In which I own my crankiness and give you some background

Warning: This post may be offensive.

I'm getting so much vicarious pleasure out of reading various things about Kenny Shopsin and his restaurant. If you care to join me in this, read Calvin Trillin's article in the New Yorker. Then take a stroll over to Serious Eats and read one person's account of being thrown out of the restaurant and told to eat at McDonald's instead. You can also read a quasi-review of the book, "Eat Me", on the same site, where there's a photograph of the inscription, "F*ck You Ed - Ken". Of course, I've already recommended the movie, "I Like Killing Flies" in a recent post.

The book comes out on September 23rd. I wish I had a copy right now.

I feel completely frustrated that I'm not in New York City tonight (well, I am a bit tired). The best I can do is visit Shopsin's on the Web. Cool site, with homey links to some good drawings and other things, though I'm not so sure I feel good about the slick looking Essex Street Market, but I miss the bad old days of the Lower East Side (which is easy for me to do, given as I live in the boondocks). Kenny, if you happen to land on this site, here's a suggestion for your website: have your web designer program it to kick people off who navigate there from webpages you don't like (or randomize it). Then, for extra added realism, they can get some message about why they shouldn't be able to access the information.

I know one web designer who has worked it out so that people who are rude are shut down. I haven't tested it, so I don't know if they get a message telling them what's going on, and I won't, but I may ask if they do (stay tuned).

I thought to myself, "Why are you so fascinated with this?" Why do I want that book right now? Well, for one thing, it exonerates me in some way. I want to own my crankiness (even as I loathe the expression - yeah, yeah, I own my feelings, blah blah blah).

I've been pulling down cranky and offensive posts, trying to take the high road, as if I'm running for office or something. Who do I think I am, Obama? Even he's not taking such a high road!

Look, just because McCain has fallen off the straight talk express doesn't mean I have to become a jerk, but I am allowed to be the curmudgeon that I am once in a while. So what if I'm a Buddhist? Some of the biggest jerks around have been Buddhists! Trungpa Rimpoche? He was a drunk and a womanizer (and no, I don't approve, but he wrote some good books and started the Naropa Institute).

How 'bout Allen Ginsburg? He seemed like a happy, fat Jewish Buddhist fellow, but I know he wasn't always dancing and singing. My father thought he was an ass (though my father thinks that of everyone). Oh, Ginsburg thought my father was an ass, too, and, I discovered this bit of craziness when I was with him at an Apple Store, innocently googling his name in front of a huge monitor. Oy vay!
And no, I'm not giving away the story - if you're really curious, click the link!

Well, I suppose I'm sick of pretending that I'm so nice. I am nice, a good deal of the time. But, I'm also totally opinionated, somewhat bitter in spite of having a crazily optimistic streak, angry, tired and cranky. And if I own it (grrr), it's a-okay. It's fine! I feel oh-so-much better, thank you very much.

Expending energy worrying about hurting others feelings or being misconstrued is a big waste of my time. I am bound to hurt other people's feelings and be misunderstood. That's the nature of being a human.

As a woman (and yes, I am a feminist, and not some newly minted Republican version), I was raised to be deferential, accomodating, smiling, a good hostess, a housecleaner, and a mender, and all this I was taught by someone who held consciousness raising meetings in the living room of my family's house once a week. What kind of crazy making message is that?

Here's some more insane messages I was taught, as a girl:

If a boy hits you, it means he likes you.
Love hurts. Get used to it.

If you're unattractive, develop an interesting personality (but don't let on if you're smarter than the man you're having dinner with).
Tell an interesting story while keeping your mouth shut.

Don't masturbate in public.
Oh, that one is a good piece of advice.

There's more where that came from, I assure you, but I just ran out of steam. It was the last one that did it. Yes, I did receive that piece of advice from my mother. Why, I can't tell you. She told me lots of very good things about sex, as a matter of fact, but I wasn't particularly interested in hearing them from her.

How in the world did I get from Kenny Shopsin to my mother's nuggets of advice? Well, perhaps it's just a neurotic New York Jew thing. Realizing that Gilbert Gottfried(see note at bottom of post) is my favorite comic has caused me to start owning my, ahem, "Jewish heritage" (a topic which deserves at least half a dozen self-deprecating and/or thoughtful posts, but not tonight). Speaking of which, I had forgotten to post this earlier:

The States of Personality

This is absolutely fascinating. Check out how your personality relates to the State in which you reside. I live in Maine and therefore, statistically, I should be neurotic, extraverted, not particularly conscientious, agreeable or open-minded.

I'm originally from New York, so I started out (statistically speaking) neurotic, only vaguely extraverted, conscientious and quite disagreeable, but very open-minded.

I'm thinking "New Yorkers are less extraverted than people in Maine?!" No way. I must look into this further.

What do you think, and are you State-normative? Find out here.

(I believe the correct spelling of "extravert" is "extrovert" but I'm only copying what's on the link above.)

Okay, this long and semi-coherent post is now drawing to a close. What picture will I use to sum it all up? I have no idea. Be back in a few minutes with my conclusion.

Image note: Why? Why not? I was bound to use it sometime. Find a reason. I have mine, and I'm not telling.

The Gilbert Gottfried video is old, and not the infamous Aristocrats one. If you don't know who Kurt Waldheim is, click here before watching the clip.

Groupspeak

Preface that is really an addendum: I posted this less than an hour ago, have come back and added an addendum, but still feel what I can only call guilt. How dare I criticize something that is so essentially good (especially when there is much on the Web that is essentially bad that needs criticism)? Well, I think the topic is the issue here, the idea of "groupspeak", and it is not a criticism of the website I specify in particular. It is the nature of groups, and something that I feel is worth at least thinking about. Besides, I'm a grouch (and you should always take what I write with a grain of salt - an expression I should devote an entire post to). Thus:

I recently joined Ravelry, a huge site that's primarily for knitters and crocheters. Unlike signing up with any other site that I know of, there's a "waiting list" to become a member of Ravelry. They say it's because they've grown so quickly and have trouble handling all the traffic, but there's a part of me that thinks the reason for the waiting list is more psychological.

I didn't think this at first, but since I've joined, there's been things about this site that have bothered me. At first, I was rather excited about Ravelry, and the opportunity to see the work of so many talented fiber enthusiasts. The amount of beautiful knitting being done right now is extraordinary.

But, I started to feel a bit uncomfortable quickly. I attributed this to the fact that it's a networking site, both for social and marketplace purposes. With this comes some things reminiscent of high school, like adding friends, gaining hearts for work admired by others and other indicators of how "popular" you are. I find this aspect of the Web to be a total turn-off and try to stay away from it. And here's a tip for anyone who's depressed and was unpopular as a kid: don't get sucked into the social networking sites. Unless you're really good at social networking, they'll bring up all the issues you thought were long dead and buried.

So I figured that was all that troubled me, and well, big deal. I'm a grown-up. I can handle the vague feelings of out-of-it-ness that the site was stirring up. But still, I felt uncomfortable. Was there more to it?

The answer is yes. The site is filled with people talking in groupspeak. Sure, if you're not a knitter, you don't know the difference between a purl stitch and a knit stitch, but this is not what I'm referring to. It's the adoption of words and phrases that have been made up by someone else and then become the norm. It becomes groupspeak (and starts to feel cult-like) when one gets the feeling that if you don't use the right words, you're doing something wrong, being shunned or any other consequences, however miniscule.

In fact, when I looked up the word (or is it a term?) "groupspeak" on Google, I was directed immedidately to a site about cults! Here's how they describe groupspeak: "Groupspeak” is another feature of all cults. Groups use what Lifton calls "the thought-terminating cliché”. Repetitive phrases, clichés, sayings, platitudes and buzz words are regularly invoked to describe all situations, and prevent further analysis or discussion. . .Lifton argues that the effect of it is critical to mind control “since language is so central to all human experience, .. capacities for thinking and feeling are immensely narrowed" Moreover, the “secret vocabulary” reinforces the idea of distance from the outside world."

Let me be clear. I don't think that Ravelry is a cult, but I do find it interesting that there is a subtle push to use phrases, cliches and buzzwords that the group has agreed on. As much as I adore Stephanie Pearl-McPhee's "At Knit's End: Meditations for Women Who Knit Too Much", I object to the adoption of her funny acronyms as substitutes for talking about knitting in our own idiosyncratic ways. And, I am rather sad that my enjoyment of this very funny (and terribly clever) book, which I have turned to again and again to put a smile upon my face, is being eroded by the over-use of her terms.

I used to find SSS (Single Sock syndrome, wherein a knitter stops at one sock and doesn't knit a pair), or SABLE (Stash Acquisition Beyond Life Expectancy - owning more yarn than one can ever use) quite funny. I still do, but I'm irked. If I want to say that I have a problem finishing a pair of socks, I really would prefer to use my own words, instead of saying I've got SSS. But no, I need to learn the "lingo".

I suppose I could be harping on the use of common text message acronyms. It has been argued that the mass adoption of slang and other quick and dirty ways of communicating limits precise and individualistic forms of expression. I tend to dismiss these arguments out of hand, but I'm beginning to wonder if they may indeed hold some truth.

Maybe I'm bothered by the knitting thing because knitting has been such an important part of my life. I feel comfortable with other knitters because we share a common interest. We can ooh and aah over each other's projects, but I bristle at finding commonality with other folks because we know some secret acronyms (and maybe there's a secret knitter's handshake by now, for all I know). I don't want to know. Just let me knit in peace! Or shall I say, I just want to KIP?

Photo note: If I find out that Charles Manson is sitting in a prison cell whilst knitting, well. . .um. . .KIP also stands for Knitting in Prison!

Addendum: In spite of what I would call theoretical criticism of Ravelry, I want to add that not everyone who is on the site is "guilty" of what I describe. I also have much gratitude that such a site exists. It is a repository of so much fiber arts knowledge and creativity that it's rather hard to fathom! I suppose, being the curmudgeon that I am, I'm always seeing the dark side. . .

Now that I have calmed down some. . .

My favorite scent is one that is quite inexpensive: the smell of sheep. I just had my wristers on, along with a fresh spritz of Passage D'enfer. Giacobetti probably never thought of the combination of damp wool, frankincense and myrrh, but to me it is sheer heaven.

I dearly would love to try any of the Annick Goutal fragrances that I waxed imbecilic about in the last post. I did indeed feel lust, covetousness and envy. I could go to Hell for this, couldn't I?

It's interesting to me that in spite of growing up in a wealthy suburb of New York City, I still find it astounding that people can indeed go out and buy 750 bucks worth of perfume on a whim.

When I was in my late twenties, I took over my mother's clothing store in the same suburb (Great Neck) that I grew up in. On Saturdays and late afternoons, girls who were in High School would work at the store. One girl, who didn't last very long, was working because her parents felt it was "good for her". She certainly didn't need the money. I remember nothing physical about her, not her height, nor her hair color or even her name, but I do remember the huge fight she had with her mother one day. During a break, she bought a handbag at the shop down the street. The bag, as I remember, was 450 dollars. When her mother stopped in to see what her daughter had purchased, she went ballistic, right there in the store. The mother was screaming. The daughter was screaming. Mom thought it was crazy that her daughter had spent so much. Honestly, I hadn't thought she had overdone it, for the girl had a BMW or Mercedes convertible or something like that. But Mom went on and on, yelling hysterically. The store was filled with people and we all stood around like innocent bystanders (which I suppose we were). At some point the daughter started in on the mother, saying "You and Dad spent 100,000 dollars in the last month and noone thought it was a big deal!" That's when Mom left the store. I guess the girl was right about the family spending habits. I was left wondering "What did they spent that money on and why did she know about it?"

A few years ago, I remember reading an article about a lawyer who wrote letters to musicians who were spending huge sums of money on overpriced bling. Perhaps it was in New Yorker magazine. I wish I could remember. It was a funny article, though somewhat sad in a way. His sole job was to point out to the newly wealthy that buying a 10,000 dollar watch may not be the smartest of moves if you might wind up being a one hit wonder.

Not having cable TV (and living in one of the poorest places in this country), I'm not generally exposed to ostentatious displays of wealth. I once watched a bit of "Cribs" and gaped as I listened to some (one hit wonder) female rapper show us her shoe and bag collection. She didn't say anything like "Oh, look at these beautiful shoes. I just love them!" She said, "Look at these shoes. They cost 5000 dollars. Wow!"

This is one reason why I always had a bit of a problem with watching "Sex and the City". How many Manolo Blahniks do you think a newspaper columnist can afford in one month? Yes, this is an old question, for the show's been over for years, but it still troubles me.

Ah, well, I notice that a few fragrance discounters sell Annick Goutal scents, and in a few years Encens Flamboyant will be old news and heavily discounted (I hope).

Photo note: One Shetland sheep (which sounds wrong in the singular), courtesy of the North American Sheepbreeders Association. Shetlands are great sheep with lots of personality, colors and, of course, that yummy sheep smell (and I don't mean when cooking 'em).

Perfume lust

If any of you happen to have 750 bucks that you are dying to get rid of, I really would like Annick Goutal's Les Orientalistes, a trio of three new perfumes. If that's a bit steep, I'll settle for the three without the leather gift box. That'll be three times one hundred and seventy five, which is, uh, um. . .well, three times one hundred and seventy five. . .(there's no calculator on this PC). . .here's the way I do it in my head:
150 times 3 is 100 times 3 (300) and 75 times 3, which is 50 times 3 (150) plus 75. . .so we have 300 + 150, which is 450 plus 50 (500) plus 25, which equals 525. Is that right? Okay, I got the calculator and it is indeed correct. Now you have a good idea about why it takes me so long to do math without a pen or paper, if I can even remember what the heck I was trying to calculate (or if you could even follow that or wished to).

Unfortunately for me, I am on the Aedes de Venustas mailing list, and so tonight I get the big announcement that these new Goutal fragrances are out. They sound luscious. Just their names are drool producing (oh, I know that's not a nice image for ya): Ambre Fetiche, Encens Flamboyant (which just reading about almost hurts, it sounds so beautiful), and Myrrhe Ardente. . .oh, please! Why don't they sell them in small sizes? ". . .Frankincense deliciously burnt and warmed by woody balsam fir. . ." Oh, my heart aches! My nostrils are flaring! If this isn't lust, what is?

Yes, this post is incoherent! I know! But it's okay, 'cause I can't go crazy and buy even one. Ha, this makes me think of a movie I saw recently called "Klepto" in which a shoplifting twenty-something girl's mother is a shopaholic. Well, I have neither the opportunity to steal a bottle of Annick Goutal nor buy one, so I will not be acting out any time soon (so don't worry).

I wonder if any of these scents are as good as the ad copy. Go read it. If you are moved by words and you know what any of the notes in these scents actually are, you will be thinking similar thoughts (or perhaps running up your credit card debt).

Photo note: That pink leather box is not worth the extra two hundred and twenty five dollars, so please don't bother with it, whoever my prince or princess may be (hey, I can indulge in absurd fantasies, can't I?)

Addendum: How embarassing! These aren't even new! They're new to Aedes, but not to the rest of the perfume world. There's a review from Bois de Jasmin, from way back on May 28th. I could cover my mistake and delete this post, but I am not ashamed. Okay, I am. Well, shame is a strong word. I'm just out of the loop. . .c'mon, I do live in Maine. I should be out of the loop! That's sounds about right. Even though I'm on line nearly all the time, I shouldn't know the latest in anything! I live in the middle of nowhere!

Okay, I'll calm down and stop putting exclamation marks on the end of my sentences. And yes, I know, they weren't much in the way of sentences half the time. It's been a weird day. I'm entitled to a seriously poorly written and incoherent post once in a while! (oops, there's another exclamation point) Good night.

Help!

I'm starting to wonder why I'm continuing this blog. I've run out of things to write (which is absurd) and it's devolving into a running commentary on my mood, which was never my intent.

In addition, I am becoming uncomfortable with the fact that whatever I've posted stays on the Web forever. Where is this stuff cached (and why?)

I think it's time, once again, for me to ask for suggestions. Every once in a while I've done so, and it's helped me get back on track. This blog is much more interesting (I think) when I write about Italian cookies, for instance, than the malleability of my moods.

Have I run out of interesting things? I highly doubt it! But I can't quite think of any (and yeah, I already said as much). So, please, if you want to keep reading, please help me out and make some suggestions! I am not kidding. I'm on the verge of abandoning this blog. . .

Last time I asked for suggestions, I got a whopper, in which I was asked to write about Cindy McCain, Bulgari Black, birdwatching and what else? C'mon folks - A strange assignment would be fun!

Buddy, can you spare a dime?

This'll be brief (gasp!) My depression was becoming severe and debilitating. I'm not feeling wonderful but I'm feeling better. Why? Well, at 3:00am on either Friday night or Saturday morning (whichever way one is coming at it) I learned how to do the "Magic Loop" method of knitting in the round. I would normally say "skip this entry" to those of you who don't knit, but since I'm not going to give a tutorial, feel free to stay.

Periodically, I contend that being interested in "everything" is a remedy for depression, but I think it's fair to say that if I were to use my blog (and my life) as evidence of this theory, that is appears to be not all that true. But then again, what if I weren't interested in anything? Hmmm. Well, I wouldn't be me, so I can't really say, can I? If I were still me, and I wasn't able to engage in doing anything, or reading, I would be stupendously depressed.

What's even better than just being interested in things (art, politics, nature, the world. . .) is learning something new. By 4:00am on Saturday morning, I was having a ball! It was the best couple of hours I'd had all week. Unfortunately, I thought "Oh, this is a turning point! I'm going to have a great weekend!" Nah. It didn't work out that way, and besides, those kinds of expectations are the kiss of death.

But I did make a pair of pulse warmers for my hands, traditionally called "Wristers" in northern Maine (photo above). These are real fingerless gloves. No knitter in their right mind back in the old days would have wasted their time knitting five short fingers. That's hard knitting, and these babies took about an hour and a half to make, at most. They are warm.

Are you depressed? Make something. It feels good.

Cloves, briefly

I realized I hadn't tried my sample of Diptyque's Eau Lente yet and so, since I'm trying to force myself to wear new scents, I put some on. My first reaction was so intensely negative that it was shocking.

I felt anxious! Anxious? What possibly could have evoked that response?

Then it hit me (although it had already done so subconsciously): the scent of cloves! Instead of associating cloves with studded oranges, apple pie or any other homey dessert, I think of only one thing: the dentist.

I had thought I'd gotten over this. I've even bought some clove oil to use when I've been waiting to see a dentist. The stuff really works at numbing the gums.

I wonder if knowing I'm going to smell cloves beforehand cuts down on this terrible visceral reaction. I'd have to say the answer is "yes".

My second thought after figuring out that it was clove I smelled was to go wash the stuff off immediately. But I didn't. I'm still undecided about Eau Lente. Others have described it as "dirty" smelling, but it smells soapy and clean to me. Then again, I grew up on Spanish soap, and this is yet another scent that reminds me of that. I need to learn what these notes are. I'm not sure (and I'm not a perfumista yet).

Photo note: Cloves, of course.

Addendum: I had to wash my hands and as I was doing so, thought "here's your opportunity to scrub." I did notice a headache coming on, but that could be attributable to most anything. Yet, the Eau Lente was truly bothering me. Most Diptyque fragrances fade quickly, but I couldn't wait nor rely on past experience, so scrub I did. Looking through my perfume samples, I realized today was not a good day for experimentation and so reached for Passage D'enfer, a scent I've had trouble not wearing in the past. In spite of some people saying it smells like Pine Sol, which is does not to me, I truly love the stuff. I like how it's dry and sweet at the same time and I find it very soothing, which I just what I need today.

Regrets, I have a few. . .amongst other things

I just deleted seven paragraphs of writing. I'll amend that with this: I just deleted seven paragraphs of whining. Thank me for sparing you!

A few nights ago I watched "I Like Killing Flies". This movie needed a different name. When Dick said "I Like Killing Flies" sounded like an interesting movie, I immediately thought it was about a serial killer (who presumably do things like pull the wings off flies as children). But no, the movie was about Kenny Shopsin and his little restaurant in New York City.

Ever since we watched "Gangs of New York" I've been hungry for anything about the history of that city. When I heard that Shopsin had run his little restaurant for 32 years (which is enough time to make it historic), I was interested.

I enjoyed the movie tremendously, though it made me wistful and homesick. Shopsin is a type, as individual as he is (and he sure is a one-of-a-kind), that I've only found in New York. He's offensive, sometimes in the extreme, but has a great deal of love in him. He obviously loves to cook and to feed his customers. He loves his regulars and his menu had swollen to 10 pages on account of always adding new dishes that were based on the regulars' desires. Now, if you weren't a regular, you might be in for trouble. He would throw people out or not allow them in on account of his rules (or if he was just being surly). I quite understand this rule: No ordering what your dining companion has ordered. You can't say "I'll have the same" at Shopsin's. You will be out on the street. Another rule is "no parties of five" and even if you agree to split into separate tables, tough luck.

I'm looking forward to reading all his rules (and thoughts) when the book comes out at the end of the month, "Eat Me: The Food and Philosophy of Kenny Shopsin".

As much as Shopsin loves to cook, he loves to hold forth, to philosophize or as they say in Yiddish, "schmooze". Watching him in action, making pancakes while talking about how we've forgotten what "life is for in America", ladling out soup while explaining the deeper meanings of feeding customers. . .well, it reminded me of myself (and my father). I realized, while watching this movie, that I had been a part of a tradition, one that is, sadly, dwindling in every town and city. It is the tradition of inviting others into your place of business not just for what services you offer, but to talk, hang out, and in extreme cases (like my father, Shopsin, and now I realize, myself) listen to someone carry on about their opinions and be amused (or not) with their quirky ways.

I used to throw people out of my tattoo studio, not often, but I wouldn't hesitate when I did. More often, however, I would be brutally honest and depending on the person, they would either leave or respect my opinion (and a small few would argue). I never believed "the customer is always right." I tended to believe the customer was almost always misinformed or acting like sheep (I'll have what she's having). And I figured, since getting a tattoo is permanent, I had a moral obligation to be honest. Recently, someone told me I was "noble" in relation to my business, but there wasn't anything noble about it. In fact, I would say that I was an ass.

Like Shopsin, too, I eschewed advertising. I cared alot about my regular customers. I didn't care for running the place like a business. It was more like my home, where anyone could visit when I was there.

The thing is, however, I wasn't running my business in pre-boom times New York. Many of my customers didn't "get" me at all. The ones that did were a distinct minority of the local population. In the beginning, it didn't matter much, because there weren't tattoo studios in every little town here in Maine, so people came from all over. But once they had more choice, I lost a lot of business. It wasn't all because of my personality. I know that. It was mostly because it was far easier to go to your local tattoo studio, and if one is getting some small little tat, unless someone is truly terrible, pretty much any shop will do for that.

But in the end, it probably was my personality that doomed the whole enterprise. As people watched shows like "Miami Ink" and whatever the name of the other show was, they wanted more bling and they wanted a tattooist who was weird in some stereotypical way, a way I once played into but had stopped. I had grown sick of adhering to others' expections of who I needed to be in order to satisfy a fantasy notion of what a tattooist is (as if we are all the same). But just like folks who ride Harleys, who think they are such free spirits, they all adhere to a dress code, as surely as the folks at the bank do. It's just a different code. But ultimately, it was my personality that got me not because of what others thought, but of my not being able to run the business like a business and keep up with the changing needs of the public. Whatever the reasons, it's closed now. What do I miss? Talking to strangers. My life is far less rich without the daily interaction with people. The kind of interaction that occurs in a tattoo shop is particularly hard to re-create. I miss the combination of excitement and trepidation, and the fact that politically incorrect language was perfectly okay. I miss the teasing and the glimpse into the lives of people I may never see again. I miss seeing people change over the years. Yep, I miss it almost all of it. What I don't miss is the tattooing itself. Yes, I could have segued into just running a shop, but it didn't happen and it really never occurred to me. Truth is, I stopped appreciating tattoos, so how could I continue?

Photo note: Can you believe there's an entry in Wikipedia entitled "Fried Egg"?
I put this photo here because: 1. I'm lazy. 2. For me, it's the quintessential New York diner food (throughout college, I'd eat breakfast out and get two fried eggs with toast, home fries and coffee for less than two bucks).
And oddly enough, I once wrote the music for a song that came to known as "Fried Egg", which was issued on a 45rpm record. Sheesh, all of this makes me sound like I'm a hundred years old.

Hobgoblins of gloom

There's quite the number of posts sitting in my drafts folder, waiting to be finished. I should rephrase that: they are waiting to be re-written, when the topics are not clouded by the shroud of my being in a deeply bad mood. Maybe I'm wrong to censor myself. I haven't decided yet.

When I got linked from Psych Central, I read on someone's blog (and I'm sorry but I don't remember whose), that most blogs written by those who write about depression ultimately fail. Two reasons stand out: 1.) The blogger is too depressed to write. 2.) The readers are tired of hearing the repetition of the same old same old day in and day out (how'd you like those cliches?) And to add insult to this depressed person's injury, this blog's rating only gets a five (out of ten). Well, what did I expect? I'm not giving out lovely pearls of wisdom or little gems of happy-talk here!

But I am trying to censor myself (even though this post is entirely about me me and all me). I don't want to just report on the state of my mood swings. That's what emoticons are for.

So here: :-(

That about sums it up. I'm in a foul mood. It's one of those days where I wish I were the kind of person who finds having a drink to be soothing (but then again, if that worked, I'd probably wind up an alcoholic).

I haven't been able to study. Every encounter with others seems to go all wrong. I can't figure out how to use Word '07 properly(well, that's normal, isn't it?)

Yesterday I was told to leave off the last fifteen years of my life on my new resume. That didn't feel very good. "Let them assume you were busy having kids", said the job counselor. You'd think that my owning a tattoo business was as bad as running a brothel.

Maybe that's what I should do next - become a Madame. I love talking to people and I love corsets, so how 'bout a historically accurate 18th century brothel?

It'd be a lot more interesting than working in some office, that's for sure, but there are some ethical considerations I might have some trouble with.

Meanwhile, I am trying to stay interested in anything (and everything). That's what I believe keeps one afloat whilst depressed, and that's why this blog is called what it is. A good book, a crafts project or any number of things can spirit one away from the hobgoblins of gloom. Yeah, I know it's hard to actually get oneself to do anything when one is very depressed, but you must try. Though, I will say this, sometimes one just has to take a nap.

Note: The words "hobgoblins of gloom" reminded me of Spiro Agnew's (Nixon's VP) use of the words "the nattering nabobs of negativism", which I bristled at finding an amusing term, but felt better when learning that Wiliam Safire had written.

Though less known, this turn of phrase was following by calling the press corps "hysterical hypochronidriacs of history." These barbed phrases did nothing to save Agnew's career, but keep him alive today, as the battle against the "liberal media" marches on. . .(okay, I said I wouldn't write about politics). . .

Image Note: Francisco de Goya Duendecitos (Hobgoblins)Etching 1890

In which I admit that not everything is interesting

I am studying medical billing, coding and transcription. I didn't knowingly sign on for the billing part of this coursework, but it's part of the curriculum.

Earlier today, I realized I had read about ten pages of material and not a word of it had sunk into my poor addled brain. It was about as engaging as reading an IRS instruction booklet. Now, I do know an accountant who does find reading IRS publications to be truly fascinating, so I know that theoretically, everything is interesting, but as much as a generalist as I am, there are indeed some things that bore me to tears and practically make me want to get down on my knees and beg for mercy (please delivery me from this tedium!)

I find medical coding to be completely fascinating, but that's probably because I like reading things like surgical reports and trying to make sense out of them. When I was young, I had a secret desire to be an epidemiologist, so I do get some pleasure out of understanding such obscure language with the extra added bonus of not getting blood on my hands (with gloves on, of course) nor hearing the cries of suffering patients.

I sailed through all the coursework up until now. Anatomy and physiology, pharmacology, and medical law were all fascinating. Having open-ended research projects helped, because I'd pick subjects that, if studied properly, could have taken years to write a paper on. Right now, I have to write a paper on the workings of independent medical billing companies and just looking at their websites starts to induce a low-grade migraine.

I was thrilled when my online courses were down for technical reasons this afternoon. This is not a good sign.

Thank you for indulging a bit of a whine. On the perfume front, I am mystified by Montale's Wood and Spices, for it smells neither of wood nor spices. My first reaction was "huh?" and plans for a good scrub. But two hours later I realized that I had not scrubbed it off and that I found the smell pleasing. I lifted my left wrist to my nose and thought "mmmm". Very nice! But what is it? I haven't a clue. Anyone who knows the answer to this, please leave a comment!

Image Note: Winter Snow "paint by numbers"
When I was a tattooist and someone wanted me to do a large all-black "tribal piece" i would sometimes say to them, "Imagine you were a kid and someone gave you a paint by numbers kit and a small black crayon. Then they told you you had to color the whole thing black,not go over one line and not leave even the smallest dot of white left at the end. . ." Not only is that boring, but it's cruel.
Check out the Smithsonian's Paint by Numbers exhibitition here.

Boing!

How do you say the title of this post? I presume you thought "boyng" (with an almost silent g). According to the rules that I was taught in elementary school, we should pronounce this word "bowing".

The Spelling Society ((amongst other groups) advocates all sorts of spelling reform. On their main page they decry the fact that the words comb, tomb and bomb do not rhyme but that weigh, say and they do. In addition, they spell rhyme "rime" and now I'm slightly confused as to the real spelling.

There's all sorts of ideas floating around about what to do about English's quirky spelling "problems". Personally, I hope these so-called problems never get solved, for I love them.

I find the fact that bomb, tomb and comb don't rhyme to be downright fun. They'd make good clues or answers to a word puzzle. Their non-rhyming makes me want to look the words up and find out their origins.

One of the reasons English has so many quirks is that it is derived from many different sources. By analyzing a word, we can learn a bit of history. I'd hate to see the language become so modified that a mere encounter with a confusing word doesn't hold the possibility of investigating it further.

But, I am what they call in school (skool), a "good reader". I think spelling bees, crossword puzzle and Scrabble tournaments are exciting. Reading the Oxford English Dictionary entries are a source of delight to me.

People say English is hard to learn. Is it harder than German with its long words? Is it harder than Japanese, with its Chinese character set (over 2000 base characters and who knows how many combinations), two sets of phonetic characters and the the English alphabet? Not by a long shot.

I don't wish a hard time on anyone who's learning to speak, write or read English, but. . .

Language is not just a form of communication. It is also a reflection and a product of the cultures it originates from. Languages (and their dialects) have so much personality!

I am not a scholar on this, but my gut tells me that stripping the English language of its quirks is like forced normalization of people who are quirky and difficult to pigeonhole. In fact, we say of these people, oftentimes, that they are "hard to read".

So, of course, putting aside my love of words for themselves, I am terribly wary of anything that normalizes anything. Yes, some words, books and people are hard to understand. We can either live with that or try to standardize everything. I'd prefer the former. I still can't read Proust, but I don't want to read some Cliff's notes phonetic rewriting of him.

Painting note: Portrait of Samuel Johnson by Sir Joshua Reynolds, 1772
His "A Dictionary of the English Language" was published in 1755. Doesn't he look likes he needs a good antacid?

The first English dictionary was Robert Cawdrey's "A Table Alphabetical", written in 1604. You can read the entire text on the University of Toronto's website.

The history of dictionaries, in themselves, are fascinating. Some have speculated that being a contributor to the writing of the Oxford English Dictionary drove William Chester Minor mad. I have always meant to read "The Professor and the Madman: a Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary".

Addendum: Just for amusement, I thought I'd try "translating" some Emily Dickinson into phonetic English:

Hope iz thuh theeng with fetherz thaht purchez in thuh sole and seengz thuh toonz withowt thuh wurdz and nehver stops at awl.

Wuht doo yoo think?

Check out fanetik.org. Here's the introductory sentence on their home page:

"Welkam tu a nu wae uv rieting Ingglish — a raashanal wae."

Here's my version of this sentence (after spending more than the normal amount of time figuring out what it actually said, which rather defeats the purpose of this supposedly "rational" way of writing): Wellcum 2 uh nu wey uhv riteeng eenglish - a rashunul wey". Are we moving towards are pre-Websterian rending of our language?

Am I being a knee-jerk language snob? Perhaps.

The weather, PMS and some other bleary thoughts

It's about as humid as it can get without raining. It's gray, and the wind is kicking up in big gusts, making the leaves rustle with a surprising amount of noise. This kind of weather, I've noticed, makes me a bit anxious. I ask myself "What - are you afraid of coming storms?" The answer is no. Last night the rain fell hard and I loved the sound of it on the roof as it lulled me to sleep.

The closest thing that's describable to my feelings about the kind of weather we're having right now is PMS. Seriously. To the men reading this - you may only know PMS as the cranky mood some women get into before their periods, but you don't have a clue what it feels like. PMS is exactly like a a pre-storm warning!

This definately fits into the category of "Too Much Information" but I don't have PMS anymore and haven't for so many years that I barely remember it. But I do remember the fights I used to have in those edgy days before Aunt Flo came to visit. Unlike many other woman, I would always be happy to have it pointed out to me that I might have PMS and that things weren't as bad as I seemed to think they were. But I'm sure more than one of you reading this have heard the lines, "It has nothing to do with the fact that I've got PMS!"

The last thing I thought I'd be writing about is PMS.

It's been one of those mornings (though I woke up at 10:40) where I feel like sleep did more harm than good. I'm achey and bleary, but I wanted to report the following:

I feel ever so much better now that I've deleted my Sarah Palin and Hillary Clinton posts. Saying no to feeding my own anger and the anger of others is a weight off of me. Now, I need to find out how to remove the cached material off the web. I have no idea how to do this. If anyone reading this knows, please tell me! "They" say that anything one puts on the web stays there forever. Is this just a new myth or is it really true?

To help ward off my feelings of edginess and the bleariness of awaking too late, I applied some L'artisan Chasse aux Pappillons. It smells so nice in the vial. Now that it's on my skin, it feels oversweet for my taste. Ylang-Ylang overpowers everything.

I'm still thinking about those hits I got in the last twenty four hours where people read my vitriole, which I thought was behind me. It wasn't a lot of folks, but even one is too many.

Link: I hardly ever watch Saturday Night Live. Last night, I saw a re-run in which there was a terribly funny spoof of the "once-a-year period pill" Watch it on YouTube and have a good laugh.

Willem De Kooning Woman V 1952-53

I remember seeing a De Kooning retrospective at the Guggenheim Museum, way back when I was either still in art school or in my early 20's. I remember thinking two things "This man hates women" and "My father was right. Frank Lloyd Wright designed this building to make paintings look bad." Today, I just discovered when trying to find a link to a De Kooning bio (linked to his name above) that the Guggenheim website is just plain ugly.

The expletives deleted have been deleted

On Saturday mornings, I go to the Treetop Zen Center. It's about 40 minutes from my home and so I have time to think, look at the changing scenery and listen to the radio. On my way there today, I decided that when I got home I was going to expunge some of my "political" rants from this blog. I had written last night that I was going to leave them be, but as I got to thinking about how many hits I was getting simply because I had written two posts with the words "rouge cou" (French for red neck), I thought it was time to put an end to that. A part of me thought something along these lines - if I can pull 'em in because of those words, maybe they'll read some other stuff. Not very likely, as much as I'd like it to be true.

On the first Saturday of each month, there is Fusatsu, the renewal of vows ceremony. I didn't know which vow we were to be focusing on this month and I was in for a surprise and yet another signal from the world that I should lay off writing about politics, for here's this month's precept:

"I vow to not criticize others while elevating myself."

On my way home today, I listened to opera on National Public Radio instead of talk radio. Keeping my finger from pressing the button that would change the station was like fighting an addiction. About two miles from my house, I noticed a sign for a road that I've never noticed before. I thought I had taken the wrong road. I got out my map and saw that I had not and realized I was disoriented. What else have I not been noticing while I've been listening to talk radio (and yelling back at them in my head)?

I decided that not only would I delete my entries about Palin, but the ones I wrote about the Clintons. What good do they serve? Pointing out others' hypocrisies does not further anything but more divisiveness.

I haven't completely culled all the political entries. I've left the ones where I've wrestled with conflicting feelings. But the ones where I've been writing from a place of fear and self-righteous indignation, they are gone (at least I think they are all gone). I will see a big dip in hits on this site. No matter. Arguing politics was never my aim.

Painting note: Agapanthus, Claude Monet 1920
At-one-ment with nature.

Waking from a bad dream

Tonight, I'm going to try to be terse. Anyone who reads this blog will know that this is something I'm not good at.

I am sorry. I let myself get caught up in self-righteous indignation. I have called others stupid.

It is I who has been stupid. Even if I've made one salient point in the last week of posts, it doesn't matter. I have been thinking and writing from a place of fear, and when fear takes hold, anger and bitterness grow quite easily. I can see it in others, but it takes longer to see it in myself.

I had said I was sad that this political season has turned into the same old bitter partisan politics. So, what do I do when I see that happen? I throw out my own principles and join the fray. Does that make any sense? No.

I have a desire to delete all the posts I've written that have anything to do with politics. I feel ashamed of how I let myself become intoxicated with anger. No wonder I have had a headache.

I kiddingly asked for an intervention to make me stop writing this stuff. Well, I got one, but it came in the form of a movie, "Gangs of New York."

New York City, circa 1862, was a place of intense corruption and violence. It was not that long ago. At some point while I was watching, it suddenly popped into my mind that the political parties of today are no better than gangs. This may not be literally true, but it made me think, "I want no part of it."

I will vote come November, don't get me wrong. But, I'm getting off the soapbox and getting back to whatever it was I used to write and think about.

I've got lace to knit and bird feeders to fill up. The leaves are starting to turn.

And I know that the people who scare me are scared themselves. Maybe we are not as different as we think we are.

Image note: Shakyamuni Buddha, reminding me that I have been living in the realm of differences, instead of the one of connectedness.

Friday morning, with a headache and Tam Dao

Woke up to a headache (again). I haven't had chronic headaches in a good long while and wonder how I lived with them (uh, not all that well).

Sticking to my promise to try new scents, I just applied some Diptyque Tam Dao. I've tried it before and have no memory of what I thought (bad sign for either the scent, my memory, or both).

First impression: I've got one milligram of the stuff. It's so weak I'm concerned I may have to use up the entire vial to get a sense of its scent. Perhaps my headache is getting in the way. I am a bit stuffed up.

Second impression: Smells like a piece of furniture that's just been polished. And I don't mean that in some good evocative way.

Third impression. I'm glad it's weak. I've had it on for barely half an hour and it's almost completely faded. Glad I didn't put some on my clothes, as is a good idea with many of today's fleeting scents. I'm looking forward to another scent for the rest of the day.

I'm in somewhat of a bad mood. I'm sure that this affects my judgment. It's mornings like these that I reach for scents that I am sure of and know will lift my spirits. Yes, perfume can do that.

Painting note: Jasper Johns (again) White Flag 1955
This has nothing to do with the above post. Even though thoughts about politics are stirring in my brain, I'm sick of writing about any of it (at least for this morning). If you need a political analysis fix, I suggest reading Paul Krugman's "The Resentment Factor" or Judith Warner's "The Mirrored Ceiling".

Both conventions used the American flag as a piece of stagecraft. The power of this flag and its iconography is tremendous (what an understatement). When Johns takes the red, white and blue out of the flag, and turns it into a study in monochrome, what is he saying? Think about it. I'm not up to it right now.

Scent Addendum: It didn't take much to scrub off the Tam Dao. It's not that it was awful. I just needed something more uplifting, as my headache tromps on, unabated. Oh, how I wanted to reach for the Chergui! But no, I poked around and decided on Annick Goutal's Neroli. In spite of it being a soliflore,(a fragrance which focuses on a single flower), it seems richer. And in spite of it's being Neroli, it brings to my mind memories of many a stroll on hot summer nights, the pleasure of encountering a random honeysuckle bush and stopping to savor its scent.

Last thoughts for this post: Maybe wearing and sniffing more than one scent whilst having a headache is not the best of ideas. By the time I proofread this post, my head was pounding and I was thinking "perhaps I should scrub the Neroli", even though I find it lovely. Lesson? Maybe not every day is a good day for wearing scent.

Okay, those were not the last thoughts for this post. I didn't scrub the Neroli. Now that it's dried down and settled in (the second description not being an official perfumista expression), I thought "What's familiar about this?" Hmmm. It reminds me of the scent of Chanel No. 19 after wearing it for many hours. A nice surprise (and no, my headache has not gone away).

McCain

No live blogging tonight. Here in the middle of nowhere, the electrical service has been dodgy all day.

I was taking notes as I was watching McCain and suddenly thought to myself, "What? Are you planning on running for office?" Hah! I imagined me preemptively vetting myself in public - "Hi. I'm Julie H. Rose. I'm covered in tattoos. I've been psychiatrically hospitalized. I don't have any kids. I'm a Buddhist." How many people do you think are in my base?

All kidding aside, I want to express my feelings about McCain's speech tonight. Originally, I was planning not to, and instead was going to post a piece I wrote about the progressive, optimistic view of America I was brought up with in my early childhood, which I wrote after first seeing Obama speak. I thought it would be a good antidote to the mean spirited speeches I've heard at this convention and the even worse, totally offensive, repulsive, and disgusting stuff I hear on talk radio (and I'm not overstating that.) But in the end, I feel I must say something about my reaction to John McCain tonight.

Though Andrew Sullivan needs no more readers than he has, I will quote him here, for I feel similarly: ". . .it's striking how all the things that make me feel good seem to go down flat with this crowd."

I am a liberal. Let me get that out of the way first (as if any of my readers haven't figured that one out yet, or my being Buddhist didn't clue you in immediately).

However, I sometimes do vote for Republicans, such as Olympia Snowe. I voted for John McCain, as I've mentioned before, in the Republican primaries. I did that mainly to do something to keep Bush Jr. out of the running, but I've always had some respect for John McCain.

But (and it's a big but), this election season has completely destroyed my respect for him.

Now, tonight's speech, well, it made me sad. If (and again, this is a big if), John McCain could be the person and the candidate that this speech showed him to be, aside from his militaristic tendencies, I would be happy to vote for him (leaving Obama out of the picture for a moment). Yes, McCain hinted at his (new) anti-choice stance, with the (wink wink) phrase "the culture of life", but if you were blindfolded and didn't recognize the sound of his voice, you would have thought this speech was given by a reforming Democrat. But the speech was a sham. The base he energized by picking Palin is one that I fundamentally disagree with on nearly everything and his speech seemed to have almost nothing to do with the ideologies that his pick of her implies.

I wrote down a dozen lines that I agreed with (none of which the crowd responded to). They sound distant already, just a half an hour later. I also wrote down a dozen phrases that made me think, "Huh?". Who is he talking about when he speaks of the "me first country second crowd?" I have no idea. But when he speaks of how politicians have lost our trust because they "value power over principles", I nod my head in agreement. But then, I step back and think, hmm, maybe we're not thinking about the same principles. But y'know, at this point, I don't believe a word McCain says about his principles.

There is now a chasm of disconnect between what John McCain thinks he stands for and says he stands for and what the base he's representing think and stand for. If that's incorrect, then he's either become pathologically self-deluded or developed extraordinary powers of lying with a sincere face. Dare I say this, about a man who admits to have being broken: Has he been broken now?

So, in spite of the re-awakening of my fondness for John McCain, I must close my ears to words that I found stirring, for they are empty. Sarah Palin is now running for president, not John McCain, and the crowd tonight, though more upbeat than I expected them to be, only went wild when he spoke her name. They know what she represents. So, trot out John McCain to appeal to the undecideds and the moderates, but know this - he's just the front for a party platform that does value power over principles, and plans to use power (think Sarah Barracuda with an assault rifle) to achieve its aims.

Painting note: Jasper Johns, again. Three Flags. 1958
I might as well slather on the patriotism. I do care about this country. Maybe what sets me apart from the Republicans, however, is that I care about the world even more.

Addendum: There was more to my non-posted blog entry of this evening than I remembered (that speech sure knocked me for a loop, whatever that means. . .oh, and remind me to look up what that does mean or do it for me, your choice!)

Bill Frist gave a stilted (and quite sappy) speech about "health diplomacy", which at heart, was really quite wonderful. The crowd was bored. Why does it seem like the Republicans only respond with loud cheering when they're being egged on by hateful talk? Sadly, I once thought that if Obama and McCain were to be opponents in this election, we'd see an end to all the ugly politics, as I had visions of them both calling on it to stop. How naive! Can you imagine McCain getting Limbaugh to stop his vitriole? Never in a million years. It's above his paygrade.

An antidote to the Republican National Convention

First, if any of you haven't noticed by now, I am a liberal. Now that the word liberal is a dirty word, I feel uncomfortable even saying it. I listen to too much hateful talk radio, and I confess, they get to me. So has the Republican National Convention, where the loudest cheers have come from the most divisive words. Earlier this evening, Bill Frist gave a corny, stilted speech which actually held some wonderful ideals, yet the crowd barely listened. The folks who listen to talk radio, and who McCain is now pandering to, are moved only by fear and anger.

I am sad that McCain has sold himself out. I had believed, wrongly, that with Obama and McCain running against each other, we'd finally be done with ugly politics. I'm sick to death of it and I thought that most others were, too.

So, tonight, instead of live-blogging (with a hefty dose of Chanel cologne on to buoy my spirits), I am posting something I wrote for the Obama website, way back on January 27th. Yeah, it's corny, but I wanted to remind myself that there are other values than the so-called values that the religious right stands by. In spite of wanting to make some changes to this piece I wrote on that snowy night in January, I'm presenting it as it was written. Here it is - "Daring to Hope Like the Child I Once Was":

Throughout my life, my “dirty little secret” has been that I’m a patriot. Intellectually, I think nation-states are an anachronism, and I do believe that one day a time will come when they will be obsolete. But we’re not there yet. Not by a long shot. And one reason for saying this in such an off-handed way is that these United States can’t even “get along”.

During my lifetime, I’ve seen politics get uglier and uglier and though I do vote, I have done so with only the attitude of “well, at least this guy might not be as bad as the other guy”.

This is not the America I grew up in. I grew up in an America of promise. I grew up in an America of change. I grew up in an America where there was a vision of each generation being better off than the one before it. I grew up in an America where we went to the United Nations every year and felt proud that we were part of the world community. I grew up in an America where we envisioned a future where there would be no poverty, no racism, no hunger and an end to war.

This was an idealist place indeed.

And as I grew up and into adulthood, I grew to see these ideals as fantasies, the stuff of childhood and a past when “America” was naïve.

Barack Obama has changed my mind.

This morning when I watched Obama speak to the people of South Carolina, a crowd of diverse people indeed, I got choked up. The first time the camera pulled away from Barack and I got a glimpse of a middle aged black woman standing next to a young blond white girl, both with smiles on their faces and hope in their eyes, I succumbed to the “audacity of hope”. It IS audacious, in the face of what politics have come to. It is audacious in the face of all the pundits and naysayers, and dare I say it, other politicians.

I was brought back to a time when I was very young, too young to understand what was going on. My parents and I were at a rally for Robert Kennedy in Queens, New York during a time of great racial tension. I was scared, ‘cause I was a little kid and it was intense. But I learned later what a great event I had been to. I learned, too, that I was at many a march as young child, a baby even, in a stroller, for my mother was an activist.

But it all changed. Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King were assassinated. The civil rights movement just faded away (at least for middle class white families like mine). In my eyes, the once idealist youth of the 60’s either dropped out or became wealthy and preoccupied with their money. For others, life became harder.

I look back to the year I first voted for president. It was 1976. I had a job then, typing in an office. I made 8 dollars an hour. If I went out looking for the same job now, I would be lucky to find it and I would be lucky to make that same 8 dollars an hour. It is 32 years later! I can’t afford to heat my house. I don’t have the money to pay my taxes.

Am I a failure or has my country failed me?

I have gotten a bit off topic, but it’s interesting in a way, because politics ARE personal. Obama has said in a few of his speeches that fathers and sons are competing for the same 7 dollar an hour job at Walmart. How does that make these fathers and sons feel? How do I feel, not being able to make any more than I did when I was 18 years old?

This morning, when I watched Obama speak, and I shed tears as I saw the hope in the eyes of that diverse crowd, I felt what I did when I was young. I forgot the pains of not being able to pay my bills. I forgot myself completely. I felt united with others for the first time in years. And I felt united with a politician – a politician! – I felt hope. I felt pride in the possibility of a renewed America. I felt lifted above the workaday world of debts and bills and problems and saw the possibility of a future where we all saw each other as equals, stopped squabbling for a piece of the diminishing pie and instead saw ourselves baking new pies. Yeah, I’m getting sappy. I’m thinking of a time when there were pies left to cool on the window sill, the window open, and noone thinking there’s someone gonna come by and steal that pie. A time when kids played outside together, a time when we all dreamed together, even if some of us were Republicians and some of us were Democrats.

‘Cause that’s what it was like. I grew up next to a bigoted family but I we got along. I grew up when there were still clubs my family couldn’t join ‘cause we were Jews but I knew that someday that wouldn’t be true any more.

Let's give the children of this nation the hope that they deserve. It's scary to put our cynicism away. It's easier to believe that the status quo is too strong not to win. But I'm daring to hope and dream that it can be done, and I know, if you're reading this, you do too, somewhere inside of you. Let's get out there and give this message of optimism to others.

Jicky vs. the Republican National Convention

And the winner is. . .

Jicky. At least, so far.

That's Guerlain Jicky, considered the first "modern" perfume, which was created in 1889 and is still being sold today. There's something wonderful about applying a scent that is 119 years old and formulated the same year as the Eiffel Tower.

(In the background, people at the convention are now chanting "Drill Baby Drill".)

Tonight, enjoying something European (especially something French) seems almost naughty and most certainly un-American. Earlier, Huckabee said, "Barack Obama's excellent adventure to Europe took his campaign for change to hundreds of thousands of people who don't even vote or pay taxes here. It's not what he took there that concerns me. It's what he brought back. Lots of ideas from Europe he'd like to see imported here."

Round two: Jicky is not keeping my mind off Guiliani's speech. I love its initial blast (Jicky's, not Guiliani's). The combination of strong citrus and lavender is heady.

Guiliani's speech is really getting to me. I can't articulate my feelings here - I write sentence after sentence and delete them. Later: as I'm struggling to remember just what he said that bothered me so, I google "Guiliani RNC transcript" and read "Thank you. Welcome to the capital of the world.' Huh? Oh, that was 2004. Now, in 2008, he said, "She's been a mayor. I love that. I'm sorry - I'm sorry that Barack Obama feels that her hometown isn't cosmopolitan enough.I'm sorry, Barack, that it's not flashy enough. Maybe they cling to religion there."

Hey, Rudy, you were the mayor of perhaps the most cosmopolitan and elitist city in the world. At least you didn't mention guns after condescendingly dropping part of the Obama quote, for folks in New York City don't have the right to bear arms.

Okay, here comes Sarah Palin. I'm sorry, Jicky, you're just going to have to take a backseat to this.

It's 11:05. She's still talking. I'm losing interest. Note: in spite of what Andrew Sullivan may be writing on his blog, I think she's a force to be reckoned with.

11:10pm She's done. The crowd is going absolutely wild.

McCain: "What a beautiful family." I thought we were supposed to lay off the kids.

Final analysis: She's a great speaker. She's poised, got all-American good looks and knows how to punch the killer lines. Her appeal should not be underestimated. However, most of the praise that she is receiving tonight should go to Matthew Scully, the speechwriter.

Unfortunately, understanding that there's a world of difference between a candidate who's been out of sight, writing their own speech and honing their message is fundamentally different than a candidate who's been out of site being coached by handlers and then delivers a great speech written by a professional writer is a bit nuanced. Let me put it this way: it's like saying someone who's playing Jesus in a movie is the messiah, instead of doing an awfully good job of acting.

Final analysis for Jicky: On this hot, sticky (and somewhat stressful) night, it's a bit of a let-down. I like it, don't get me wrong, but after it's powerful and seductive opening, it dries down to smelling like many a bar of hard-milled Spanish soap.

But still, the winner is Jicky, for we don't know yet what Palin's dry down will be.

Image note: A bottle of Jicky, obviously, and not one of Huckabee, Guiliani or even the photogenic Palin. Go ahead - call me an elitist.

The same old same old

According to some statistics I read somewhere (and I don't know where, so don't press me), women have a greater need for variety in their meals. When I read that (somewhere), I thought "Oh no, not another piece of proof that's I'm atypical!"

I love to eat and I love variety. But, if it were up to me (and it is, generally), I'd eat the same thing for every meal until I tired of it. Right now I've been practically living on yoghurt and granola. Before that, it was Japanese noodles with egg and tofu. When I stayed at the Kripalu Center for a month, I was teased for eating brown rice at every meal. That's right; breakfast, lunch and dinner. Most Japanese people eat rice at every meal, just as many Americans eat bread with every meal, so what's the big deal?

When I was a kid, my father ate the same breakfast and lunch for as long as I can remember. For breakfast, he had one fried egg with a piece of toast. When he was done with that, he had a cup of instant coffee with cream and three sugars or an entire packet of Sweet and Low and a small piece of Entenmann's brownies. For lunch, he ate a muenster cheese on rye sandwich, with lettuce tomato and mayonnaise, followed by two Vienna Fingers cookies. The only times he ever wavered were when he ate what someone else had cooked.

I had forgotten why I started this post and put it in my drafts folder. Then I caught a whiff of the Shalimar Light I put on this morning and realized what my intent was. I'm starting to wonder if I am having serious memory problems, but that's a whole 'nother story. . .

I seem to like a steady diet of everything. I wear pretty much the same thing every day - jeans and a baggy linen shirt or sweater. And in spite of having approximately 100 perfume samples, I have been pretty much wearing Serge Luten's Chergui for at least a month. I have had to force myself to wear anything else. Now that I've put a Shoutbox on this blog, I will endeavor to try more of my collection (most of which has barely been sniffed, never mind worn).

Today, I'm wearing Shalimar Light. My reaction to it, both today and the first time I tried it, is "it's nice". That's not much of a compliment. It is indeed nice, nice in that it neither jars nor challenges ones' senses. It smells like "perfume" (though my first reaction to it is that it smelled more like a traditional cologne with its citrus opening). I must admit to never having tried Shalimar, which is an oversight in someone who's interested in perfume.

In spite of wanting to spray on some Chergui, I won't. Though I find Shalimar Light rather boring, at least I can wear it (in other words, it doesn't make me sick and I'm not going to scrub it off). I've applied such a small amount that I'll need more by lunchtime. Perhaps then, I'll try something else.

Image Note: I was surprised to discover this Shalimar ad is from 1975. Whatever the year, I doubt, no matter what version of Shalimar I may be wearing, that there's no possibility of my feeling transported into the dream of this ad. Maybe that has something to do with how I'm dressed at this moment. What am I wearing? Brace yourselves: One striped sock. One polka dotted sock. Orange drawstring pants with a paisley design. A 1920's English white nightshirt covered (mostly) by a huge olive green sweater. And no, I'm not going out dressed like this. I'm not that crazy.

Shout!

I've made a few changes to the blog. I took down the LastFm player, which no one was listening to (alas) and also removed my Amazon picks link because it wasn't showing up correctly on most browsers . I've replaced it with "I recommend".

I've installed a Shoutbox (courtesy Shoutmix). Now all you perfumistas can tell me what you're wearing and the rest of you can not only voice your opinions but actually chat in real time. Note: the "real time" seems to be four hours ahead of me, and I can't figure out how to change it. C'est la vie! There's no real time in cyberspace, anyway.

Painting note: Edgar Degas L'absinthe 1876
I hope we have better conversation in the shoutbox than these two are having.

Perfume is not frivolous

Earlier this week I asked myself "What if they handed out some good perfume in psych wards?" Not that this is ever going to happen, but I think it's a wonderful idea.

Most people think perfume is frivolous, at best. I had thought that until I discovered how remarkable (and even thought provoking) many perfumes are. I have always appreciated scent, whether it is the smell of the woods after a rainstorm, an apple pie in the oven, a wood fire, or (well, the list could go on for days). Now I appreciate perfume, too, and am grateful for that.

Some friends and family have thought this a crazy new hobby. Why collect samples of perfumes? How different could they be? Very! More than I would have ever guessed myself.

And so, when I break open my box of sample vials for others, who have never sniffed a good perfume, every single person (so far) has wound up with a huge smile on their face, saying something like "Who knew?!" There's something terribly fun about sitting around with others, sniffing scents. It's a bit like a game - Name That Smell!

Perfume has enormous power. Though one thinks of perfume as a bit of flirtation, the high sillage perfumes of the 80's pretty much said "Keep your distance. I'm a power woman!" Now, I find, because I have a large selection to pick from, that perfume can and does serve many needs. A desire for a warm and cozy feeling? Serge Luten's Un Bois Vanille does nicely. To feel elegant in spite of sitting about in the regular blue jeans and sweatshirt? Again, another Lutens: Chergui. To brighten up a dark and cold day: Chanel Les Exclusifs eau de Cologne, or any of the Hermes Jardins series does the job quite nicely. These are but a few examples.

So, back to the psych ward: I can imagine a group of patients sitting around smelling vials of perfume and completely forgetting their troubles for a half an hour or so. Sniffing really does take over ones' mind. Scent is such a primal thing - it's almost impossible not to respond to it. But this scenario will never be played out, though it's certainly a grand idea. Maybe in France (where, for all I know, they already employ perfume therapy). Luca Turin stated that aromatherapy was a hoax (or something to that effect). I agree with him on this point, that scent probably can't cure illness, but I disagree with him about its therapeutic nature. Anything that can lift ones' spirits or take ones mind off suffering, even for a few moments, is good medicine.

Painting note: Claude Monet The Luncheon 1873
Imagine for a moment, being there, in Argenteuil, France on such a beautiful day. One can almost smell the tea that sits upon the table, the scent of flowers and of dirt on a warm day.

Psych wards and not

About four years ago, in the midst of the winter, I found myself in yet another deep and unshakeable depression. I had had it with psychiatric wards. I have had good experiences in psych wards, believe it or not, but times have changed. At least here in Maine, they have become little more than holding cells. You go in if you're seen as a risk to yourself or others and are booted out when you are not. Half of the people there are blue-papered, which means they are there against their will. So, about half the people there want to be there and are frustrated that they aren't receiving any help, while the other half are kicking and screaming with frustration to get out. Ironically, the ones who don't want to be there stay longer, for they are acting out.

So, this one particular winter, I got online to see if there were any alternatives. I had a hunch that what I needed was not another round of sitting on my butt doing nothing but reading novels, having perfunctory conversations with shrinks, and attending group meetings where most people sit around in desultory silence.

What I found was that there are plenty of good alternatives, if you have the money to pay for them.

I kept poking around, trying to find something that wasn't 1000 dollars a day. At about 3:00am I found the Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health, which isn't cheap, but seemed in the realm of possibility. Just thinking of being in a place like that made me feel better. What they had to offer - healthy food, yoga classes, meditation, bodywork, singing, dancing, writing workshops - well, this all seemed so therapeutic and so obviously superior to being locked up in some dreary place eating bad hospital food and doing jigsaw puzzles while trying to ignore people who are complaining and screaming.

I called my psychiatrist the next morning and asked her what she thought. She said, "Great idea, but insurance doesn't pay for it." Well, I knew that.

I did something I never thought I'd do. I called my father and asked him to help me out. And he did, which surprised me.

I spent five days there and by day two I felt absolutely fine. No, I amend that: I felt great.

Why don't psychiatric wards offer any of the things that places like the Kripalu Center offer? Does anyone seriously believe that sitting around all day is therapeutic? I doubt it.

One time I was in a psych ward and I asked if I could do some yoga in the hallway, where there was a rug. They said they really shouldn't let me do it, but they turned a blind eye. When I reported how much better doing yoga made me feel, and asked why there wasn't even one minute of time devoted to any physical activity, the answer was "liability issues".

In a perfect world, this wouldn't be an issue. In a perfect world, a psychiatric ward or hospital would be a place where people learned how to live decently and healthfully, both physically and mentally.

Just "cheering people up" is a good idea. It sounds hokey, but things like singing and dancing make a person feel good. Sitting in a day room (which is usually dark and gloomy) watching television does not.

Group sessions may force people to participate in silly exercises like calling out "healthy lifestyle choices" while some mental health worker writes them on a blackboard, but while we're in the ward, we do none of the things that are deemed healthy. Does that make any sense? No. It's actually crazy making.

I would love to go to Kripalu right now. I would also like to write more on this subject, but not tonight. I was hoping to write a humorous piece about this topic, but (oh well), I'm not feeling very humorous this evening.

Photo note: Even if you don't like yoga, where would you rather be - at Nosara in Costa Rica or locked up in a psychiatric ward? And thank you, Don Stapleton, for one of the most extraordinary weeks in my life (and no, I didn't go to Costa Rica, but Don does lead workshops in the United States).

Yes, I was enjoying the drama (a confession)

I feel rather foolish about my last post. But I shouldn't, for greater minds than mine were writing about the rumors surrounding Palin yesterday.

At the back of my mind was this thought, "you were enjoying it." Yes, I admit it - I was. I was enjoying all the drama, the intrigue and the possibility of a huge scandal erupting. I have never bought a National Enquirer in my life and perhaps twice (really) opened one up while waiting at the supermarket. I don't even read mags like People. So, what was up?

I blame depression. I kid you not. I had written four blog entries in the last two days about how depressed I was and immediately upon posting them, I took them down. I was sure that my readers didn't want or need to hear any more on this subject (at least for a while). While I decided that being brutally honest was my intent, I thought that it was rendering this blog more boring than it had been previously.

And then Sarah Palin came unto the scene. What a great distraction! The weirder the stories got, the more distracted I became. I (almost) completely forgot that I was so depressed that I'd been sleeping all day. Last night, I stayed up unto almost 3:00am reading blog afer blog and finally quit reading after I found one mainstream media source that gave some credence to the rumors, or even mentioned them (see the post below).

Where a few weeks ago, seeing a hummingbird at the feeder would have raised my spirits, my spirits had sunk so low that I needed increasingly bigger doses of distraction to pull me up (or to keep me awake).

I wonder, in a nation of depressed people, is this why we love scandal and reality TV shows so much? I have never understood the appeal of any of these things. I think I'm on to something here, truly. What better explanation is there for our collective love of other peoples' misery and intrigue?

In any test you might take to determine your level of depression, there are always questions like "are you less interested in things than you once were?" or something to that effect. Depression zaps both ones' ability to stay focused and ones' interest in anything. Think on this for a moment - no one (that I know of) has given one good reason why we have an ever increasing societal penchant for distraction, whether that's in the form of following scandals, watching television shows about intrigue (both real and manufactured) and violence (but not the violence of the "real" news). I see a clear link between this and our collective emotional state.

America is depressed. Some of us know it and feel it and some of us haven't a clue. I am sure there are some who aren't (and I bet that Obama is one of them). Perhaps this is one reason I have cried when I've heard him speak - the audacity of hope is something that every depressed person needs, desperately.

And I'll say this about Sarah Palin (as much as I don't want to say anything remotely positive), I would bet she's not depressed either. McCain - I'm not so sure about him. Not only do I think he may be depressed, but I think he may be in the early stages of dementia. So, chirpy, pretty Palin is a respite for the conservatives. In this way, in spite of everything about her that is such a totally insane and inresponsible pick for VP, she was a good choice for the spirit.

At the moment, I'm quite sleepy, and feel I'm not giving this topic the justice it deserves. More another time. I just wanted to put this idea out there and see if it flies.

Image Note: 1950's comic book cover. While not completely relevant to the blog topic, I note that there seems to be as much (or more) fear about the imaginary than the real in this country.