Saturday Afternoon (in pictures)

From our drive Saturday afternoon:

"As You Wish..."

10 Movies That Were Better Than the Book

Now if that isn't an opinion list-piece to get a bibliophile riled up, I do not know what is.  I saw this link on a book discussion message board at which I frequently lurk.  Naturally I had to click it.   I can only comment on The Princess Bride, as it is the only one which I have seen and read.

And my comment would have to be "Disagree!!"  Do not get me wrong, The Princess Bride is a sweeping epic of a movie, with a great screenplay, memorable, quotable lines (useful for any and all occasions), made all the better by superb casting.  It's a movie for all times -- watching alone on a weeknight, having on for background noise, post-meal entertainment at dinner parties (surely we all have friends who can act out the movie as it airs -- what a great party game!)

But the book is equally as good.  It is, likewise, a sweeping epic of a tale, complete with expertly crafted descriptions and wonderful character development.  The book explains why the characters are who they are better than the movie.  It can go into more detail as to the backstory and motivation.  Curling up with the book and a bottomless pot of tea is a near perfect rainy-day adventure.

In most instances, the bibliophile in me will say that the book is better than any movie made from it.  Though that same bibliophile will advise anyone to see the movie first, lest you be disappointed.  But in this instance, both the book and the movie are equally excellent.  My best recommendation is to savor them both.  (And then, if you can find it, savour William Goldman's retelling of another S. Morgenstern tale, The Silent Gondoliers. You will not be sorry.)

Visions of Home

The rain today has put a damper on my plans to head to the local Wal-Mart equivalent for a bit of retail therapy and frankly, I am in no mood to clean bathrooms, or re-organize closet shelves in preparation for the delivery of my shipment of important can't-live-without-it stuff from the US, and there is no sense mopping floors on a damp, rainy day.  So, having deodorized my cutting boards with lemon and baking soda (a kitchen science project almost as much fun as baking soda volcanoes), I am left with not much to do.  Then I thought:  Why not show the world my house?  It's rather nice having a house of my own, and now that I do, I kind of want to show it off.  And so I shall:

the snails and I are having a disagreement as to whether this is their house or my mailbox -- what they lack in size, they make up for in numbers.  I am determined to come out the victor.

 the front porch is not quite big enough for a Southern-veranda-inspired porch swing, but certainly large enough for a tete-a-tete table

 there is no bell, but Patience's and Fortitude's disembodied cousin is just waiting to announce your arrival

 the most important piece of furniture in any living room, positioned to be the first thing you see when the door opens

 surprisingly, it was not the color of my couch that was the source of much consideration when we were looking for furniture

Judge's table?  No!  Neither Anthony Bourdain nor Tom Colicchio is welcome at my table, but it is where my culinary creations are put to the test.  (Remind me later to tell you all about trying to find cloth napkins.) 

 small, but serviceable kitchen

 this view makes the hall look much longer than it really is

 laundry room part 1

 vanity, thy name is peach?

 doesn't everyone have a separate room for the exclusive use of their electric guitars?

 my guitar hero's crash pad -- and yes, he lets me share it ;)

back porch

  the snail's race track -- otherwise known as path to the backyard

laundry room part 2

Sizing Up the Competition

Texas beauty queen denies ballooning to size 6

That was the headline on a link to a news story today.  

I am not sure what makes me more disgusted:  the article or the idea.  Since when is a Size 6 considered large?  And to describe it as "ballooning to a size 6?"  What kind of world are we living in?  What kind of ideals are we teaching our children?  What kind of torture are we subjecting women to?

Dove Soap has a "Campaign for Real Beauty."  Tri Delta Sorority has an "End Fat Talk" campaign.  There are many reminders that "real women have real curves."  These stories have been well covered and promoted by media outlets.  And yet those same media outlets still describe it as ballooning to a size 6.

Why do we allow the media to dictate our self-esteem?  Why do we use Hollywood's criteria to judge our self-image?  Why do we allow our self-value to be equal to the number on clothing tags?  Why do we allow the number on the scale's dial to be more important than our IQ?

Personally, I know in my own mind that I am more than the number on my tags or the number the scale blinks at me.  I know I am worth more than the media or Hollywood thinks.  I know my best asset is my hourglass figure.  I love my waist.  I love the way it is balanced by my roughly equal curves above and below.  I think I look damn good most of the time.  And I do not care what the number on the tag says.  Nobody but me, the salesclerk, and the dry cleaner ever see the tag anyway.  What difference does it make?  Why should I be ashamed of my curves because they are size 6 or larger?  What right does the media have to tell me how I should feel about myself?

So what if the beauty queen did gain weight?  What difference does it make?  Is one no longer a beauty queen if one is larger than a size 2?  Is she no longer beautiful?  Does tipping over 100 pounds or over a size 2 automatically make one ugly?  Where do we draw the line?  When do we stand up to the media and say "FUCK OFF, BASTARDS!"  How many women does it take for Hollywood to listen?  How can we change these ideals?  What can we do to teach our children that all women are beautiful, no matter what size they are?  When do we, as women, stand together and say we are beautiful no matter what size we are?  How can we stop the use of negative, hurtful words?  When are real people more important than an unattainable ideal?

I am a real woman, with real intelligence, real curves, and a real life.  Neither my size nor my weight matters in any of that.  My one woman's dollars may not make much of an impact when withheld from companies who think it does, but I will not compromise my principles for any that do.  And none of this real woman's dollars will go to any company that advertises, sponsors, or otherwise supports Texas Beauty Pageants!

(I realize that women who are naturally small are subjected to the other end of the scale, being told they are too thin, or being accused of being anorexic or bulimic to stay that way.  I do not not mean to exclude smaller women, but not being one, I cannot speak to their experiences at the hands of the media.)

Idols of March

The year I graduated from college, we had finally succeeded in getting my father to agree to getting a cat.  I was so excited -- even though we kind of weaseled the agreement out of him.  I was going to get a cat.  We had not discussed how we would obtain the cat; discussions of pounds and animal shelters were had, but nothing was ever decided firmly.  It was a good thing too.  Because in the last three weeks of my last semester at college, the Baptist Student Union got a new director/faculty advisor, and the new director /faculty advisor was none to happy at the idea that the members of the Baptist Student Union were supporting a mother cat and her 6 kittens on the back porch of the facility.  And so, the cats were taken to the animal shelter.  When word of that got round the college, a cry went out.  Something had to be done!  The cats were not hurting anyone!  It was decided that one BSU member would bail out the cats, provided she had people to adopt them all.  Through a mutual friend, I heard about the cats up for adoption and agreed to take one home with me.  Then came another problem:  I lived in the dorms and could not have pets.  Could the girl who rescued the cats keep my kitten for the three weeks until I would be going home? Some back and forth, a trip out to New Hope to select my kitten, and all was agreed.  A call home confirmed everything.  We had a cat.  To be named Harriet, Lady Peter Wimsey, or just plain Wimsey for short, after the character from Dorothy L. Sayers' mystery series.

Home from Columbus, Wimsey came, screaming the whole way.  And the next day, she was taken to the vet's office for a check out.  The vets decided she was about 6-8 weeks old, which sounded about right, given what we knew about Wimsey's humble beginnings.  Arbitrarily, we decided to set Wimsey's birthday as March 15.

That was 16 years ago.  And Wimsey has been a fantastic cat since then, giving us no real trouble -- even learning a few tricks, and teaching her owners far more.  She was even great during the three hurricane evacuations she has had to make; always a prim, proper, dainty lady no matter where she found herself -- except the vet's office, where she has been known to hiss and roar.  She really is a great cat.

Happy Birthday Wimsey!!!

Labouring the Points

It's Labor Day here in my new home state.  I am not sure if it marks the traditional end to summer or not.  Likewise, I am not sure if I am supposed to celebrate with a barbeque on the beach with friends and relations or attend union-organized functions with rank strangers.  Either way, I hereby turn in my honorary-Australian card, because I had a lazy day at home, finished off with a dinner of smothered green beans and potatoes over rice (which is incidentally how I celebrated Australia Day).  I had the fresh green beans and why not do something yummy with them?  Besides the weather turned cool yesterday afternoon, and was pleasant enough to keep the windows open during the day.  My house is situated perfectly for catching delightful cross-breezes and coming from a place where well-insulated artificially climate-controlled houses are the norm, I am loving being able to feel the breeze through my living room and have the house perfumed by whatever is in the air at that moment.

I watched the news this evening for coverage of Labor Day picnics, but there was none.  There was coverage of the earthquake/tsunami/nuclear crisis in Japan (and rightly so), but none of Labor Union picnics, no coverage of work-related statistics.  It is interesting to be in a different place, with familiar things  that become completely unrecognizable.  It is the end of summer; it is Labor Day, but that is point at which my understanding of the holiday ends.  After that, I think it is really nothing more than a Monday holiday to serve as a mid-term break for school children and teachers, or a much-needed break for any business owner who wishes to avail themselves of it.  Come to think of it, that may be what Labor Day is at home, save the union-sponsored picnics.

In many ways, my new home is not very difference from my old one.  The main language is the same (only not), the holidays are the same (only not), the products available at stores are the same (only not), daily life is the very much the same (only not).  It's very interesting to see the differences.  I realize that the posts here in my blog could lead you to believe that I only notice the negative differences, and/or spend my time totalling up how horrid my new home is as compared to my old one.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  I am having a great time; I am much happier than the tone of my posts would indicate.  And the truth is, there are some things my new home does better than my old one.

• Produce availability in the grocery stores is at the top of my list.  Hard winter squashes (called pumpkins here) are sold already cut in half or quartered.  I love that.  I do not have to have an axe in my kitchen.  Celery is sold in half heads, or as individual stalks.  Carrots are sold in 500 gram or 1 kilo packages, or individually.  Mushrooms are sold in 250 or 500 gram packages or loose in bulk.  It's great for a smaller households, or smaller meals.  Sometimes you only need 1 or 2 carrots, or just enough mushrooms.  I have never used a whole head of celery before it went soggy.  I am seriously loving the produce being available in smaller quantities.  And soon as it gets colder, I am looking forward to taking advantage of the tempting pre-cut winter squash I see on my walks through the produce section at Safeway for roasting, stuffing, or boiling (for pie).
• Mass transportation is, perhaps not better managed, but more readily available, and useful in getting people from here to there.  That could be simply because the driving age is 18, but it could also be because the country as a whole understands the need to move people effectively.

It really is a great place, and I am very happy I have moved here.  I would not trade the experience and I do not regret my decision.  I do not want to give the impression that I hate it here or that I think I have settled for something less than I had.  I do not and have not, in any way.  I cannot say I will always be positive in my comparisons, but a negative point does not mean that I am unhappy or ready to give up.  Not everything was perfect in my previous home and not every day was trilling.  Homes, no matter where they are, come with good and bad points, good and bad things, and good and bad days.   Nothing is perfect in the new or the old, but both are home to me.

Things I Learned Today

Walking to and from the grocery store makes you really think about everything you purchase and weigh every item before putting it in the shopping cart.

Creating Equality

Today was International Women's Day.

I feel about that as I feel about anything that sets one group apart from others in an effort to produce a "blind" society.  For the sex of a person to not matter, we must make it not matter.

We cannot say we are working towards equality when we set aside a day to highlight one sex at the expense of the other.  We must set aside a day to highlight workers.

If we campaign for equal pay, we must stop looking at how much men are paid as compared to women.  We must ask what the position, not the person, should be paid.

If we want the best person for the job, we must stop putting the "sex" tick box on the forms.

If we truly believe that ALL people are created equal, we must be prepared to treat, and pay, ALL people the same.

To make things not matter, we have to make them not matter.  It is an active process and will not and cannot come from exclusive celebrations.  It can only come from refusing to accept the idea that we need to note differences.

No.  I will not participate in any celebration of International Women's Day, not because I do not support the idea of equality, but because I do.

Fat Tuesdays

Today is Mardi Gras.  Perhaps you know it as Shrove Tuesday, or even Pancake Tuesday.  Whatever you know it as, it is the last blow-out feast before the sacrifices and reflection of Lent.  In my hometown, the largest Mardi Gras in some 26 years is going on.  You may still have time to race to the French Quarter to be a part of the largest free show on Earth or at least take part in the largest (mostly) peaceful congregation of would-be worshipers of the porcelain bowl in the world.

In many ways, I am torn between missing such an integral part of my own culture, and in wanting to be here, in my new home.

On tonight's news there was no coverage of the Kings of Argus and Zulu meeting in Kenner's historic Riverfront, no coverage of Lundi Gras festivities when King Zulu meets Rex and the mayor hands over control of the City to the Monarch of Merriment at Spanish Plaza.  There was no coverage of the growing crowds on Bourbon Street, of college students (possibly) on Spring Break camping out on sofas on picturesque St. Charles Avenue.  The news in my new home covered pancakes.  And not even good, fluffy, buttermilk pancakes with melting butter and maple syrup.  They were odd, thin, seemingly overcooked, maybe buckwheat pancakes.  What is that?  There was no coverage of the news anchors dressed in costumes, drunk and leading parades down Veterans Memorial Boulevard.  There was no coverage of staid and proper news anchors in costume begging for hand-painted coconuts, or anodized aluminum trinkets.  There was no coverage of news anchors on balconies looking down with a mix of barely masked contempt and envy at the throngs of drunken revelers on Bourbon Street.  The Meeting of Courts is something that may or may not have happened at Old Bailey of Buckingham Palace here.  It is not a carefully orchestrated society ball.  12:00 a.m. on Ash Wednesday in my new home does not bring a flank of mounted police down Bourbon Street declaring "Mardi Gras 2011 is over."  There will not be hotel staff out tomorrow morning here cleaning the Vaseline off the balcony poles.  There will not be a platoon of garbage trucks making a final pass through the city picking up the last bits of the celebration.  There will not be a city full of red-eyed, queasy penitents appearing at the hundreds of Ash Wednesday services.  The day here will not be a chorus of church bells from 6:00 a.m. until 8:00 p.m., calling the faithful to begin their Lenten sacrifice, if only by swearing off another night of revelry.

Happy Birthday!

Congratulations!!!

to Linda and Trent over at Joyful Noises on the birth of their daughter.

(It's not often I am in a position to send birthday wishes on someone's actual birthday.)

Walking a Mile in My Shoes

Yesterday, at the invitation of a college friend, I went up to Melbourne to play tourist with her, her children, and another college friend.  I had a great day out.

After a stop at the tourist information desk in Federation Square, we set out on a self-guided walking tour Melbourne's Golden Mile Heritage Trail, taking it easy and leisurely, with the intent to enjoy it, rather than finish it.  We ended up checking off 19 of the 31 historical marker stops, most in a part of Melbourne I had never toured, despite having been there several times before.  Our group leader read all the information at each stop, and we observed the points with great interest.  It was educational, and great fun.  Just the kind of thing to do with a group of friends -- a nice leisurely walk.

We started our walk around 10:30 and by noon, were only at Stop 7, where we opted to stop for lunch.  Stop 7 turned out to be a welcome respite, both from the walk and the gathering rain.  Melbourne is one of those towns famous for living the adage "if you don't like the weather, wait five minutes."  We were in and out of gentle rain and bright sunshine all afternoon.  It was a delicious lunch -- I had a surprisingly large beef & Guinness pie, very much like a posh upside down sheperds' pie, with a base of mashed potatoes and a top of a crisp, flaky pastry, and a filling tat rivaled the best beef stew I have had (Carbonnades Flamandes).  I pair that with a nice, crisp, light Riesling.  Yes, yes I know I broke the wine rules by pairing red meat with white wine, and more importantly, beer with wine, but I do not care.  It was the meal I wanted, and I am not fond of beer for drinking.  I use beer for cooking all the time, but for drinking, I prefer light, crisp white wines.  The host and her children shared an order of salt & pepper squid -- mom washed hers down with a classically Australian Carlton Draught, while the kids had cokes, spiked with a squeeze of the squid's lemon.  The last member of our happy quintet had a warm tandoori chicken salad paired with a pint of Carlton Draught, going on the "when in Rome" theory of trying local brews.  After a lingering lunch, it was back on the trail, and on the search for the Regent Theatre box office to pick up tickets purchased earlier that morning for a Chinese dance show.

Along the walk, we passed a Laura Ashley store, and wandered in for a look and some purchases, we passed any number of Haigh's chocolates stores and had to stop in one of them for some samples and souvenir shopping.  Also in on of the arcades along the walk, we found the perfect gift for the attorney who helped me with my visa application.  The arcades are one of the things I like most about shopping in the CBD areas of Australian cities; I love wandering through the "hidden" alleyways and finding cute shops and interesting things.  It's such a fun experience.  We also found an opal shop, which had an interactive museum and history of opal mining exhibit.  Like I said, we took our time wandering along the Golden Mile.

Around 2:45, we had made it to Melbourne Town Hall, at the corner of Swanston and Collins Streets, which the group leader noticed with a tinge of futility in her voice was "only three blocks from where we started."  We pushed onward, noticing the Regent Theatre half a block up.  A quick dash across the street revealed the box office would not open until 4, so it was back on the trail, following the golden dots in the sidewalk up Collins Street, to the area I knew from previous visits.  At the suggestion of one of our troupe, we were on the lookout for a tea house or a pastry shop, for a mid-afternoon pastry-type snack and beverage break.  And we found one at the Koko Black Salon at 55 Collins Street.  It was an excellent choice.  Our leader had been to the salon in Canberra and knew it would fit the bill for an afternoon tea spot.  We indulged in specialties du maison -- housemade ice cream, panna cotta and cakes, as well as the most indulgent iced "hot" cocoa I have ever had (bittersweet Belgian hot cocoa poured over scoops of chocolate and vanilla bean ice cream, topped with shaved bittersweet chocolate and served in a huge brandy snifter that had been painted with house-made chocolate sauce).  It was an indulgent end to an indulgent day.

After the tea break, we decided it was time to throw in the towel on the Golden Mile and pick up the City Circle Tram back to Flinders Street Station so I could make my 5:10 train back home.  We took the long route back to the station, and as time got closer and closer, I decided to hop off at the stop closer to Southern Cross Station, rather than take the train from Flinders Street back.  It was a good decision; I would have had time to make it back from Flinders Street, but I would have felt rushed and on feet that had walked 19/31sts of a mile plus already, not having to rush was appreciated.

I hated to leave the fun, but I had to get home -- a home I realized truly is mine.  Coming home on the coach, passing a beautiful stretch of coastline, I thought to myself "I'm almost home."  It was a deep, startling moment.  I live here.  My life is here.  My husband is waiting to take me back to our cozy house at the top of the hill here.  I was coming home.  My friend explained to her daughter, who clung to me all day, that I had to leave them at Southern Cross Station because I had to go home.  The explanation was just something that adults tell children to explain complicated situations (or to quiet them) until I saw the waves breaking over the beach in the growing twilight.  It was then that it hit me.  I understood the reality of moving around the world.  New Orleans will always be my spiritual and cultural home, but my physical and emotional home is here.  And I don't want it any other way.