The best thing

I love baby snuggling, the way she curls up right against me, one fist in her mouth, and the other flat against my chest, and her head tucked between my chin and my shoulder. And even though she's so small, she's warm and solid, and her eyes are open and wide, alert and looking around -- like a big question mark etched on her face. Really, there's no better moment in the entire world.

Blog rerun

Every now and then, I have a blog rerun. Not consciously, like the Valentine's Day one (which I forgot this year), but because I do -- believe it or not -- run out of things to say. The entry that was supposed to go here felt curiously familiar; only the wording was slightly different and I was thinking, "Whoa, I'm redundant in text as well as in spoken word." It was a humbling epiphany, let me tell you.

This blog is more than four years old. That's practically medieval in blog years, so it's no surprise I've started to repeat myself, especially as over the years I've gotten smarter about the blogging thing. No work, no super personal details or stories, and very few mentions of friends -- it kind of limits the playing field to explosions either in politics or the kitchen. Lately, I haven't been cooking that much, relying on Amy's frozen dinners, which are decidedly non-burnable/explosive and I've got nothing when it comes to politics; the country's managed to stay together for over 200 years through some weird stuff. It'll get through this 'weird stuff' too.

Baby baby

While we're all sitting around for Baby G to make an appearance (she's taking her own sweet time, if you ask me), check out A Roshanda By Any Other Name and where do names come from anyway?

Good eats

I had tapas for dinner, which is possibly the most perfect way to eat a meal. Tapas is the Spanish style of eating many small plates of appetizers over a long period of time, and if you are in Spain, you start at 10 or 11 o'clock at night. We being in the United States started around 6:30 or so and went into 9, amassing about 5 or 6 plates and finishing up with a luscious dessert of tres leches cake -- which is possibly the most sinful and delicious treat around.

I first had tapas in Madrid a couple years back. We went from restaurant to restaurant, drinking sangria, and eating whatever the restaurant's speciality was, whether it be marinated mushrooms or tortilla -- the Spanish version is a thick omlet with potatoes. I felt the heat in my face and the lightness in my head as the sangria took hold, and then there was the rush of people around me as we walked out into the night, heading to the next culinary adventure. It was, in a word, perfect.

Another 'hair-rising' post

My God-given eyebrows and I parted ways during my freshman year of college. Before I went to college, I had thick, wayward eyebrows that curled and went every which direction, and practically came to the tops of my eye sockets. I didn't think much of them until I went to college, and my roommate -- let's call her A -- showed up with beautiful, arched and well-mannered eyebrows. I was amazed. Naturally, I did what any intelligent woman would do -- I invested in a pair of tweezers and plucked the living daylights out of my God-given eyebrows.

The end result was uneven, extra thin, kind of freaky eyebrows. During that time, I was also wearing glasses, so the freakishness of the eyebrows weren't quite so obvious on first sight. A suggested once I should probably go to a salon and get them professionally done. This was a news flash; as far as I knew, salons were only to get your hair cut and your lip waxed. I had no idea they did eyebrows too.

The summer between my freshman and sophomore years was pretty traumatic. I was making the decision to switch my major and also to switch universities. I had transfer admission to UVA and I was ready to pack my bags and head south, bad eyebrows and all. It was also the summer I decided to get contact lenses, which is also a trauma, though one that's easy to get over. Getting contact lenses was a revelation. My eye doctor told me the world would be brighter and I should consider wearing sunglasses. Considering this was Vermont, where sunlight existed for like 5 percent of the time, I didn't actually take him seriously.

That was before I stepped outside and I could see the world in a clear and unadultered way, and for the first time in eight years, I had peripheral vision. That was way cool. And added benefit was when I went into a building, I didn't have to worry about glasses fogging up. And oh, when it rained -- which it so often did in the Happy Valley -- I didn't have to dream about little windshield wipers for my glasses.

I didn't end up going to UVA. A week before I was supposed to move down there, I backed out. I had already withdrawn from UMASS, so you can imagine the emotional upheaval there. Was I ever going back to school? Meanwhile, A and her beautiful eyebrows had found another roommate, and I was stuck in this weird limbo, though one I could see very clearly for the first time in years.

Thanks to the never ending bureaucracy at UMASS though, the administration had never processed my withdrawal and I ended up going back to UMASS with a new haircut, new eyebrows and new lenses. It was almost as if that summer I had decided to get rid of the dorky me with the long hair and the big glasses and start looking more like a sophisticated co-ed (actually, I'm still working on the 'sophisticated', but at least no one mistakes me for being 12 anymore).

Every now and then, I miss that girl, the one who didn't care about her bushy eyebrows, who never felt self-conscious about wearing glasses and whose favorite hairstyle was a single braid down the back. I'm torn between the way people think women should look and the way I feel comfortable. Once, when I was boarding the PVTA bus, I saw the driver hadn't shaved her legs. At an outlet store recently, the cashier hadn't waxed her upper lip. Most people would snicker, but my first thought has always been "You go, girl."

The stuff of heroes

This is probably the greatest escape story of all time. Set during World War II and against all odd, 76 POWs escaped. How they did it is just amazing. I won't give away the ending to the story here, but it's a riveting read.

A question of 'fairness'

If it wasn't for Michelle Malkin, I would have never known about the new Zogby International poll showing overwhelming support for not removing Terri Schiavo's feeding tube. I couldn't find mention of this poll on any of the Alphabet networks, and when I looked for mentions of it on google news, I could only find the poll in Christian/pro-life publications. Even Zogby himself didn't have the poll on his site; he merely reproduced the article written by LifeNews in its entirety (you can read it here) so it's impossible to know what Zogby's motives and methods for this poll are and whether in truth, the questions are designed to test reaction to the Terri Schiavo case.

Malkin used the LifeNews' reporter's own words in characterizing this as a 'fairer' poll, and this is where I take exception. It's ridiculous to read these questions and not see them as poorly worded, using inflammatory language, and having an unavoidable bias that can only prompt one answer. It reminds me of the time I received a survey from [insert political party of choice here] and one question asked was, "Do you support education initiatives?" Well, yes. Mind you, the question didn't ask specifics, but rather a general overview question; no doubt, [political party of choice] was overwhelmed with the response to that question -- how much do you want to bet nearly everyone said yes?

The problem with questions like that is they lead respondents to a conclusion desired by the researcher herself and are not truly indicative of what the respondent actually feels. Zogby's questions are a perfect example of this. To wit:

If a disabled person is not terminally ill, not in a coma, and not being kept alive on life support, and they have no written directive, should or should they not be denied food and water.

The word 'disabled' is the first red flag in this question, the first answer as to the question of bias. 'Disabled' means many, many things to many different people, covering the range from chronic back pain to persistent vegatative states. It is impossible to answer this question 'no' without considering the wide gauntlet of definition; most sane and caring people are going to disagree with this statement (though, I would argue that the issue in this case was not so much a question of disability but rather who should make decisions for a patients and whether Congress overstepped its bounds; ask those questions and you'll get a very different answer).

Second, while the question isn't necessarily double-barreled, there is no reason to make the reader run through a maze of 'should or should they not'; in my opinion, that's bad question writing, especially when you can start a question with the word "Should..." and continue from there. The respondent is also forced to consider several factors all in the same sentence: not terminally ill, not in a coma, not being kept alive on life support, and have no written directive.

This poses a research problem as we don't know what factor is more important to the respondent than the other, what tipped their viewpoint into the 'no' column, not to mention the confusion the respondent faces in dealing with such a complex question. And indeed, without direct mention of Terri Schiavo within the question, I find it hard-pressed to apply the results of this study to her situation.

Going on to the next question: When there is conflicting evidence on whether or not a patient would want to be on a feeding tube, should elected officials order that a feeding tube be removed or should they order that it remain in place?

I don't know what it is with Zogby and his penchant for asking two questions in one. A good pollster would not do that. In addition, a definition of who 'elected officials' are is missing. Judges, such as the brutally vilified Judge Greer, can be elected. Tom DeLay, God bless his ethically misplaced soul, is an elected officials, as is Bill Frist. Once again, the question relies on the respondent to draw her own conclusions and definitions. 'Conflicting evidence' also assumes parties are conflicted and an independent source has not made an assessment. This question, however, is not quite as preposterous as the previous one, but again, with direct mention of Terri Schiavo, it's not easy to apply the results of this question to her case.

I'm not saying polls are without bias; polls do have a certain amount of bias and in any report, that bias is noted at the end and a margin of error is given to account for that bias. However, without a margin of error figure, what/who the sample population was, or even the original questions or context of the poll, I'm left with only the questions LifeNews has reiterated and from those, the word 'fair' is not the proper adjective to use in describing this particular survey.

Incidentally, Zogby had a new poll out on my favorite congressperson, Tom DeLay, yesterday; you can read it here, but note Zogby gives the sample population figures and demographics. Also note this line: But nearly 69 percent of people in the poll, including substantial majorities of Democrats and Republicans, said they opposed the government's intervention in the long-standing family battle. I'm just waiting for LifeNews' take on that.

Hair be dragons

I neglected to mention that I got my annual hair cut last week. Every year around this time, I do a massive chop of the hair in anticipation of the summer heat. The problem is, it's currently too short for a pony-tail and it refuses, REFUSES, to cooperate with my hair iron. If someone took a scalding hot iron to me, I'd straighten right out, but my hair is stubborn that way. It keeps curling and you'd think it'd at least have the consideration to curl in the same direction, but it doesn't, and the end result is hair that goes in every which way and cannot be tamed by any number of bobby pins, clips or rubber bands. The end result is I wake up looking as if someone had plopped a haystack on top of my head and even ministrations with the comb get it to look something like a deflated and lopsided Afro.

I tell you all this because I just watched "The Bachelor." I don't usually watch that show, but dinner was later than usual (slight disaster with rice and rice cooker -- long story and slightly embarrasing) so when I plopped down, "The Bachelor" was the only thing on (I don't have cable). There's something rather weird about 25 women competing for one guy who thinks nothing of making out with all of them. But that's another quibble for another day. My major beef with the episode was the hair. How do those women have such great hair? Even when given only five minutes to get ready, their hair springs to attention, as if all those blond-highlighted strands are proud graduates of Hair Boot Camp. Good hair and the opportunity to make a fool of yourself on television (I mean, c'mon, who wears a bikini to a first date?) -- it just doesn't seem right somehow.

Random fact: Apparently it was Jane Pauley who popularized the expression 'bad hair day'.

Take me out to the ballgame

So last night I went to see an exhibition game between the Home Team and a Midwestern team. When I told Florida Girl my plans, she laughed hysterically and said, "You're gonna be stuck in the game for five hours and you're never, ever gonna get to leave." I can't wait to call her and tell her how wrong she is. Her reaction reminded me of the time I broke my finger while in grad school. I called my parents up to break the news and my dad's reaction was, "You broke your finger playing basketball? But you don't play basketball." Well, whatever basketball playing I was doing got cut short by the broken finger; now I just mourn my broken dreams of becoming the first sub-6 footer in the WNBA.

That being said, yesterday's game was so cool, mostly for the mere fact I was watching from a suite. The previous year, I'd gone to see the Cubs with Old Ossbay, and while I got a great look at Sammy Sosa's back, I couldn't tell what else was going on. In this game, we were right behind home plate and I could see the entire diamond and all the action. Plus, the waiter in the suite was super nice and answered all of my stupid questions without dumping my Diet Coke refills in my lap. And the cookies! The giant cookies filled with chocolate chips and as big as my head! I'd watch the Home Team lose all over again as long as those cookies are around.

Cooking Shortcuts with Seema, guest starring Florida Girl

FG: So, I discovered a new, easy way to make crepes.

Me: Yeah?

FG: You take Bisquick, use water instead of milk, one egg instead of two, and add sugar. And then you put it in a pan and cook it all up.

Me: It might be easier to go to France and get them.

What's the DeLay?

Okay, so why is Tom DeLay still in power? As the days go by, Tom DeLay is starting to look and sound more and more insane. Now he's throwing a temper tantrum. Could we buy him a one-way ticket back to Texas already?

Weird

The 'deathwatch' that has taken over the media is alternately fascinating and ghoulish. Terri Schiavo had barely passed away before attention switched to the failing health of the Pope. For the latter, the news media was falling all over itself today, with CNN declaring around noon that the Pope had passed away, and then retracting. Just as CNN retracted, Yahoo! came out with the same story, and then retracted. Also in failing health -- but without the minute by minute updates -- is Prince Rainier of Monaco.

The end

Terri Schiavo died today and I don't feel sad at all; in fact, I feel nothing but relief that finally, finally this sorry spectacle is over and that Terri Schiavo is at peace. My detachment over Terri's death is not a question of heartlessness as without a personal connection to Terri, any emotion I profess to feel could be correctly construed as insincere. Any condolence I offer would be of the most perfunctory and automatic nature, rendering any words worthless.

I look at pictures of mourners throwing themselves upon the manicured lawns of the Woodside Hospice Facility and I wonder at the profoundness of their grief for a woman they never knew in life, yet feel like she's one of their own. There's an emotional distance they've managed to cross, but it's one that seems next to impossible to me. Whether it's genuine grief at the passing of one woman -- when such drama and death plays out every single day in every single state -- or whether this show of grief is really concealing disappointment over a 'defeat' for the anti-abortion forces. I find the latter more understandable and honest than the former, but I understand why the confusion exists.

Randomosity

The real excitement is over in jemima's blog, but I also couldn't let the month of March come to an end without bringing you the giant page of Peeps links. My personal favorite has always been the Peep Research Institute. And if Peeps don't whet the appetite, how about breakfast?

Your taxpayer dollars at work

Head's up credit for the following goes to Jessica, but Virginians who didn't know it, Governor Warner is a poet! Check out his commemoration on the occasion of his signing House Bill 2579:

I took some grief for my nudist park pun.
But resist I cannot on this one.
I will sign this bill,
more or less of free will.
But I can't do it without having some fun.

We have a state dog and a fish and a bird.
And of the fossil I’m sure you have heard.
So why not a bat?
What's wrong with that?
The state beverage is no more absurd.

Upon my signature now it appears,
The designation will now last for years.
I'll spare you the Latin
If you're seeking the bat in
A guidebook, it's the one with big ears.

I think our bat's up to the test.
If you doubt it, just ask Adam West.
He was TV's Bruce Wayne --
the caped crusader's real name --
and could 'Zap!' and 'Kapow!' with the best.

The poem and summary of the bill can be found here. Now, to find out what a big eared bat looks like...

The sound and the fury

On Friday, the scariest storm ever rolled into town. It's that time of year when the skies literally explode with sound and color. Tornadoes are common as are marvelous thunder storms and sheets and sheets of heavy rain. I have, however, never seen a storm such as the one we experienced on Friday. Golf ball size hail pounded the windows, the wind stripped the fresh spring leaves off the trees, and it grew so dark that it was impossible to see more than a few feet outside. All of this was accompanied by rain that hit the house at an angle, thanks to powerful gusts of wind. It was truly one of those humbling, Mother Nature moments -- her reminder that despite our advances in science and technology, she is still in charge.

Guest observation

Today's blog comes to you courtesy of S., who wanted to know what was up with the 14-year old posing in the wild flowers alongside of the state highways. For those of you not in the know, someone many, many years ago decided that beautifying the state was in order. So thousands and thousands of taxpayers' dollars go to planting wildflowers along all major roadways in the state. This time of the year, it's actually very pleasant to drive, because of the abundance of color and the reminder of how fresh and alive spring is.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure it's a state requirement for all parents to pull the car over to the side of the road, take all children under the age of say, five, and plop them down in the middle of a wildflower field and take their picture. The results of Junior surrounded by daisies, Indian paint brushes and black-eyed Susans are pretty cute, actually. I agree with S., though; some of the cuteness factor is lost, once the baby fat melts away and the wildflowers are ankle high, rather than brushing the tip of a baby's chin.

So, right

Have you ever gone out and then come home, looked in the mirror and thought, "Oh my God, I didn't just out in public looking like that?"

Please, please, please say yes.

The numbers speak

Here's an interesting study on blogging. The media is hung up on blogging as the next wave, but it doesn't take into account that most blogs don't have an audience and most bloggers don't have the discipline to keep one up. Blogging can be like a job. Some days, it's easy to come up with a topic, other days it's like, "Eh, let me just throw up a link."

Yeah, it's one of those days.

When the tofu gets going

Today's scheduled blog entry has been pre-empted by late breaking bloggity: I ventured into the kitchen this evening. In the fine tradition of charcoal pancakes and exploding eggs, welcome to another edition of "In the Kitchen with Seema."

This particular edition starts with your over confident chef, yours truly. Yours truly had a good cooking night Saturday when she whipped up Spanish rice (from scratch, not a box, thankyouverymuch) and corn/tomato/black bean quesadillas. Emboldened by that success, I decided not to warm up the frozen pizza, and instead, marinate tofu and have that for dinner. I cubed the tofu, and then marinated it in a hodgepotch marinade of: honey, ginger soy sauce, peanut oil, a bit of Greek salad dressing and a touch of balsamic vinegar (hey, Lori is the one who said to improvise!).

Around the time I was marinating the tofu cubes, S. called up and asked, based on an earlier conversation, if I still wanted mac and cheese for dinner. Feeling very good about my tofu cubes I said, no, no, no need to run to the grocery store; tofu it was. I was even patient, letting the tofu sit for the full hour (mind you, I'm the one who always cooks on HIGH, because why cook on low or medium if you can cut the time in HALF by cooking on HIGH?). All went well. I dumped the tofu cubes into the pan, set it in the oven and turned on the broiler.

All was well with the world and "American Idol" when I started hearing these little popping noises. After a few minutes, I got off my beloved futon and went to investigate. The tofu was popping, sizzling, crackling, and generally having just way more fun than any food stuff in a broiler ought to be having. I figured I should stir up the tofu, make sure it got broiled all good and even. So I grabbed my oven mitts (the same mitts, btw, from this incident) and a pot holder and reached in to grab the pan.

That's when the stand-off began. For some reason, I was absolutely terrified of the dancing, sizzling and generally having a good time tofu. I stared at it and it just kind of bubbled. Finally, I took a deep breath, heaved the pan out, and SPLAT. The pan slipped out of my hand, crashed down on the oven door, and there was tofu everywhere. The worse part of it, that marinade had honey in it!

Anyway, with a huge mess in the oven and on the floor and the surrounding cabinets, what's a girl to do but eat what's left of the tofu (it was good, btw), and watch "The Amazing Race"? After the show was over, I went back and tackled the oven, which had thankfully cooled down by that point (I'd also taken the liberty of dousing it liberally with Fantastik during one of the commercial breaks). I have no doubt, like in the egg story, I will be discovering tofu in weird places for months to come.

Tofu might look like all washed-out and wiggly -- y'know the wallflower of basic food staples? -- but the truth of the matter is, you just don't mess with the tofu when it's having a good time.

Stupid people

Every now and then I'm just blown away by people, I mean, absolutely blown away in the sense of "What the hell are you thinking?" And then the lightbulb comes out and it's that realization of "Oh, you're acting that way because you aren't thinking." Today, inconsideration came in threes within the space of 30 minutes and within a 30 square area.

It started with a cell phone. I had gone down to the gym, armed with my headphones, and had just gotten on the treadmill and switched the television to VH-1's documentary on "Shortest Celebrity Marriages evah" (and while you'd think Britney would be in the top three, you'd be wrong). Two treadmills over, a girl was talking about her dinner plans. Very loudly. So loudly that she was overpowering not only my earphones, but also VH-1. Which made me think a) if you can talk that loudly and coherently while on the treadmill, you aren't working out hard enough and b) SHUT UP. I felt vindicated when the girl on the treadmill (also wearing earphones and watching TV) next to mine kept giving Cell Phone Chick dirty looks.

Cell Phone Chick had barely hung up when someone brought in a DOG. A DOG. In a carrier. I don't know who that person is, but I think it's cruel, CRUEL, to keep a cute little dog in a little box and I don't EVEN LIKE DOGS. And wouldn't you know, the dog started barking. Non-stop high pitched breathless barking. Cell Phone Chick looked annoyed. Another girl -- whom I've nicknamed Iron Woman and when not at the gym (which is rare), lives down the hall from me -- gave up on her sit-ups and left. NEVER that girl ever left the gym before me.

Barking Dog gave up and settled down around the same time I was leaving. And that's when I ran into the third and final act of stupidity. Four guys -- two of them with beer bottles -- were coming into the gym. Where the rules specifically say NO ALCOHOL. One of the guys without beer said to the other two, "Oh, you can't come in. They don't allow drinks." And then they laughed and went in anyway. In the brief instance our paths crossed -- the two beer drinkers stood aside for me when I came out -- I fervently wished I could shoot laser beams out of my eyes and incinerate their beer bottles.

Instead, I tell ye, Internet, be ye not so stupid and for the record, I don't care what's for dinner, when dinner is going to be served and who's going to be there unless I've got an invitation. Just don't invite the dog. Or the rule flaunting beer drinkers.

Help is on the way

Here's a site I wish I'd known about even a few months ago: badbossology.com. There are lots of bad bosses out there, yo.

How to make my day

I stopped in at Einstein's Bagels this morning around breakfast to pick up a bagel for lunch. I got into line and was just staring at the selection of bagels when the guy behind the counter asked if he could help me. I said, "Well, I want a bagel..." and then a seriously long pause followed. They didn't have an onion or garlic bagel -- my two favorites -- and nothing else was jumping out at me. So I said to the guy apologetically, "I'm sorry, it's early, and I seem to have lost any ability to make a decision."
He just smiled and said, "Well, I'm here until one o'clock, so you have plenty of time."

By the way, I ended up with an asagio cheese bagel with garden veggie cream cheese :-)

Playing God

Terri Schiavo's feeding tube has been removed and I've been ambivalent about it, at best. This is one of those intensely personal experiences, something that is happening to a family and should not be appropriated by politicians or others with agendas that are not necessarily in the best interests of the patient.

I find the machinations of the federal government reprehensible. The federal government has no right to interfere in cases like this, none at all, and the precedent such interference sets is incredibly frightening to those of us who choose to make our own decisions about our own health care.

I think it's easy to make generalizations, I think it's easy to believe one side over another, and to see what you want to see -- a cause you can embrace. In the end, though, Terri Schiavo doesn't belong to any of us, nor do we have the right to make any decisions for her because most of us have never met her when she was a vibrant woman and they have not encountered her now. The truth of her condition is not truly known to to the vast majority of us. For that reason, the decision on whether she should live rests solely with those who are closest to her. Everyone else -- and I'm talking to YOU, Tom DeLay -- needs to butt out.

Shades of grey

The law is stepping in the Terri Schiavo case. I wish I could formulate a coherent opinion about this one, but I can't. It's brutal on both sides, and it's a slippery slope: do you allow euthanesia and under what conditions and who is authorized to make that decision? The truth is, only about 20 percent of Americans have living wills, but I'd be curious to see who would choose to live the way Terri Schiavo has been 'living' for the last 15 years. I also want to know who would choose to have the state or federal government making decisions about their health care.

I also find an incredible hypocrisy in this case. While conservatives are doing their best to trim entitlement programs like Medicare/Medicaid and Social Security,their concern seems more focused on those who are not born and those who are near the end of their lives, while the rest of us have to keep on keeping on, dealing with increasing costs of health care -- even when employed and heaven help you with those premiums if you aren't. The schism was clearly illustrated to me yesterday on a conservative blog where a poster was trying to organize support for Terri's cause. Yet in another posting, the same commentator said she didn't support any 'free' health care plans; what would she say if she knew Terri's cost could total up to $80,000 a year and was borne primarily by the taxpayers? What then?

Don't get me wrong -- the question of life or death cannot be reduced to a financial equation and I'm very much conflicted on whether Terri's feeding tube should be removed. If her parents are willing to assume the responsibility of caring for her, then that's what should happen. If their belief and faith is so strong that she can recover, that a miracle is in the offing, then perhaps the tube should not be removed; perhaps the taxpayers and lawmakers, who have fought so hard for Terri, will see $80,000/year for the rest of Terri's life as a good investment. I'm not necessarily sure I'm one of them as that money could be used to help someone who has a treatable afflication and a chance of living a fulfilling life if given treatment, but has no money to pay. But then again, I also find something repungnant about starving and dehydrating someone to death; perhaps there's some comfort that Terri has no cerebral cortex, that perhaps she won't feel anything at all. But like so many things in this case, we simply do not know.

BOBF

As per my post from yesterday re Bloghercon -- I don't disagree the need for visibility is one reason that some women blog and their needs, as a whole, are probably different than your average paranoid blogger (like yours truly) who feels the less publicity the better. If women can benefit by getting together and exchange contacts and technology and tips, I'm all for it. I'm just not convinced there's an actual problem that's on the same level of say, other problems facing women in this world like the right to manage their own reproductive health or getting equal pay for equal work.

In the end, my jaded view probably stems from all the hype about blogging, about it being the next great thing in information, and as a promotional marketing tool. How much power do bloggers really have? Not that much, I think, but with the media attention, it's easy to attribute way more power to pixelated words and enter the Brave New World with ideas on how to re-invent the wheel.

But don't mind me. I'm just a former journalist and blogger since 2001 with a hint of BOFQ underlying all of that. What do you call the blogger equivalent of BOFQ anyway? BOBQ?

Points to ponder

After all the recent discussion about feminism, you'd think I'd be more in accordance with Maureen Dowd's shrill rant about the need for more female columnists. And then there's the propose bloghercon. Maybe I got all discussed out when it came to feminism, but somehow I can't get myself up all wound up about either issue. Two of my favorite columnists -- Ellen Goodman and Anna Quindlan -- are women and I don't read any blogs written by men*. Frankly, I'm more concerned about women in the workplace and the glass ceiling and how to juggle family life with career and higher education than I am about whether women in the blogosphere have enough visibility or not.

* It's just coincidence, not any feminism man-hating principle, that I don't have any male blogs on my reading list. The answer to your question is quite simple: most men don't blog about anything I am remotely interested in.

Poem of the Day

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

-- Robert Frost

What I'm watching

I thought, since most of you who read this blog are either here for the fandom or are my mother (hi, Mom!), so since there's been so little fannish stuff around, I thought I'd talk a little bit about a couple of my favorite shows and why I think you should drop everything and watch them too.

1. The Amazing Race -- Every time I tell someone to watch this show, invariably the response is "I hate reality television" or "I don't approve of shows like that." "The Amazing Race" is, however, different from the reality shows that have given the genre a bad name (ie "Paradise Island," "Hot or Not"; the survivors like "Survivor," "The Apprentice" etc., are really quite good). In "The Amazing Race", pairs of contestants with a pre-existing relationship race around the world in 30 days. Along the way, they have to perform stunts native to the part of the world they are in, and somehow navigate through foreign countries without knowing the language.
   
   The contestants' relationships are also tested, and this is what I like the best about this show. Having spent two months traveling through Europe with someone, I can really identify as to how relationships evolve and change -- either for the better or for the worse -- as you face the stress of not only the *travel* portion of the race, but also the fact that the first team to the finish line gets $1 million. The show is really well put-together and has amazing scenary. Until last season's "TAR", I had no idea just how lush Senegal was, nor did I realize just how gorgeous Iceland was in its ice blue beauty. Check it on CBS, 9 pm CST, on Tuesdays. It's the next best thing to actually globe-trotting yourself.
   
   
2. Without a Trace -- this show always took a backseat to ER the first couple years it was on; I'd only watch it if ER was being especially annoying or was a repeat. This season, I've been sucked into the show and have barely given ER -- a show I watched faithfully from its very first ep back in 1994 -- a second look. At first glance, "Without a Trace" looks like every other crime drama on television, but it's different in its ending: you don't know whether the missing person is alive or dead, whether he or she is a victim or not. There's always a hope that there will be a happy ending and sometimes there is, sometimes there isn't.
   
   The show also makes excellent use of flashbacks and digs deep to find out what exactly is going on with the missing person. I also enjoy the subtle character interactions between the five-member team led by Jack Malone; there's no anvil falling on the viewer's head. Hints about the characters, their personalities, their family, their likes and dislikes are sprinkled throughout the season. Especially riveting is the dynamic between Jack, Samantha and Martin; how that 'love triangle' has been playing out all season has really gotten my attention. "Without a Trace" is also one of the best acted shows I've seen in a long time, and it's especially amazing when you learn three out of five of the actors aren't even from the US and the one with the best New York accent -- Marianne Jean-Baptiste -- is from the UK. Tune in on Thursdays on CBS, 10 pm EST.
   

You know you want to.

Thought

Today was the kind of day that if you could put your arms around weather, you'd totally want to hug it and never, ever let it go. The day was THAT spectacular.

Things that make you go hmmm

Tim Bray talks about why blogging is good. I disagree with most of his statements, especially with numbers 1, 2, 3 and 10. But it may be just a perspective thing; if you are a subject matter expert in your field and that's what you're blogging about, then yes, pointing to your blog is probably a good thing. I can hardly imagine, in regards to number 3, how I'd bring that up to my boss.

"Hey, google me! My site is number one*=!"

"Cool, what keywords?"

"Uh... Seema unbound*?"

You see how badly this conversation could turn out, don't you?

And number 10 is really a crapshoot; most bloggers don't have an audience of size enough to actually matter to one's career. The fired bloggers get their audience after they get fired. I'm glad someone can see how blogging would be good for one's career, but me, I prefer to keep my head down.

*For less Net Nanny offensive search terms -- such as 'Trek fanfic', 'X-Files fanfic', 'JAG fanfic'e etc -- the site comes up in spots 2 to 4 on google; still, not quite promotion-worthy key words.

It takes more than spoonful of sugar

Tonight's blog entry is brought to you by the computer in the apartment's front office because my Internet connection at home is dead. How dead, I do not know, but I am hoping the network Gods bring it back online tonight. How hard can it be for Ma Bell to keep an entire city's phone lines functioning and numbers working, hmmm?

That being said, the apartment's computer has Net Nanny on it. Which is rather annoying considering I deal with a Net Nanny at work and then to come home, and there, there she is again! And Net Nanny is no Mary Poppins; like the work Net Nanny, she decides to block off sites that are decidedly not ############* or reprehensible in anyway. The annoying thing then is even after Net Nanny has wagged her finger at you, she won't let you leave the offending site. So you're stuck on a half-downloaded page (in this case, Dooce), with a beepy Net Nanny and if you click "okay", she goes away for the second it takes to continue downloading the page Net Nanny doesn't want you on anyway. You say, "Well, then, close the window." I would do that but because Net Nanny's warning keeps popping up on the still downloading page, it's impossible. Hence, this awful, awful vicious loop. I can't get off the page Net Nanny hates because Net Nanny won't let me; talk about mixed messages.

Net Nanny's insistent and incessant beeping combined with the ISP's annoying 5-note chime and "Thank you for your patience, we'll get to you shortly" repeated at thirty-second intervals, has slowly eaten away at any remaining sane brain cells I may have when it comes to technology. If you don't hear from me, it's because I've done away with Net Nanny and run off to South America; I hear the weather's great there this time of year.

* Word censored by Net Nanny; I'll give you a hint -- it starts with a P, is followed by an O, has an R in there, and an N, and ends with the word 'graphic'. I'm not actually sure whether the word is censored on your screen, but just in case. Obviously, Net Nanny means business.

Cooking with water

Back in college, one of my prized possessions was my rice cooker. We weren't, technically, supposed to have any cooking type things in our dorm rooms, but that didn't stop my roommate Sam and I from accumulating enough to have our own little kitchen beneath our beds. Along with the rice cooker, we also had a coffee maker, a plug-in kettle, a toaster oven, and not one, but two mini fridges. We didn't have a microwave, but there were enough people around who did, and there was also one in the kitchen in the lounge. Incidentally, once I burned a bag of popcorn in the kitchen microwave and then stood beneath the fire alarm. Two minutes later, campus security -- which could never be found when actual crimes were going on, such as who was actually responsible for the weekly smashing of the front lounge windows -- were circling my bag of popcorn with suspicion.

The rice-cooker, I learned, didn't just cook rice. If you were patient enough, you could also boil a can of soup or make spaghetti. This was very convenient in casa Seema and Sam, as going down to the kitchen with an armful of pots and pans was a pain. My usual MO was to put the soup in the rice cooker, run off and take a shower, and by the time I came back, 30 minutes later, it was usually done. The pasta would take longer -- maybe 30 to 40 minutes to boil -- but still, it was so much better than say, DC food.

That being said, as much as I loved my rice cooker, there's no way I could possibly talk about them for two hours. Yet another reason to fear Fidel Castro.

Drive by blog

From the world of unsolicited advice: mothers speak. Some of these stories are funny, some sad, and some will just have you picking your jaw up off the ground.

How you got here

I'm always amused by my stats (unless you're a livecam! Then I want no part of you! I don't care how fun you are, Miriam!). But here is a rundown of some of the search terms people use to find this blog:

• Sidney Lindsey Greenbush -- this is a favorite. I had NO idea just how much interest there were in the twins who played Carrie on "Little House on the Prairie" until I blogged about them.
  
• Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen -- I blogged about these media moguls once -- once! -- in the spring of 2001 and since then, people keep coming; I'm afraid they must be sorely, sorely disappointed when instead finding dirt on gossip-worthy blond rich girls, they get me. Sorry!
  
• IKEA -- believe it or not, I'm not the only one who has trouble putting together IKEA furniture as my logs bear testament that there are many, many people out there searching for a way to assemble their flat furniture into something they can use. I feel your pain!
  
• How to put a futon together -- Uh... see above.
  

Other search terms that come up usually have to do with 'royal' subjects: The Reluctant Queen, Jean Plaidy, Plantagenets, and Royal Blood; amazingly, Star Trek hardly comes up at all.

Confidential to Kite Runner readers: Don't pass go, don't collect $200, just read the book already.

Confidential to blogger Clorox MBA: yes, an MBA program will make a blogger out of you, but stay away from the Clorox! You're paying good money for the stuff they're putting into your brain!

Confidential to google searcher: Sarah Jessica Parker weighs a lot less than either you or me. Unless you're five. In which case, you have permission to weigh less than SJP.

A question of stone tablets

The Supreme Court is currently hearing the case on whether the Ten Commandments can be displayed in public/govermental buildings. I don't *like* the idea of Ten Commandments codified on governmental property, but I don't necessarily *mind* it. What I do mind is the inherent idea that one religious tradition is better than others, that there is only one way to God, and that everyone *must* fall in line behind Christian theology, which leads to my main objection to religion public areas. It seems to me such displays are meant for Christianity and the promotion of that religion alone; no other religions can or will be tolerated.

I'm all for the Ten Commandments on display if equal space and weight can be given to the Koran, the Gita, and the Talmud. I'm all for prayer in public space if Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, and Catholics are allowed to have their voices and religious traditions heard. If that happens -- and I'm certainly not holding my breath! -- then sign me up as a supporter of public display of the Ten Commandments. Until then, I'm going to have to be a firm supporter of the separation of church and state.

Links of the day were kindly provided by Liz Logan. The Ten Commandments and the legal tradition and who knew there were so many different versions of the Ten Commandments?

Yipppeee!

The Tax Man cometh but he giveth. In other words, I buckled down and did my taxes this morning. Also, I worked some more on the turn of the century HTML on my site. I think the entire VOY directory has been re-done. And oh! I cooked! And other than curry splattering all over my stove due to over-enthuasiastic boiling, there was no disaster where dinner was concerned. Yes, good feelings all around :-)

In the darkness, the trees are full of starlight

I saw one of my favorite musicals Thursday night, "Les Miserables". "Les Mis" is one of those overpowering, overwrought orchestral productions with lots of singing and dying, but not a whole lot of dancing. And it's got angst, plenty of it, but it's still good enough to bring people in the audience both to their feet and to tears. I didn't cry this time, mostly because it was past 11 pm, thus way past my bedtime and for God's sake, would Jean Valjean hurry up and die already?

Lest you think I'm completely heartless, I did get a bit emotional when I saw "Les Mis" the first time. Picture it: London, September 1999. FG and I were suffering from jet-lag something fierce as well as a remarkable aptitude for misplacing ourselves. Six hours off the plane and we walked out of the Piccadilly Circus station and into a production of "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Unabridged." There's nothing more English than tea and William Shakespeare, but in this case, the cast of the William Shakespeare oeuvre was played by four American guys in bad wigs and togas and who, somehow and very convincingly, managed to reduce "Hamlet" to a single scream. Take that, Mel Gibson.

The next day, we decided to watch a musical and FG picked "Les Mis." We had lovely seats and I was on a high when we emerged from the theater eight hours and 26 minutes later (yes, "Les Mis" is *really* the longest musical in the history of musical theatre; let's just be glad Schonberg and friends didn't decide to set "War and Peace" to music). It was after midnight and while the theatre area was hopping, I felt uncertain about traveling this late back to the hotel. I suggested a cab. FG called me a wimp and while I'm totally not ashamed of my wimpiness, I succumbed; when in London, do as the Brits do and look to the right when crossing the street and take the underground.

We arrived at our station -- Baywater -- with little incident and the fun -- a term I use very, very loosely -- began when we couldn't find our hotel. We recalled the hotel had only been a few blocks away from the station and we thought we'd come from the left but nothing looked familiar, so we went the other way and ended back at Baywater.

Mystified, we started tackling the side streets and I freaked when I saw a large park across the street. "We're gonna get mugged," I told FG. "I'm never ever going to fulfill my dream of stalking Henry VIII's ghost because we're going to die right here." FG, however, is not one for dramatic declarations. She marched into the only store still open (ignoring my comments about how late-night convenience stores are perfect targets for hold-ups, even in the civilized and refined UK) and asked for directions, while I bought chocolate bars and water for FG and myself. If life as we knew it was going to end, I was damned if it was going to be on an empty stomach and parched throat.

We ended up finding our hotel about fifteen minutes later in one of those "duh" moments, realizing we'd been only a block or so away the entire hour we'd spent looking and at one point, had just been around the corner, but because of the darkness, hadn't noticed the street we were on didn't actually dead-end, but made a gentle jog to the right. The moral of the story is always, always walk to the end of the street and look both ways. I was ever so relieved when we finally boarded the creaky elevator and walked down the creaky hallway to our tiny hotel room.

The next morning, we decided to visit Kensington Palace -- home of the late Princess Diana and other royals -- as we heard it was in the neighborhood. The way FG and I tackled London, you'd think we were men; we didn't believe in actually asking for directions *before* heading somewhere. We had this thinking that if there is a subway, then how hard can it really be to get anywhere, especially when there's a stop called 'Kensington'? It's not like Sweat Sock City where road names change or highway exits are moved on a whim or are under construction (or sinking into the swamp, but that's another story entirely).

We got on the train at Baywater, rode a couple of stops, got off, changed trains, and then got off. FG needed to take a picture for her underground/bus pass so we came out of the Kensington station, walked a couple blocks to our left in search of a photo studio and ended up in front of the Baywater station. Yes, indeed, we traveled 15 minutes by underground and switched trains just to end up two blocks from our starting station. And then we discovered Kensington Palace was the 'park' we'd found the night before, where I'd been convinced we were going to get mugged. Getting mugged by a member of the Royal Family -- now there's a story worth passing on to the grandkids.

Even though the American version of "Les Mis" is also eight hours and 26 minutes long, it's super comforting at that hour of night to know exactly where you parked and more importantly, how to get to your bed with minimal drama.

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One sure thing

I'm like the last person in America who hasn't done her taxes. I'm not actually tax-phobic, just procrastinatory. I really like the idea of running right up against a deadline and there are still six weeks to go until April 15. No sweat.

I'm also an old-fashioned tax girl; I do my taxes out by hand and that means I have to find the perfect pencil. Not just any pencil will do. I need to have one with a nice, big eraser and plenty of lead in the barrel, because not only do I do the dang thing by hand, I also make duplicate copies by hand, which makes me think I'd have done great in that time before the Guttenberg press. Also, I don't believe in e-filing (except for that year when I was so poor HR Block e-filed for me for free) and no direct deposit; there's just an indescrible feeling when you hold a crisp, clean Treasury check in your hands.

This year though, I'm thinking about actually starting sometime before 11:59 on April 14th. In fact, this weekend. I'm just getting so excited about spending a Saturday or Sunday afternoon with the 1040 and Schedules A, B, and D. I can hardly stand it. And I'm even more glad that this year, we get to deduct our sales tax paid in. It actually makes me laugh when I read the 1040 book and it says, "Gather up your receipts and figure out how much sales tax you paid in 2004." Uh, I am doing so well in kicking my paper accumulating habit that while other people might be pissed off about paying taxes, I'm more pissed off that Uncle Sam is enabling one of my Really Bad Habits (tm).

But seriously, who saves 365 days worth of receipts? And if anyone does, and if they are organized and patient enough to add up all those pennies, I don't want to hear about it. Nope.

Links o' the day: Fangirls should know that starting your own church won't save you from the Tax Man and if you do business with a naked person in Utah, you're gonna get taxed.

The new lexicon

Mouse potato -- the on-line wired generation's answer to the couch potato

Percussive maintenance -- the fine art of whacking an electronic device to get it work again

404 -- someone who is clueless

Ohnosecond -- the miniscule fraction of time in which you realize that you've just made a BIG mistake (eg. accidentally sent emails that were never supposed to leave the inbox)

Indulgence

I have permission from Lori, via Jemima, to be a lazy blogger tonight. That's pretty much been the theme of the evening. I did work out tonight, after squeeing with Jerie who too shares my deep love and admiration for all things "Without a Trace", but after that, it was futon!time, just in time for Reality Stars Fear Factor.

My love of reality television has no shame.

Because it was such a lazy, lolling around kind of day, I had a lazy, lolling around kind of dinner. Namely, a samosa -- very oily, -- and nachos, drenched in cheese and salsa.

Every now and then I just really like to eat junk for dinner. I don't really munch much -- usually tortilla chips or crackers are my snack items of choice. I also like yogurt and sliced apples and I tend not to eat that much between meals. But every now and then, it's like, "I want SUGAR! I want GREASE! I want FAT!" And so then, out comes the salsa, chedder cheese and nachos, and there's dinner.

For any mothers who might be horrified, I should probably also mention in my family, it was perfectly acceptable to eat cake for breakfast. Ice-cream was also considered an acceptable meal in a pinch (I have an extreme weakness for ice-cream; hence, I rarely ever have it at home). When it comes to indulgence and food, my family definitely lives to eat.

Feeling productive

I've been on a mad rampage this whole weekend and now, at just before 5 pm on Sunday, I'm feeling a little at loose ends because I don't have the usual "Oh my God, I have to go to work tomorrow" routine to start. It's just weird knowing all the laundry is done, put away, that there are no dishes to take care of, and there's plenty of food in both the fridge and pantry. Yes, there are still a few things that need to be done, but nothing major -- well, I do have taxes to do -- standing between me and Monday. It makes me both happy and nervous at the same time, like there's something I've forgotten.

I haven't been this efficient or productive in months.

Editing

I've written about self-editing before, but the other part of the process is having someone else look at what you've done and give you their opinion. An editor can serve many roles -- muse, plot doctor, grammar expert, support system, fact checker, and sounding board. The writer holds primary authority and responsibility over what the final version of the story looks like, but an editor can help and offer a fair and honest and unemotional assessment of what's going on. When I'm looking for someone to edit a story of mine, here's what I look for:

• Someone with a good command of the English language, and not just in terms of vocabulary and understanding, but also for grammar. Ideally, the editor should be able to point out the misplaced commas or the misuse of words. So many times I've read stories where I look a the words used and think, "Oh, the writer didn't mean *that*." Ex. 'Disinterested' and 'uninterested' are not the same thing and most people mean the latter, rathern the former which means 'neutral'. Also, the editor should be able to differentiate between affect/effect, their/they're/there, your/you're, its/it's -- you get the picture.
  
  By no means, if you find the grammar/language editor of your dreams, does this exempt the writer from knowing the rules. Using language and grammar improperly is not an option for anyone who takes writing seriously. Learn the rules, and then find someone who can help you make sure you're enforcing them.
  
  
• An editor shouldn't be solely critical or positive. If they lean too far to either direction, it's time to take another look at whether they're actually helping or not. If the feedback is consistently negative, without giving reasons *why* or *how* to fix them, then this may not be the best editor-writing relationship. If the feedback is consistently positive, pointing out just the things you do well and nothing else, then again, it may not be a good relationship. Editors should be able to point out the good and the bad both. They should be able to hone in on your weaknesses and help you emphasize your strengths. Carping on the weaknesses only can undermine confidence, while emphasizing strengths can lead to overconfidence.
  
  
• Based on the above, if someone tells you something your editor has never mentioned before, or anyone else for that matter, it might be worthwhile to listen. I've heard many times people saying, "Oh, that can't be right. No one has ever given me *that* criticism." While criticism stings, take a step back and look at it dispassionately. Some people criticise for the joy of criticising; it's your job as the writer to be able to tell the difference. If someone says, "Okay, this story is a little too wordy and by the way, I don't understand what this means," examine the story in that context. Maybe they're right, maybe they're not; either way, just because no one has ever said something before doesn't mean it's untrue.
  
  
• I define constructive criticism as "Here's what I like/dislike about your story and this is why and here's how you can fix it." It's not easy to get constructive crit, no matter how politely worded, but it's a necessary step in putting out a quality final project. Ideally, an editor will be able to tell you how to fix the weaknesses. If not, then it's up to you to come up with a solution. Editors are there to help, but it's up to the author to actually come up a solution that works for them. Which leads me to my final point.
  
  
• Having an editor, by the way, does not exempt the author from self-editing or even critically considering what an editor has said. Anything an editor says is merely a suggestion or an opinion -- not a hard and fast "you must do this or ELSE" type statement (at least, they should very rarely be worded that way, unless it means the difference between getting published or not -- in which case, the final decision about what to do still lies with the writer). The editor isn't always omnipotent and all-knowing, but if they are competent, they also won't be off-base most of the time. It's important to evaluate all statements made, and learn to tell the difference between pettiness and things that will genuinely help. In the end, it's up to the author to decide whether to implement what an editor says.
  

Pondering

I wish there was a 'rebuttal' book to the bestselling "He's Just Not That Into You" (HJHNTIY) and if I had my way, it'd be called "You're Not That Into Him and This Is How You Call It Quits." Because, as much as it sucks when you like someone who doesn't like you back, it sucks just as much when you realize that while you value your relationship with the person, you're just not as into them as they are into you.

In my case, because on the surface everything makes sense, I keep hanging on, thinking "I can work on this, obviously, it's *me* and I just need to be *logical* because all of my desired variables are present." Even when I decided very recently that a relationship *wasn't* working and I had discussed the situation many times with S. about ending it completely, I still didn't have the guts to pick up the phone to call it quits. Instead, I kind of let it just drift away, only to be startled a few weeks later by a "Dear Seema..." email. In circumstances like this, I wish I'd just gone with my gut and made the first move; I wasn't that emotionally invested in the relationship, so I don't know *what* was holding me back from actually having the "we need to talk" conversation.

Unfortunately, relationships aren't mathematical and you can't ever make a gross generalization about your interactions with another person; in the end, you can't force something, no matter how much you want to, and you can't be as nice about it as you want to be either. If only it was possible to be as glib about ending a relationship as HJHNTIY makes it sound -- no matter what side of the equation you're on.

Preparing for the worst, hoping for the best

Newsday columnist Mike Thomas talks about Terri Schiavo better than I can. The story is incredibly sad, but the legal battles just brought home the reality of just how important it is to make sure those you leave behind know exactly what you want.

The idea of preparing a last will and testament as well as a living will freaks the heck out of me. That's not something someone my age does, but now that I have two pennies to rub together, I need to make sure the state doesn't get all of the mullah. I also want my family to know exactly what my wishes are if I am unfortunate enough to end up like Terri Schiavo. You have to let those who have your best interests at heart know what you want -- whether it's letting you die if you are so severely incapacitated there is no quality of life or desiring all measures taken to keep you alive, regardless of quality of life; you can't assume those who love you know or even can make these difficult and emotional decisions. In fact, it's probably even best to designate ahead of time that person who will make these kinds of decisions for you, so you don't end up stuck between two warring parties.

No one wants to think about death or dying. No one wants to think about what happens if the only quality of life is sustained by machines. Nor do you want to be the one sitting at a bedside wondering what your loved would have wanted. It's not enough to verbally tell someone; you have to write it down, get it witnessed, and then make multiple copies and distribute. I'm not sure Terri Schiavo would have ever intended for her life to be turned into some kind of rallying cry from both the right-to-die and the right-to-life crowds; what she probably would have wanted most is the dignity that both sides have denied her.

Cutting clutter

I get about 2 to 3 credit card offers a day, and most of them are filled out with everything except my signature, which can be an issue when it comes to protecting yourself from identity theft. I usually shred any applications I get before throwing them away. Until today, I had no idea that the credit bureaus are in the business of selling information to the credit card companies and that's how you end up with those 80 gazillion applications.

If you want out, like I did, you can go here and opt-out from all credit reporting agencies at once or you can call toll-free 1-888-5-OPT-OUT (888-567-8688). The other option is to snail mail each credit agency -- TransUnion, Equifax, Experian and Innovis -- separately.

I'm also slightly amused at reports that Choicepoint is now going to tighten security. Isn't that a little like shutting the gate after the cows have wandered out?

A trip down memory lane

When I was driving back on Sunday, I found an old tape from the early 90s. When I was in high school, I used to tape hours of radio on end and I got a kick out of listening to the scratchy quality, and of course, the DJs whom I'd adored so fervently when I was a wee one. A few of the songs on the tape I remembered as they are classics -- "We Are The World", "Physical," "Eye of the Tiger" -- but then there were other songs I barely remembered by one-hit wonders. Yet, I'm sure, when I was 12 or 13, I thought these guys were the best and I would never, ever forget them. Those were the days, natch, when the radio was pretty much surgically attached to my ear.

Who knew, more than a decade later, I wouldn't be able to remember the last time I listened to the radio?

I also found a mix tape I made for my aunt years ago. I never gave her the tape -- Real Life (tm) interfered in ways I would have never imagined and so the tape is still in my possession. I was listening to it tonight on my way to meet a friend for dinner. Some of the songs on that tape are still among my favorites, including Billy Joel's "Goodnight Saigon." I also had taped my 'relaxation' song, the one I listened to before any big test in college -- Everything's Alright from Andrew Lloyd Webber's "Jesus Christ Superstar." Of course my version is the one sung by Sarah Brightman.

Try not to get worried, try not to turn on to
Problems that upset you, oh.
Don't you know
Everything's alright, yes, everything's fine.
And we want you to sleep well tonight.
Let the world turn without you tonight.
If we try, we'll get by, so forget all about us tonight

Bon Appetite

This weeked, my brother, S-i-L, cousin and I cooked dinner for my mom's birthday. Dinner was Thai -- my brother's current obsession. I made the soup and amazingly, it was not a disaster. Here is the recipe:

Clear soup with spinach and tofu

2 quarts vegetable broth (or any broth you prefer)
6 green onions, finely chopped
8 oz firm tofu, cut into 1-inch squares
3 tablespoons soy sauce
1 tablespoon sugar
A handful of spinach leaves, stemmed if you'd like
10-12 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
Freshly grated pepper to taste
Salt to taste

Bring the broth to a boil on medium heat. Add all ingredients except for spinach. Cook for about two minutes. Add spinach. Cook for another couple of minutes and then remove from heat. Season to your taste.

Broth recommendation: Pacific Foods

Without a trace

As I was driving home this afternoon, I looked up at the the giant screens that line our interstates every 3-5 miles within city limits. Usually the billboards give up to date information -- weather info, construction updates, or the famous 'Click it or ticket' -- in reference to our seat belt law. Today, the sign read "Child Kidnapped." The lights at the top of the screen were flashing for additional emphasis. The sign gave no other information other than a description of the vehicle -- blue Dodge SUV and a license plate -- and a message to call the police in Big City to the North.

For the entire 3-hour drive, I checked out all the cars, looking for a blue Dodge SUV. I repeated the license plate number under my breath. I wondered if the child was a boy or a girl and how old he or she was. I wondered if the child knew his or her kidnapper. Why did the kidnapper do this? Was it a disgruntled parent on the wrong side of a custody battle? A stranger? Who witnessed the kidnapping and managed to get the license plate number? Did they happen to see if the kidnapper went north or south? If they were coming south, then maybe I'd come across them. Mostly I hoped by the time I hit the first sign in my Current City, that the Amber Alert would be replaced with the usual "This city is STILL under construction" message; unfortunately, when I got to the city's outer limits and the first 'achtung' sign, the headline was still "Kidnapped child."

Now I'm wondering whether the kidnapper saw the Amber Alert. I wonder if he left the highway. But mostly, I wonder about the child and pray that the alert worked, that the blue Dodge SUV was spotted and that the child has been returned to his or her home.

Things I should talk about

I made a list today of all the things I should blog about if I wanted to be a 'power' blogger and so to spare everyone statistics and propaganda, I hereby give you the Cliff Notes version of what I'd say on major issues. Some of this is redundant, but I'm nothing if not redundant.

• Social Security reform -- Neither social nor secure, discuss. In a nutshell: it's not as broke as the Bush Administration would like to believe, but not as solvent as the Democrats would like us to think. My take: raise the cap on payroll taxes, increase retirement age, cut some benefits and start personal accounts for those under 55.
  
  
• Internet trolls -- Go away already. Sheesh.
  
  
• "Without A Trace" -- Are you watching this show? You should be watching this show. If you take away NOTHING else from this blog, take this.
  
  
• Bloggers and the media -- Bloggers are not journalists. Nope, nothing, nada, zip, zilch. Stop pretending they are.
  
  
• Abortion -- There's nothing wrong with acknowledging that an embryo has value, that it is a baby and can feel pain. There is nothing wrong with acknowledging that this is a difficult moral decision for many people. There is nothing wrong in acknowleding that abortion should be rare but safe. That being said, America, I don't want you picking out my socks for me; I certainly don't want you to tell me what I can or cannot do with my body. Get out of my uterus already.
  
  
• The Amazing Race -- Best. Reality. Show. Ever. I'm not happy about Rob and Amber (from "Survivor: All Stars") on this next edition, but I shall get a fiendish glee out of seeing them getting booted (and I may scream if they win the $1 million prize).
  
  
• The War in Iraq -- Nothing will ever persuade me this was a Good Idea (tm). Spin it any way you want, and even if a purple-fingered Iraqi woman hugs me, I'm still not going to think it was a good idea.
  
  
• Margaritas -- Still. Totally. Rock.
  
  
• Gay marriage -- It's not fair to blame people who can't get married on the deterioration of marriage in this country. If you want to talk about people who shouldn't be married, take a look at J.Lo or Britney Spears. Good grief. Take away THEIR right to get married already.
  
  
• Enterprise -- I'm not sad that there won't be Trek on television next year; I am sad that Enterprise is getting the heave-ho just when it's getting really good and I'm starting to recognize the show I love.
  

No one can hear you scream in cyberspace

Every now and then you come across a person online and you just wonder what they are like in Real Life (tm). Every now and then I read a post or an exchange between individuals and think, "I hope I never ever in 80 gazillion years ever run into this guy in a well lit alley, let alone a dark one." It's not secret the relative anonymity of online life -- the fact you can choose what other people know about you and hide other facts -- has people acting in ways they wouldn't otherwise. Of course, when you see obnoxious or rude behavior online, you have to wonder what that person really is like.

I wonder if the person who disparages everything and claims cliquishness online is perhaps insecure and wants to be liked, but puts up a "This is why your [insert noun of choice] sucks" as a defensive mechanism. Or what about the people who go around leaving insulting comments in blogs or on forums? In Real Life, are they the quiet and shy type, the type who just really want to have their say but can't summon up the courage? Some people might be just as bold in RL as they are online, but more often I think it's a case of projection -- "This is who I want to be, this is what I want to say, and since no one knows who I am, and no can stop me, I'm going to be as obnoxious as possible."

ps. Hi Dave!

Geekity

I'm having problems with my yahoo! email account -- seemag1@yahoo.com -- so if you email me there, I can read, but I cannot respond. I've tried fiddling with my firewall, lowering the level from 'high' or stealth mode down to medium and I've added mail.yahoo.com to my trusted sites list. However, for some reason, Yahoo!mail won't render correctly for me -- images are missing, scripts, etc. So when I hit 'reply' on an email, nothing happens. When I tried to access the site in that spawn of the devil, IE, the browser crashed. This is the only site I'm having this problem on, so I'm guessing the issue is on Yahoo's end and not mine, but gah, it's annoying.

Annoying things

On my way home from work today, I was behind a navy blue Buick. All was well until the Buick slowed down in the middle of the intersection and turned on its right-turn signal. So I thought, like any reasonable person, the Buick was going right. The Buick didn't go right. It kept driving ahead, slowly, with its right blinker going and going and going. For SEVEN BLOCKS. Who signals SEVEN BLOCKS before they have to turn? And then there was the person in the black RAV 4 who came to a COMPLETE STOP in the middle of the road even though there was a) no stop sign or b) traffic light or c) had any intention of turning. WHAT IS UP WITH THESE PEOPLE? Do you WANT me to crash into the back of your car?

Also, nothing like a good blog flounce.

Heart Day

It's a little late to do my usual blog rerun of Valentine's Day; I instead got a bit het up over bloggers attacking the mainstream media, instead of going after the pink and red holiday. I'm not sure exactly what the bigger tragedy is: bloggers who think they are journalists or the commercialism of romance.

Jessica and I went out for Mexican fastfood and had margaritas. Later, FG called me and said, "I am disheartened by Valentine's Day." My response will not go down in history in anyway. "Bummer," I said. "Bummer all around." And then I pointed out to her that by not celebrating the V-Day, she was not contributing to the exploitation of developing countries. I said, "Nothing says 'I love you' like child labor."

In the end, Valentine's Day is just, I don't know, one of those holidays I wouldn't mind eradicating from the calendar. It's right up there with President's Day as space-taker-uppers on the calender -- nothing more than a reason to either a) sell cards or b) have a huge big sale so people can go out and buy stuff. What we need is a solemn holiday where NOTHING is open, not even the movie theaters, and you can't buy gifts; a day where you're forced to spend time with the people you care about and tell them, face to face, without pink things or shiny balloons or a brand new bling, how you feel about them.

The NY Times recently published an article about the the 'power' of bloggers, this time noting conservative bloggers had brought down Eason
Jordan at CNN. Earlier this month, liberal bloggers went after fake
Jeff Gannon, Fake Reporter (tm), who was working for a conservative publication, and who seemingly had unrestricted access to the White House press corps. Before that, there were the bloggers who went after Dan Rather. The whole thing makes me a
little nervous, because it feels a little like "Oh yeah, you take one of ours down? We're going to take one of yours." I think it's fair to say *most* people think there's a bias in the media; I don't buy into the notion that it's entirely a liberal bias (the conservatives, for instance, rule the radio waves), but I do agree some people may think there is a liberal bias.

I think it's worthwhile for people to question the media, to point out facts. I will say some bias is unintentional, a lot of it coming down to deadlines and not being able to get both sides of the story for whatever reason (it reminds me of the time I wrote a feature on swimming lessons and interviewed only the instructors but forgot to talk to the kids and their parents). At the same time, I'm wondering whether there's a taste for blood and power now in the blogosphere and as a result, are we going to lose reporters on either side of the aisle? Are bloggers sitting at their
keyboards and sticking their tongues out at journalists like me* and say, "Ha, ha, we're watching you, and never mind we have no idea how you do your job or the pressures you're under or the fact when something is 'off the record', it is *off the record*."

I honestly don't care about whether it's conservative or liberal bloggers going after the media; what I take issue with are bloggers, who can say anything they want and
aren't bound by a code of ethics or style or even a journalistic organization, have elected themselves as the media watchdog.

Link: Another article on jobs and blogging.

* Former journalist

How much clean do you have to clean if you could get clean

The bathroom has been driving me nuts for the last couple of months because I've been trying to kill the black mold between the tiles and on the caulking and nothing has been working. I've soaked it in Lysol, scrubbed with a brush, and still it grows. I'm convinced that when the greenhouse gases finally snuff out all the oxygen and turn this place into a pressure cooker, nothing will be left but black mold. It's THAT strong. Yesterday, I went after it again, and despite my heavy application of elbow grease, all I got back was gray mold.

To give you a little history, black mold is like THE cause celebre in my neck of the woods. It's the quickest way to get your house condemned, and easiest way to squeeze insurance companies out of a whole lot of money. My last apartment had black mold in the ceiling, thanks to the leaking upstairs bathroom. When I complained -- multiple times -- to the management, they finally sent over someone who PAINTED over the mold. We won't even talk about the moldy carpet in the bedroom, because of the leaking foundation -- the carpet that wasn't replaced until about two months before I moved out. I spent A LOT of money on Glade air freshners during the 18 months I lived in that place.

So of course, now when I see black mold in my shiny sparkly new apartment, I panicked. Black mold is a lot like cockroaches. Once you've got it, it's nearly impossible to get rid of; that's why houses with the mold can be total losses. Well, yesterday I was so motivated, I attacked the mold. One of us HAD to go, and as far as I know, I'm the only one paying rent. Well, the mold REFUSED to move out; it just kind of went pallid and grey, thus annoying me. I contemplated ripping out the caulking and then having the apartment people come and re-do it, but then I realized that that could be construed as wanton destruction and I do want my half of the deposit back.

In a OK Carroll style showdown, I poured the toilet bowl cleaner all over the mold and let it sit there for 10 minutes. I turned out the lights, put on the fan, and went and sat in the living room and watched part of "Speed 2: Cruise Control." I admit, I was feeling a little guilty about using toilet bowl cleaner on my tub, but really, people, how many chemicals do you need to clean your bathroom? I have three -- the Windex for the mirror, the Lysol Tub & Basin, and then the Clorox with bleach for the toilet. That's not counting the bleach and blue stuff pellets I throw in the toilet tank because of the water problems here (don't ask) or the Liquid Plumr I use because the drains don't... drain. Obviously, if there are SO many different kinds of cleaners for the bathroom, I was probably breaking some secret law somewhere akin to ripping off the tags on a mattress by using the toilet cleaner on the tub.

When I went back into the bathroom and wiped off the tub, I saw that the mold was GONE. Gone, gone, gone. I'm not ashamed to admit I did a little jig. The lesson of the day is that it IS okay to mix chemicals when cleaning the bathroom; manufacturers just want you to think that you HAVE to have this special thing for the tub and you HAVE to have this other thing for the mirror (well, okay there IS the problem of streaks on the mirror). Meanwhile, I'm just hoping the Valentine's Weekend Mold Massacre lives in infamy for all of moldkind; see if they try to move in here again.

Must Read

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini is one of the most amazing books I've read in a long time. The novel tells the story of Amir and his friend Hassan -- the Kite Runner -- and of their childhood in Afghanistan, just before the Russians rolled in. Amir and Hassan are the best of friends despite their differing social status, until one day something happens to change their relationship forever.

The novel uses simple but effective language and some of the most killer moments in the book are the quietest. There is a lot of violence in this book -- some of it quiet and subtle -- and others more physical and obvious. It journeys through the 'good old days', explores Afghanis reactions to the arrival of the Russians, and then the horror of the Taliban regime. One thing I thought interesting was the attitude of the Afghanis who had been forced to remain behind after the Russian invasion towards those like Amir who managed to flee to America. One character remarks those who fled didn't bleed like the Afghanis who stayed behind.

This is one of those books that stays with you long after the last page has been turned. Some of it is over the top and some of the coincidences are a little bit much (and it's Bollywood, not Lollywood), but the character interactions and development and the violent journey Amir has to take in his quest for forgiveness is hard to forget. Even in the most brutal sections of the book -- for instance, a Taliban execution that Amir watches -- Hosseini very skillfully cuts in and out of the action, so the whole horror is there, despite the lack of play-by-play. It's as if Hosseini knows the exact details to use to drive home the point and make you see what has happened, despite not taking you by the hand and walking you through a scene.

I ver much admired the sparse prose used in this novel -- the author manages to squeeze so much life and energy out of a few words. As a reader, I felt there was no excess verbiage or scenes. Additionally, Hosseini uses repetition to his advantage; usually repetition can get on one's nerves, but since all of the incidents used were very telling ane necessary to the plot, it only served to re-enforce the larger picture -- of a boy who has grown up and is now searching for redemption. It's an intelligent novel, a bit hard to take at times, but well-worth it.

It's not what you do, it's what you say

The Washington Post had a good article about bloggers getting fired. I have to admit, these days I'm thinking a lot more about what I blog. The self-censorship has now extended beyond personally identifying details to who I talk about, what I talk about, and occasionally I write posts and then delete them thinking, "This is going to get me in TROUBLE."

This is a far cry from when I first started online. I started this website either late 1997 or early 1998 on my university's server. I was SO excited that I told everyone about this website. I didn't even care that people knew I wrote stories about Star Trek characters. When I started my first job, I told co-workers about the website and gave them the link (the former Geocities location for this site); heck, when I got awesome FB on ASC, I even told one of my co-workers about it and showed her the actual post. I even blogged about that job here, though I never did mention the company by name (being on the tech side for a while, I knew that the company had spiders out looking for illegal mentions of their name online). Obviously, times have changed and discretion is the way to go.

These days, I keep my web activities strictly to myself. At Very Big Publishing Company, only S -- who I've been friends with for many years now -- and a fellow fangirl knew about this site. At the current job, I haven't said a word there either and I'm not likely too. I'm not sure there is anything in this blog I could be fired for -- I'm not mentioning my companies by name or co-workers -- and I certainly don't give away secrets or other identifying information and I don't have any plans to blog about the job or the people. However, people are starting to get fired for content in their blogs that isn't directly related to their jobs. So then I wonder about the content here and I think, "Okay, there's nothing here my mom won't approve of" (Hi Mom!) but still... I can't help but feel a little uneasy.

I don't think I'm going to make any changes to this blog, not for the time being. I think the best policy is continue as I have been -- keep the content about current events and silly personal stories -- and keep the workplace strictly out of it. There's just a question of how far self-censorship goes; I think bloggers do need to take responsibility for what they post, but I also think there needs to be guidelines somewhere on what's acceptable and what's not.

What Mozilla needs

I may have totally missed where this feature is, but what Mozilla really needs is a place where you can go and cancel/delete your unsent messages. Right now, when I queue emails to be sent later, if for some reason they fail or I change my mind, I have no recourse to delete them. Either they all fail or they all go. As a result, I've sent some emails I didn't mean to -- for whatever reason -- and I also have emails queued up in my 'send later' folder that I no longer need to send later because I've already sent them. In theory, these 'unsent letters' should end up in the local folders, but that doesn't always happen (I don't know why). In the past, I think I've gotten around this problem by actually going into the program files and deleting out the unsent mail file; however, there has to be an easier, less techy way of dong this. Help?

Self-censorship

I'm incredibly giggly right now, but unfortunately, I can't tell you publicly why I'm so giggly because I have NO idea who's reading and I'd hate for the person who caused my giggles to stop by and think, "Oh no, she's laughing at me!" and get all upset. Really, what I should say is: I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing because of you. THANKS, I needed that!

Good deed of the day

Bloggers of the world, help out a group of undergrads and take a survey. I think it's about ethics and blogging. My opinion: Ethics. Good to have 'em. Blogs? Can be a self-centered soapbox and as such, ethics and logic -- not always there.

The management needs you to know

I've been woefully irresponsible about updating the blog lately. There are two reasons for it. First, I realized I'm on the wrong side of the political aisle and hence, none of the opinions here are paid for by the DNC or the Kerry campaign and so I'm basically spouting propaganda for FREE. How wrong is that? Which leaves me two choices: continue to pontificate for FREE or head over to the White House and see if they have any opinions I can endorse; I'm a bargain too, I wouldn't ask for more than a thousand bucks or so. That's at least 10 times cheaper than anyone else out there shilling. Blogging would really be easier if I had a cat that I could post pictures of. Or a dog. Or a life. Either way, this blog would be WAY better with pictures.

Second, I have the sore throat from hell. It started innocuously enough last week as what seemed to be a mild cold and now it's like someone's not only dropped a bowling ball at the base of my throat, they took a razor to the inside of it too. And because I don't actually look sick, the throat obliges so when I speak, my voice comes out like a squeaky but fading blowhorn and each word hurts, so I've been reduced to croaking out monosyllables. So consider yourself warned: if you call, you will get NOTHING but heavy breathing. How's that for creepy?

Things that make me cringe

Is it just me but does anyone else know instinctively that when anyone on "American Idol" says they're going to sing a song by Whitney Houston that it's going to be bad? I mean, how many times really has there been a good rendition of a Whitney Houston song? It's a sign; 9.8 times out of 10, if you go in planning to sing "The Greatest Love of All", you're so not going to Hollywood. I'm just sayin'.

Correcting an oversight

I've been reading in various circles that certain people are unhappy that certain other people haven't celebrated the successful Iraqi elections properly and publicly. I apologize for this blog's oversight: I was consoling my car, which failed its very first state inspection on Saturday and wasn't able to blog. In a nutshell, I am very happy the elections came off relatively smoothly, that 57 percent of the population made it to the polls, and that for the first time in 50 years, Iraqis got to vote for their leaders. It's an impressive and historical milestone for the country and let's hope this is the first step in a journey to a true functioning democracy.

However, I take issue with people who take this election as a justification for what we're doing in Iraq. I do not believe this election validates two years worth of bad decisions. I do not believe you can say that the ends justify the means; if we cared so much about people voting and spreading democracy around the globe and saving lives, well, I've got a list of countries that could certainly use our help. I never agreed with the war in Iraq. I never agreed with the premise of why we were over there and I certainly didn't agree with how the invasion took place.

Then there was the 'bait and switch'; there were no WMDs and the war was sold on the presence of WMDs. This administration never took responsibility for the bad intelligence or bad decisionmaking. Would it have been so hard for George Bush to get up there and say, "I'm sorry. I made a mistake. I thought the weapons were there, but they weren't. But now we have to stay because I made a mistake and I need to fix it." Instead, we get this rhetoric about spreading the 'fire' of freedom across the Middle East and the elections, well, that's just the oil in the fire. Watch out, Iran, the flames are coming to you next!

So you see, I'm of two minds. The Iraqis have been freed from an oppressive and brutal dictator (I have always agreed, btw, that Saddam Hussein was a boogeyman of the very worst kind) and they are finally getting a taste of what it is like to have opportunity. But don't ask me to applaud the decision to go to war and don't call me a traitor for wanting to bring the troops home.