. Swamp critters. Hillbillies. Drugs. Planned communities designed by Disney. Whatever it is, it will be 296% weirder in Florida. Guaranteed. And I know what you’re thinking, “Hey, wait! You live in TEXAS. Like you have room to talk.” I’ll grant that. But this a Places Weird Sh** Happens list. Not a Places Where Stupid Sh** Happens list. There's a difference. One is where a guy shoots himself in the eye by ricocheting a bullet off of a frying pan that was swallowed by a 9 foot gator. The other is where someone shoots himself in the foot to see what it feels like. Florida. Texas. Weird. Stupid.
A Date with Guy Noir
The big ushering gig for the month was a live performance of Prairie Home Companion touring show “Summer Love”. I had to miss Natalie Merchant the night before, but rumor has it that Natalie may be off her meds – NOT a good show apparently. But PHC was everything I could have hoped for. I’m not a huge fan, but I have listened off and on for over 20 years. And there were huge fans in the audience. A 2,200 strong, sold-out house. Some had even driven in from other states. There’s nothing quite like a “core fan base” crowd. They were ready for every song. In on every joke. And really just stoked to be seeing something they loved.
And even though I’m not a super fan, here’s what I do love about the show. It just shouldn’t work. The host is a gangly guy with semi-dry, yet playful sense of humor, and a fair-to-middling singing voice. He tells loopy stories about his hometown (that doesn’t actually exist). Sing jingles for sponsors like Powder Milk Biscuits (also, imaginary). He’ll take a minute to ruminate about lost loves, or sperm (seriously). They sing songs that are either corny sing-along classics, or obscure folky/tin pan alley chestnuts. They do radio plays. They make NPR jokes, for crissakes. Who does that? Nobody else on the planet. If you took this as a pitch to Hollywood, they would both laugh you out of the room and call security. But, for some reason, it flies.
There was one moment where Fred Newman, one of the PHC Foley guys, walks out with this thing on a piece of rope. He starts to spin it around his head (and if you’ve ever seen Exorcist 2, it looked like the thing that James Earl Jones uses to fight of the horde of locust – how’s that for an obscure reference? Pee Zou Zou!). It makes this sound like wind. Then he starts to do a languid, half-sung, half-spoken word piece about the summer, adding in vocal effects for crickets. It was a tiny tour de force, and completely stunning. Possibly the most absorbing 3 minutes on that stage this year. I’m not ashamed to admit, it was kind of a turn on, too. Can’t speak for anyone else, but I for one was feeling the summer heat by the end.
Anyway. Summer Love. Not an extravaganza. Not a visual stunner. Not a laugh, gasp or cry a minute. Just people performing what they enjoy with quiet, yet consummate, passion. There’s something to be said for it.
And that’s the news from Lake Woebegone.
And even though I’m not a super fan, here’s what I do love about the show. It just shouldn’t work. The host is a gangly guy with semi-dry, yet playful sense of humor, and a fair-to-middling singing voice. He tells loopy stories about his hometown (that doesn’t actually exist). Sing jingles for sponsors like Powder Milk Biscuits (also, imaginary). He’ll take a minute to ruminate about lost loves, or sperm (seriously). They sing songs that are either corny sing-along classics, or obscure folky/tin pan alley chestnuts. They do radio plays. They make NPR jokes, for crissakes. Who does that? Nobody else on the planet. If you took this as a pitch to Hollywood, they would both laugh you out of the room and call security. But, for some reason, it flies.
There was one moment where Fred Newman, one of the PHC Foley guys, walks out with this thing on a piece of rope. He starts to spin it around his head (and if you’ve ever seen Exorcist 2, it looked like the thing that James Earl Jones uses to fight of the horde of locust – how’s that for an obscure reference? Pee Zou Zou!). It makes this sound like wind. Then he starts to do a languid, half-sung, half-spoken word piece about the summer, adding in vocal effects for crickets. It was a tiny tour de force, and completely stunning. Possibly the most absorbing 3 minutes on that stage this year. I’m not ashamed to admit, it was kind of a turn on, too. Can’t speak for anyone else, but I for one was feeling the summer heat by the end.
Anyway. Summer Love. Not an extravaganza. Not a visual stunner. Not a laugh, gasp or cry a minute. Just people performing what they enjoy with quiet, yet consummate, passion. There’s something to be said for it.
And that’s the news from Lake Woebegone.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Big Day
Well, it's a happy and a sad day. We're heading off to take my niece to college.
She's actually my adopted niece. Her mom and I became friends over 10 years ago. She's a single mom. And I decided at the time that I could help, but I was only going to be my niece's friend too if I could be in it until she was grown up. Kids need steady people in their lives. I decided I could be steady. So I became her aunt. And now she's grown up. And off to college.
I'm going to miss the silly conversations. And the fact that someone actually asks me for advice. And listens! Occasionally. And I'm going to miss having an excuse to go into stores like Hot Topic and Forever 21. And I'm going to miss little hotline into what the kids are doing these days.
But she's a pretty happy, well-adjusted kid. Who is now off to college. And I think I had some part in that.
So. Happy that she's off to be a grown up. Sad because I'll miss the kid.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
To boldly go . . .
Okay, you know I love reading food columns and watching cooking shows. I adore recipe porn. I read the ingredients and put the dish together in my head. Ooo. That sounds good. Really? Cardamom?? You naughty thing! But one thing that will turn me off automatically in a recipe is people who measure things by weight. Yes. Even in baking.
Here’s why: I watched my grandmothers bake. They barely measured anything by cups, much less breaking out the food scales. Sometimes they’d just throw a handful of flower on the counter, throw milk, salt and butter at it, wiggle their fingers in the dough, splash on more milk or flour, whack it with a stick, cut it out using a juice glass, throw it in a pan with some Crisco, and bake them until they were golden brown. However long that was. They were biscuits. And they were good. Better than anything I’ve ever had created by the Anal Retentive Chef.
Here’s what I’m saying. Cooking is an “organic” thing. There are twenty things that may affect any one dish. Even just biscuits. How much protein is in your flour. How high the humidity is today. How fresh your milk is. How warm your butter is. How consistent your oven is. And on and on. You have to pay attention. If you dough looks too sticky, you throw in more flower. And I beg your pardon, but nobody weighs the amount of flour that gets thrown in because their dough is too sticky. Or milk if it’s too tough. And even cakes, where precision is king, I’ve cakes made by grandma-style bakers that are as good as ones made by a top pastry chef.
When it comes right down to it, experience is the secret ingredient. And you’re not going to get it if you’re scared to cook because you need exactly 29 grams of flour. Get flour in your hair. Fire up the grill. Find a recipe that sounds great and just do your best. You get to eat your mistakes! And most of the time, even if you don’t get exactly what you were aiming for, most people will say it tastes pretty darned good anyway. And the more challenging the recipe, the more you learn. The bold eat well.
Here’s why: I watched my grandmothers bake. They barely measured anything by cups, much less breaking out the food scales. Sometimes they’d just throw a handful of flower on the counter, throw milk, salt and butter at it, wiggle their fingers in the dough, splash on more milk or flour, whack it with a stick, cut it out using a juice glass, throw it in a pan with some Crisco, and bake them until they were golden brown. However long that was. They were biscuits. And they were good. Better than anything I’ve ever had created by the Anal Retentive Chef.
Here’s what I’m saying. Cooking is an “organic” thing. There are twenty things that may affect any one dish. Even just biscuits. How much protein is in your flour. How high the humidity is today. How fresh your milk is. How warm your butter is. How consistent your oven is. And on and on. You have to pay attention. If you dough looks too sticky, you throw in more flower. And I beg your pardon, but nobody weighs the amount of flour that gets thrown in because their dough is too sticky. Or milk if it’s too tough. And even cakes, where precision is king, I’ve cakes made by grandma-style bakers that are as good as ones made by a top pastry chef.
When it comes right down to it, experience is the secret ingredient. And you’re not going to get it if you’re scared to cook because you need exactly 29 grams of flour. Get flour in your hair. Fire up the grill. Find a recipe that sounds great and just do your best. You get to eat your mistakes! And most of the time, even if you don’t get exactly what you were aiming for, most people will say it tastes pretty darned good anyway. And the more challenging the recipe, the more you learn. The bold eat well.
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