Ya'll look so small from up here!

Some people think grass defending a PhD gives you the best high. I beg to differ.

This site is kind of addicting. So many options, so little time...

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Go on, draw something

http://www.andyslife.org/ ♦DiggIt! ♦Add to del.icio.us ♦Add to Technorati Faves

August

This is something that is completely puzzling to me. I'm trying to figure it out. When I read in Russian, I'm much more affected than when I read in English. The conundrum becomes more complicated by the fact that it is easier for me to communicate in English. I was so bewildered by this phenomenon that I decided to test myself. I found one of my favorite poems in both languages. It's a short one by Frederico Garcia Lorca called August. Here it is in English:


The opposing of peach and sugar

and the sun inside the afternoon

like the stone in the fruit.


The ear of corn keeps

its laughter intact, yellow and firm.

August. The little boys eat

brown bread and delicious moon.


This does nothing to me. However, when I read the Russian translation, I find myself returning to the poem again and again. It is just so much more beautiful than the one above. So, I'm wondering -- is it more powerful just because the translation is better? (The original poem is obviously in Spanish.) By the looks of the English version, it appears that the Russian translator took many more liberties with the poem, which became quite musical. The English piece is more literal and dry. Or, maybe I'm full of crap and simply enjoy the Russian poem more because I'm Russian in my soul? I have no idea.


Август


Персики и цукаты,

и в медовой росе покос.

Входит солнце в янтарь заката,

словно косточка в абрикос.


И смеется тайком початок

смехом желтым, как летний зной.


Снова август. И детям сладок

смуглый хлеб со спелой луной.

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RIP, Sergei Mikhalkov

The Russian children's poet and author of the Russian hymn has passed away at the age of 97. We grew up with his poems (and even recited some in the evenings, when there was nothing else to do).

When I was little, we didn't have a VCR, so my dad used to show slides to me in the evenings. A big white sheet would be mounted on the wall opposite my bed, and a projector would be set up. Then, I would listen as he read the story text on every slide.

Here are some slides of a famous Mikhalkov poem about the Russian Superman, Uncle Stepa:

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O. My. God. I'm a 1950s Housewife!!!

In case you have trouble reading the text above, here it is again:

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.
Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.
Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.
Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.
During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet.
Be happy to see him.
Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.
Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
Don't greet him with complaints and problems.
Don't complain if he's late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.
Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.
Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.
Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
A good wife always knows her place.

Source

P.S. Yes, it's a joke. But in every joke, there's a grain of truth. Does anyone have a pretty ribbon I could borrow?! ♦DiggIt! ♦Add to del.icio.us ♦Add to Technorati Faves

Forgot to apply sunblock ... again

This post is for those who saw Burnt by the Sun. Some of you may know this is my favorite movie of all time.



Fifteen years later, Mikhalkov decided to release Burnt by the Sun 2. The Russian blogosphere ripped apart the trailer below. I don't want to make any rash statements -- I want to see the whole sequel first. But I do have one question -- Mitya is alive?! Don't get me wrong -- I'm not complaining -- after all, Menshikov is (insert an adjective here for someone who makes you swoon), but he ended up in a warm bloody bath at the end of part one. What gives? ... I wonder if he's healthy enough to reprise his can-can on the piano?

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Obama as a hedgehog

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One hot ReTail

The economy is on the fritz (thanks, JD). I've been practicing the art of folding in case I will need to apply to the Gap soon. You can too -- who knows what the future may bring, right? Fo' shizzle -- you won't want to miss this video. I promise, it'll be worth your time. I know I'll need it -- I doubt I will get a writing or an editing position after this post. Whatev.

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Regression (progress?)

You might have heard of the demotivator phenomenon. Demotivators are just like motivational posters ("tomorrow is the first day in the rest of your life") only upside-down ("trying is the first step toward failure"). Well, you get the idea.

Russians have recently discovered demotivators, and they have been popping up on every blog (the sayings, not the russkies). Today, I saw one that I must share with you. Roughly translated, it says, "As years go on, we stop feeling joyful about the mundane." At the risk of sounding corny, cheesy, etcetera, I will say that I wish to be like that child in the picture -- relishing the beauty of the falling leaves and living in the moment.

So, I'm going to do something new here. I'm going to turn a demotivator back into a motivator. That's right, people. If I had Photoshop, the picture you are looking at now would say, "As years go by, we realize that life's joy is the mundane -- you just have to recognize it as such."

I'm off to kiss my sleeping kids.

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A rant -- plain and simple

So, I just got a call from a telemarketer who was peddling Florida vacations. After I told him I was not interested in his pitch and would like him to remove my name and phone number from their lists, he tried a new approach on me. He asked, "So, you don't like vacations?"

Instead of explaining to the chap that my name is on the Do Not Call registry and that I do, in fact, enjoy vacations very much -- more than I enjoy presumptuous gentlemen callers who won't take no for an answer, I decided that it would be easier just to say, "That's right. I don't enjoy vacations". He had no reply to that and thanked me for my time.

I took my cue from a man I know who once told a telemarketer selling curtains that he has no windows. Hey, if you are going to make assumptions about me, I'm going to treat you accordingly. So, next time you call my house, keep in mind that the fact that I have a mailbox does not mean that I want to receive your magazine. And just because I enjoy vanilla ice cream and plain kefir, I don't have simple tastes -- maybe these foods just remind me of the simpler times of my childhood, the era before berry flavors and phone commercials. Or, maybe, anything else just tastes too sugary to me. I guess you'll never know.

Catch you later. I'm going to go drink some sugarless tea now.

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Wordless Wednesday

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A Russian alternative to bingo (or how to keep the health costs down)

Who's got spirit? Russian elderly, of course. An orchestra entertains them every evening in Moscow's Alexandrov Garden. (I'm the one in the striped leggins.)

More here.

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Neo, is it you?!

"I'm forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air..."

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Topless, Part II

things i learned at the beach today:

- don't use spray sun block on a windy day. your husband will end up looking a bit like a lobster.

- speaking about lobsters... don't put little crabs that your kids find into poland spring bottles because when you'll attempt to drink the water inside, you'll get a little surprise, and it won't be ice...

- don't park on the side of the road when the beach parking lot is full -- you will get a ticket.

- don't put your camera into a bag that has some sand in it -- it will break.

- don't buy your kids ice cream and decide to walk and eat -- they will fall. and scrape stuff. and cry a little.

- don't let these les faux-pas ruin your otherwise lovely day. perfection is boring, remember?

P.S. Does anyone know how to get sand out of the camera?!

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Mood Boosters

We just went on a long after-the-rain walk. My son presented me with a flower, my daughter picked us some delicious plums off a tree, and my husband pointed out pretty things on the way (clouds that look like sand dunes, anyone?).

So, in accordance with my good mood, HERE are some pics to make you smile. Enjoy.

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I need a job

Hey, Newsweek, there are grammatical mistakes in your article. Would you like to hire me? It looks like you need an editor. Don't believe me?

Take a look at this error-riddled sentence:

"Each of these woman has their own spin on familiar American cooking, yet none of them manage to bring something new (say, the entirety of French cuisine) to their viewers."

Find more mistakes in the piece HERE. ♦DiggIt! ♦Add to del.icio.us ♦Add to Technorati Faves

Topless

Living the dream, baby! Or the benefits of being unemployed. :)

Well, I'm off to the beach, but you can browse some more cute animal drawings here.

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The Worlds Are Colliding!

Isn't Facebook great? You get to find out which "friend" loves eighties music, which one just bought some fresh peaches at a farmer's market and which one needs to be "defriended" immediately (vampire porn?!).

The trouble arrives when your worlds intersect. I'm convinced that Seinfeld writers were well ahead of their time when they wrote The Pool Guy episode. George knew that he must keep work, relationships and play apart. It might be the only insight the poor fatty had on the show, but what an insight it was. Haven't seen the episode? Here's a quick taste. Kramer is explaining George's hesitation to let his girlfriend hang out with the gang:

KRAMER: Jerry, don't you see? This world here, this is George's sanctuary. If Susan comes into contact with this world, his worlds collide. You know what happens then? Ka shha shha shha pkooo!

But, what am I doing? Kramer is just a messenger. George phrases it much more eloquently:



I truly wish this girl was into Seinfeld (the show, not the whiny unfunny man):

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PheromoneSmile

This is really, really neat. Neat, nifty, nimble -- whatever n-word you want to use to describe this device. Yes, I'm gaga over a widget. Maybe I've had a bit too much sun at the beach today, but how cool is TinEye?

What? You've never heard of it? Well, that's what I'm here for. TinEye is for those times when you are looking at a picture and have no effin' clue what's on it.

Well, you'd have to be pretty pathetic not to recognize the painting above, but it illustrates the concept behind TinEye quite well. You upload your image, hit a button and voilà! The picture is not on your computer? No worries. Stick the URL into the blank and wait for the magic to happen. If, as a bonus, you find out the origin of the mysterious smile, please shoot me an email. I'll have what the lady is having.

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Best Banana Bread ... Ever (Or Ira talks to the voices in her head)

"What do I do with these three darkening bananas?", thought she.

"Make a banana cake," said the voice.

"Yes, but will the kids eat it?", pondered she.

"Find a recipe without walnuts, " instructed the voice.

"Ooh, I will do even better than that! I'll find one that will let me use up the yucky Hershey's chocolate that's too dark for the kiddies and too bland for the mommie!", exclaimed she.

"You're so un-American," said the voice.

"Shut up!" advised she.

Molly Wizenberg's Banana Bread with Chocolate and Crystallized Ginger

Makes 1 loaf or 1 8-inch round cake

6 tablespoons unsalted butter

2 cups all-purpose flour

3/4 cup sugar

3/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

3/4 cup semisweet chocolate chips

1/3 cup finely chopped crystallized ginger

2 large eggs

3 large ripe bananas, mashed

1/4 cup well-stirred whole-milk plain yogurt (not low or nonfat)

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

(I swear, it's a different watermelon!)

1. Set a rack in the center of the oven, and preheat to 350F. Grease a 9- by 5-inch loaf pan or an 8-inch round cake pan with cooking spray or butter.
2. Melt the butter on the stove or in a microwave and set aside to cool slightly.
3. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, baking soda, and salt. Add the chocolate chips and crystallized ginger and whisk well to combine. Set aside.
4. In a medium bowl, lightly beat the eggs with a fork. Add the mashed banana, yogurt, melted butter, and vanilla and stir to mix well. Pour the banana mixture into the dry ingredients, and stir gently with a rubber spatula, scraping down the sides as needed, until just combined. Do not overmix. The batter with be thick and somewhat lumpy, just make sure all the flour has been incorporated. Scrape the batter into the loaf pan and smooth the top.
5. Bake into the loaf is a deep shade of golden brown and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, 50 mins to an hour. If the loaf seems to be browning too quickly, tent with foil.
6. Cool the loaf in the pan on a wire rack for 5 minutes. Then tip out onto the rack, and let it cool completely before slicing. The loaf freezes well wrapped in plastic wrap and again in foil to protect from freezer burn.

The batter:

The finished product:

Note: I didn't have any ginger, so I omitted it. The cake (bread?) was spectacular without it.

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A free futon + a bonus epiphany

Last night, the evening was gorgeous. We took a nice relaxing walk around the east side, eating ice cream, laughing and talking. And then it happened. I knew right away that the tranquility had come to an end. Far in the distance, I saw le pièce de résistance. It was standing right there, in the dark corner of the street – a lonely and beautiful futon made out of lacquered maple wood. Some rich people from a historic house got rid of it on garbage night. Who are we to pass by such nice trash? Almost simultaneously, we exclaimed, “This is perfect for the tree house!”

After fiddling with the futon and the mattress for a little while, E. determined that they can be transported. He begged that I stand next to the find while he ran to get the car. He didn’t need to convince me -- the night was pleasant and breezy; the spot was deserted and perfect for meditation. Did I mention I had a bag with Finnish dark chocolate from Store24 in my hands? So, off he went to get the car, while I leaned against the rich folks' white picket fence (not making this up) and assumed the position of Rodin’s famous sculpture. No, not really, but I did think. I pondered how advantageous it was that I didn’t have a cell phone with me because I would have been tempted to call someone to avoid wasting time just standing. I was forced to spend time in solitary confinement with my thoughts. It was nice. I realized that I don’t do it often enough. Yes, I do think a bit when I go to bed, but I’m usually so tired, I pass out almost the moment my head hits the pillow.

So, while E. fiddled with the futon and the accompanying mattress some more, lamented the fact that his key-chain Leatherman was taken away at the airport, and figured out that he needs a tool to take apart the futon, I didn’t hesitate for a minute – I suggested that he drive home with the mattress in the trunk, get a drill and come back to pick up the piece of furniture. I wanted more time to just stand – not doing anything. I understood that I was wrong before – the tranquility was just beginning.

P.S. The plastic bag with chocolate turned out to be a great bolts-and-screws holder. Who knew?

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Pretty (and yummy) food

Chili:

ground chicken, tomatoes, black beans, red beans, tumeric, paprika, chili poweder, onions, garlic

Serving suggestion:

Vegetable fritatta: eggs, milk, salt, pepper, zuccini, squash, cheese

Serving suggestion:

Vegetarian stir-fry with marinade: peppers, chicken

Serving suggestion (added mushrooms I had on hand):

Leftover tilapia - salad idea:

(I know, some of you may think this is kind of a gross combination -- tilapia, avocado and plum -- but it was soooooooo good ... and healthy!)

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Grrrrrrrrrrrr

Thought of the day – when you’re walking on a path, along with a lot of people, try to: 1. Walk on the right side; 2. Avoid running up to me to position yourself directly in front of me, just to keep walking with the same pace as I am. So do that for me, please. Sorry, not for me – for the good of all mankind. Because, after all, peace on earth is such an unrealistic and far-fetched notion. Let’s just focus on peace on Blackstone Blvd. for now. So, mind my personal space. Then I will be happy. And not cranky. Well, less cranky. Thank you. Dumbasses.

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Well, at least I'm not Phoebe...

Ah, I miss Friends. Just saw a rerun while folding some laundry (multitasking, baby!) and realized that E. and I are Chandler and Monica. Scary stuff.

Enjoy this oldie:

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Happy Friday

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The Hungry Years

With a title like that, this book might fool someone about its subject matter. But the bitten donut on the cover jacket hints that it’s more likely to be about food addiction than about the Great Depression. In fact, this memoir-ish essay is more about addiction in general . William Leith does not know how to do anything in moderation. When he does drugs, he wakes up covered in puke; when he eats a piece of pie, he sneaks into the kitchen to finish the rest – even though he no longer wants any; when he drinks, he estimates the number of beverages he’s had by what hour of the day it is. He decides to get to the bottom of the glass by going to therapy and figuring out what is causing his destructive behavior. Of course, Leith becomes addicted to therapy as well.

But don’t dismiss this account of the hungry man as cock-and-bull story. The author is no Tristram Shandy, mind you. He’s an established and prolific journalist with an engaging stream-of-consciousness style that grabs you like that first glass of wine in the morning. From his accounts of interviews with renowned foodies (think Atkins) and histories of fascinating topics, including obesity and carbohydrates, I learned while being entertained.

My favorite part of the book was Leith’s report of his therapy session during which he describes to his doctor what happened when he heard the word “cancer” on the radio one day. It began to haunt him on a daily basis, until he was no longer able to extricate his mind from its claws. Here’s the tidbit of conversation between Leith and his therapist regarding the incident:

I told her about how, usually, I focused my anxiety on one disease, and how, when my hypochondria was at its worst, I had hung around the medical sections of bookshops, reading about diseases I was not frightened of.
“Why?”
“Well, to see if I could displace the main disease with another disease”.
Naomi said, “It’s interesting that you keep talking about being trapped.”
“Yes?”
“And yet you keep telling me how you impose these traps on yourself.”

Here. I just saved you thousands of dollars in therapy, people. To express your gratitude, feel free to send the savings directly to me. You’re welcome. Oh, and don’t mention it. It was nothing. Really.

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Maxim Galkin

This guy is a true genius. Speaks five languages, sings, acts, hosts most Russian TV shows and is one of the most talented comics I have ever watched. Also, it doesn't hurt that he's dating THE most famous Russian woman, Alla Pugacheva, the Soviet Madonna old enough to be his mother (grandmother?).

Found one of his acts (not his best, unfortunately) with subtitles. Not sure how well the Russian humor translates, but here is a taste:

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In Memoriam -- Pavel Smeyan (Singer/Composer of the Russian Mary Poppins movie, among many others)

"Ветер Перемен" - Мэри Поппинс (Wind of Change, Mary Poppins)
Павел Смеян и Татьяна Воронина (Pavel Smeyan, Tatyana Voronina)

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Don't worry, Be happy

Did you know that, last year alone, 4,000 books were published on happiness? Why are so many people seeking advice from self-help literature rather than practicing self-help – i.e., doing what makes them feel content, fulfilled and alive? I don’t know. What I do know, however, is what makes me happy. My ten recent smile-inducing moments:

1. Meeting other parents on the playground and forming friendships
2. Eating Breyers® fat-free double churned ice cream in a chocolate-covered cone
3. Shrugging off the fact that all the cookies I bought turned out to be broken and all the mangoes – black inside
4. Cuddling with my entire family in one bed in the mornings
5. Listening to new music on my Sansa
6. Enjoying the breeze during my jogs
7. Jumping on the trampoline
8. Finding out that my jeans’ size is smaller than I thought
9. Spending time with friends
10. Reading the books off my wish list

What are some of your happy moments? You don’t have to share, just think about them – you’ll feel good, I promise.


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How to make money

So, while I am not a packrat by any means, I do have a really hard time parting with books. Even with textbooks. Even with moral Christian theology textbooks. Yes, I know, I too think it’s funny that I ended up in Catholic institutions – both for college and graduate school. But, we’ll let that one slide. God works in mysterious ways.

Back to the point. Recently, I realized that no matter how many triple (or even quadruple) rows of books I create on every one of my five shelves, two of which have been relegated to the attic (yes, I cried, but the kids did need a place to sleep), I still don’t have enough space to store all of my literature. So, I did what any smart person would do – I bought some more books. As soon as the last feather had broken the horse’s back, I knew that the time had come to rid my tired shelves of various dreck masterpieces that I have never no longer cared for.




I admit that the process was more “natural selection” than “Sophie’s choice” – come on, did E. think that I was going to keep the Biochemistry textbook he bought on a yard sale one summer, exclaiming to everyone’s amusement, “Oh, this would make a great coffee table book!”? To his credit, he did use it as his bathroom reading (that was the only place I allowed it to be displayed in). The hefty volume kept falling off our windowsill for six months or so, until I explained to E. that the great book is getting destroyed in the humid bathroom, and found a really cozy spot for it right next to his eighteen chess books and eleven music books on one of the attic shelves.

Back to the point. So, I performed the equivalent of the Yom Kippur fast. But, instead of purging my body of toxins, I purged my shelves of unwanted books. Let me tell you – it was not always easy. The ones I struggled with the most were the literature compilations donated by my college professors (they used to place the books they no longer wanted outside their office doors with notes that said something along the lines of, really old teaching manuals I didn’t have the heart to throw out, Free Books, and guess who would usually pick them up? Yes, yours truly. I always felt exhilarated and confused at the same time – am I happy because I’m getting something for free or because I’m getting books? I guess I will never know. But, come on, how many Flannery O’Connor short stories does one need in multiples? So, in the box they went. Here, I must take a moment and offer some props to E. who insists that we keep every Amazon box we receive in our basement, just in case we might need to send something later. Or store a dismembered body somewhere.

Back to the point. So, I ended up with a bunch of boxes I was going to donate to Salvation army. But, then, I thought to myself – poor people don’t care about Michel Foucault, you dumbass! They want food. And clothes. And … well, not dusty literary theory (crap) philosophy I had to take in grad school. Why would I do that to them – they’re already poor! So, then I thought – hey, I’m poor too – I’ve been unemployed since May! Why not make some money? And so I did.
Now, since I’m lazy, I didn’t want to start selling my books one by one on sites like Amazon and half.com (does that still exist?). I wanted it all at once (yes, I’m one of those people). So, I did what any slothful person would do – that’s right, I googled “sell books”. To my astonishment, I found a myriad of sites that cater to that easy-solution notion. All you have to do is make a list of all of your books’ ISBN numbers (usually found on the back of the cover, sometimes on the first few pages), save that list in a Word document, and use it over and over to paste it into various sites, some of which take books that others don’t. Trust me, creating this list will save you a lot of time. Then, about thirty seconds after you hit the button that says, Sell Books, the site will let you know which of your books are winners and which are rejects.

All you have to do is complete the transaction by specifying how you want them to reimburse you (deposit, check or PayPal) and print out a free address label, which you will affix to the aforementioned Amazon box, remembering to remove the previous address label beforehand. Finita la comedia. Drop off the package at your local post office, and sit back. That’s all there is to it. I’ve already received two of the three expected payments. Only one of my books was rejected. Guess which one? Yes, the moral theology – the reason they gave me was – too much underlining and highlighting. So, don’t accuse me of never giving this mambo jumbo religion thing a shot. Now you know I did.

This post is a great excuse to listen to some more Cabaret tunes, n'est pas?

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