July 01, 2004
We have for your amusement
We have for your amusement the rebuttal portion of the Jane Austen Cage
Match. To read our original essays go here.
Here is Robert's rebuttal:
And, once again, here is mine.
Coming soon to a blogging wrestling match near you on TUESDAY, TUESDAY, TUESDAY!...the Bonus Reply round, after which, we will finally shut up and then you may be the judge of our little contest.
UPDATE: Robert finally got back from a big lawerly lunch and posted them over at The Llamabutchers.
Match. To read our original essays go here.
Here is Robert's rebuttal:
It is ironic that Kathy chose to emphasize the strengths of
Elizabeth Bennet̢۪s character and the challenges she chose to face as
the basis for her argument that Elizabeth is a more enjoyable person to
read about than Emma Woodhouse. I believe that it this simple “plucky
underdog†theme that makes both Elizabeth herself and Pride &
Prejudice that much less satisfying.
I noted that Elizabeth’s many virtues come “pre-packaged.†She is
undoubtedly strong and sensible, unquestionably courageous and
possessed of great moral character, intellect and wit. But this is so
from the very outset. There is little growth in her character because
she faces little internal challenge. Elizabeth is Austen̢۪s surrogate.
And while Austen uses Elizabeth as a vehicle for commenting on the
personal and social struggles of the world around her, doing so with
great style, wit and grace, they remain external struggles. As a
result, of course we admire Elizabeth. We cheer for her. But denied a
more intimate emotional connection via internal crisis and resolution,
we don̢۪t love her in the same way as we do Emma. Elizabeth is simply
a flatter character. I̢۪ve said nothing about Elizabeth̢۪s faults
because they are not that critical to the enjoyment of her character,
even though they serve as a mechanism to develop the central crises of
the plot. While Elizabeth̢۪s impulsiveness and judgementalism cause
her to misjudge Wickham and prejudice her against Darcy, again, we
never dig into her psyche far enough to gain the same emotional
satisfaction at seeing her come face to face with them as we do with
Emma̢۪s self-blinding vanity. Elizabeth must admit to her mistakes and
overcome the damage caused by them, but she need not face the issue of
whether her faults are fundamental – she need never face the awful
question of whether she is a good person. Such deep introspection
simply is not required to resolve the plot. Of course, Pride &
Prejudice is not that kind of story. As I said, Elizabeth̢۪s struggle
is not with herself, but with the world around her. But again, this is
why I like this book, and Elizabeth herself, less than Emma. The
unquestionably good heroine, a rebel within her own home, uses her wit,
wisdom and strength to protect her weak and clueless friends and
family, foil the villainous plots of The Establishment, and cause the
God-like rich and handsome hero to pay for his early haughtiness, go
through a period of penitent anguish and, in the end, worship her on
her own terms. Not to be unkind about it, but these are the fantasies
of the young – self-centered, simple and idealistic. Austen spent
many years working on Pride & Prejudice before it was finally
published. I believe the characters and plot never quite escaped their
youthful origins. By contrast, Emma, written at the height of
Austen̢۪s powers, is a more mature work, a character study of great
internal complexity and ultimate emotional depth yielding a heroine
much more satisfying to the reader.
And, once again, here is mine.
If, as Robert claims, “there is a certain ‘pitchfork
and torches’ character to most criticism of Emma,†it’s only
because one wants to use a pitchfork to judiciously poke the esteemed
Miss Woodhouse. This urge also lingers long after the book is finished.
Which, I̢۪m afraid, knowing what we know about Austen̢۪s novels,
makes one wonder why, exactly, is there a lingering resentment?
Shouldn̢۪t we believe that Emma has reformed herself? We should be satisfied
that all is right in Highbury, shouldn̢۪t we? Unfortunately, I find
this is not the case and the answer lies in the character of the
novel̢۪s namesake. We are assured of Emma̢۪s goodness, yet she is
vain, and her goodness is, at times, given with an eye partially turned
toward how well goodness would further her schemes. She may take
Harriet Smith under her wing, a kind act to be sure, but it is only to
further her wishes for Mr. Elton. Emma is intelligent but she is
lacking in the area most needed to complement intelligence: common
sense. Enter Mr. Knightley, possessed with an overabundance, and we
have found the perfect foil for Miss Woodhouse: someone to correct her
when she strays. We feel her shame after the Box Hill incident, but we
are told before she says those shameful words that “she could not
help herself,†implying she knew it was wrong, but uttered them
anyway. Ultimately, the incident that leaves me the most dissatisfied
is Emma̢۪s relief at Harriet̢۪s engagement. She is as happy for
herself as she is for Harriet, having seemingly been let off the hook
for inadvertently encouraging Harriet̢۪s feelings toward Knightley.
Now that Harriet is settled, she is free to be happy for her own
engagement without any lingering traces of guilt. Had Knightley known
about said encouragement, what would he have said to Emma then? If
Elizabeth Bennet is “pre-packaged†and her conflict comes from
without, then what are we to think about the conflict in Emma?
That rich girls have lessons to learn too? Who pays the most for the
errors of Emma̢۪s ways? Not Emma. While Elizabeth has her flaws, she
has at least formed her character to an extent that she may rely upon
her sense to know when she has gone wrong. I do not believe one can say
the same of Emma, who would be lost in a world of vanity were it not
for Mr. Knightley. Elizabeth̢۪s faults, in presupposing Mr. Darcy̢۪s
guilt in Wickham̢۪s situation, lie in relying too strongly upon the
products of her own sense and intellect; Emma̢۪s faults lie in not
having enough sense to know better. One gets the impression that Mr.
Knightley will forever be correcting his wife; if Emma has truly
learned the errors of her ways, why should this be the case? Pride and Prejudice
is a satisfying novel because of the character of its protagonists, who
will take the lessons they have learned to heart. Can we say the same
of Emma?
Coming soon to a blogging wrestling match near you on TUESDAY, TUESDAY, TUESDAY!...the Bonus Reply round, after which, we will finally shut up and then you may be the judge of our little contest.
UPDATE: Robert finally got back from a big lawerly lunch and posted them over at The Llamabutchers.
Posted by: Kathy at
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Wee bastard is living up
Wee bastard is living up to its name today. I haven't the foggiest idea
as to what the problem might be. The husband spent a good three hours
cleaning that pig off last night and doing maintenence, but it still
keeps crashing like '66 Corvair. I'd say it was unsafe at any speed if
it had speed to it at all...grrr.
Will start posting again when the friggin' thing decides to work and
not crash every time I click on a link. Highly annoying.
as to what the problem might be. The husband spent a good three hours
cleaning that pig off last night and doing maintenence, but it still
keeps crashing like '66 Corvair. I'd say it was unsafe at any speed if
it had speed to it at all...grrr.
Will start posting again when the friggin' thing decides to work and
not crash every time I click on a link. Highly annoying.
Posted by: Kathy at
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Got the Cake Eater locks
Got the Cake Eater locks colored this morning and have a headache as a result.
For those of you who have never had their hair highlighted, let me enlighten you to the process. Because it is a process. A chemical
process that seems, to me at least, to be composed solely of ammonia.
Yeah. That stuff you might clean your floor with. It gets slathered
onto your hair, wrapped up in a piece of tinfoil, which creates yet
another chemical reaction. Depending upon how blonde you want to be,
the foil will stay on for either a few minutes or a half-hour. It's all
about the nuance of the lockage, baby. Did I mention this burns?
Nope, I guess I hadn't. Well, it does. Ammonia doesn't feel good and by
the time you're done sitting under the dryer (heating up the the foil
activates the chemicals further!), you're practically ready to beg for
a shampoo because you just want that damn stuff off of your hair as your scalp is EN FUEGO!
When the ammonia is washed away, you are then able to breathe a sigh of
relief as the burning has stopped, and then the colorist will fill your
hair with goo that supposedly tones the highlights and the base. Then
you'll get it styled and you'll leave the salon with your head smelling
like Mr. Clean without the lemony goodness.
Although I didn't go through the whole foil business this morning as I
switched colorists.
I'm extraordinarily wierd about hairstylists. I am not one of those
people who can plop down into a chair at the salon and trust the person
who will be shearing my locks to do a good job. If you're a
hairstylist, you have to prove yourself to me. This is a remnant from
my childhood: I had my hair cut by my mother's stylist for years. She
used to go to the salon every Saturday. Every other Saturday I would
accompany her for a trim. I wasn't one of those little girls with
lovely long hair. No sireee. I looked like a boy because my mother
insisted my face was too small for all the hair I had when it was grown
out. You can call me Frieda. I am cursed with naturally curly hair and
when it grows out, it has the potential to get big.
As in circa-1985, bicycle pants wearing, gum-snapping, Bronx big. Women
have lusted after my hair, saying I'm so damn lucky to have curl and
body. In my single past, men used to love to run their fingers through
the curls and amazingly enough, they never seemed to get annoyed when
their fingers stuck on a particularly erstwhile tangle. Everyone loves
my hair but me. Including my mother's stylist, a wonderful guy by the
name of Ken. Well, Ken agreed with my mother and kept my locks short
for years. I rebelled, of course, at age fifteen and since Ken wasn't
giving me what I wanted---less clipping and more mousse---I went
elsewhere. This was a monstrous mistake. Instead of receiving a trim, I
wound up looking like Gomer Pyle circa his Marine Corps days. Ken
accepted me back, despite my treachery, with a knowing smile and a
condescending wave to his chair, to which I walked, completely humbled.
I've been leery of new people cutting/doing things to my hair ever
since. I actually used to wait to have it cut until a trip to Omaha was
on the itinerary. Since I can't do that anymore, I finally had to find
someone up here to do the deal.
His name is Don. And he's wonderful. He's actually a barber, too, and
not a "stylist." Which is just fine with me because it means $20 a cut
instead of $50. Well, Don cut my hair, but when I decided to start
coloring a few years ago, I went to my friend ML's colorist. She ranted
and raved about him and was kind enough to hold my hand while he robbed
me of my coloring virginity. But I got tired of Shane. Don't get me
wrong. Shane's a good guy and a very successful businessman, but the
man is Irish. And I mean Irish
Irish, not just descended from Irishpeople---he's from Galway
originally. And I can't understand a fucking word the man says. My
hearing is not optimal. I'm not deaf or anything, and I don't know what
the deal is specifically, but there is a certain range where my hearing
is dodgy and Shane's accent lies directly in that range. So, while he
does a phenomenal job, it's an embarrassing experience to go and get my
hair colored by him. He tells me to go and sit under the dryer, and I
reply, "What?" because in all reality, to me, it sounded like,
"goitundethyer." HUH? Basically this is a mutually beneficial decision:
he doesn't have to repeat himself fifty times and I don't have to feel
like a dolt anymore.
In my usual style, however, I was a wee bit leery of Don's coloring
abilities. He's a barber---coloring is not his speciality, obviously.
Fortunately, I had no need to be. Don knows how anxious I am about my
hair. The poor guy got a huge education in my neuroses when I first
went to him. He whacked off a good eight inches of hair and reassured
me the whole time. He knows the potential freak-out situation he might
have on his hands if he goofs, so he simply makes sure that doesn't
happen. Today, instead of foiling my hair, he asked me if I'd ever used
"a cap"? Nope, I replied, what's that entail? Well, I'll pull the
strands that I want to highlight through the cap and then apply the
coloring. We'll then put you under the dryer and I'll wash it out and
that will be that. Sweet, I replied, knowing that I wasn't going to be
spending two hours at the shop getting my hair done, and that there
would be no painful burning sensation from the coloring and foiling. Go
to it, I told him. And he did. In the cap, I looked like a bald doll
which only had a few stray strands left on the top of her head. Only to
get my thickola hair through the cap he had to yank a wee bit, and my
scalp is killing me right about now. I thought it was the ammonia that
was irritating it, but after I washed it for the third time, I realized
it must be the yanking. Which leads to the question, what exactly do
you do to soothe an irritated scalp? I've never had this problem
before. I can't put skin creams in my hair. That wouldn't work. But the
stinging is driving me nuts. I'll stick with the foiling next time.
Better the devil you know, eh?
For those of you who have never had their hair highlighted, let me enlighten you to the process. Because it is a process. A chemical
process that seems, to me at least, to be composed solely of ammonia.
Yeah. That stuff you might clean your floor with. It gets slathered
onto your hair, wrapped up in a piece of tinfoil, which creates yet
another chemical reaction. Depending upon how blonde you want to be,
the foil will stay on for either a few minutes or a half-hour. It's all
about the nuance of the lockage, baby. Did I mention this burns?
Nope, I guess I hadn't. Well, it does. Ammonia doesn't feel good and by
the time you're done sitting under the dryer (heating up the the foil
activates the chemicals further!), you're practically ready to beg for
a shampoo because you just want that damn stuff off of your hair as your scalp is EN FUEGO!
When the ammonia is washed away, you are then able to breathe a sigh of
relief as the burning has stopped, and then the colorist will fill your
hair with goo that supposedly tones the highlights and the base. Then
you'll get it styled and you'll leave the salon with your head smelling
like Mr. Clean without the lemony goodness.
Although I didn't go through the whole foil business this morning as I
switched colorists.
I'm extraordinarily wierd about hairstylists. I am not one of those
people who can plop down into a chair at the salon and trust the person
who will be shearing my locks to do a good job. If you're a
hairstylist, you have to prove yourself to me. This is a remnant from
my childhood: I had my hair cut by my mother's stylist for years. She
used to go to the salon every Saturday. Every other Saturday I would
accompany her for a trim. I wasn't one of those little girls with
lovely long hair. No sireee. I looked like a boy because my mother
insisted my face was too small for all the hair I had when it was grown
out. You can call me Frieda. I am cursed with naturally curly hair and
when it grows out, it has the potential to get big.
As in circa-1985, bicycle pants wearing, gum-snapping, Bronx big. Women
have lusted after my hair, saying I'm so damn lucky to have curl and
body. In my single past, men used to love to run their fingers through
the curls and amazingly enough, they never seemed to get annoyed when
their fingers stuck on a particularly erstwhile tangle. Everyone loves
my hair but me. Including my mother's stylist, a wonderful guy by the
name of Ken. Well, Ken agreed with my mother and kept my locks short
for years. I rebelled, of course, at age fifteen and since Ken wasn't
giving me what I wanted---less clipping and more mousse---I went
elsewhere. This was a monstrous mistake. Instead of receiving a trim, I
wound up looking like Gomer Pyle circa his Marine Corps days. Ken
accepted me back, despite my treachery, with a knowing smile and a
condescending wave to his chair, to which I walked, completely humbled.
I've been leery of new people cutting/doing things to my hair ever
since. I actually used to wait to have it cut until a trip to Omaha was
on the itinerary. Since I can't do that anymore, I finally had to find
someone up here to do the deal.
His name is Don. And he's wonderful. He's actually a barber, too, and
not a "stylist." Which is just fine with me because it means $20 a cut
instead of $50. Well, Don cut my hair, but when I decided to start
coloring a few years ago, I went to my friend ML's colorist. She ranted
and raved about him and was kind enough to hold my hand while he robbed
me of my coloring virginity. But I got tired of Shane. Don't get me
wrong. Shane's a good guy and a very successful businessman, but the
man is Irish. And I mean Irish
Irish, not just descended from Irishpeople---he's from Galway
originally. And I can't understand a fucking word the man says. My
hearing is not optimal. I'm not deaf or anything, and I don't know what
the deal is specifically, but there is a certain range where my hearing
is dodgy and Shane's accent lies directly in that range. So, while he
does a phenomenal job, it's an embarrassing experience to go and get my
hair colored by him. He tells me to go and sit under the dryer, and I
reply, "What?" because in all reality, to me, it sounded like,
"goitundethyer." HUH? Basically this is a mutually beneficial decision:
he doesn't have to repeat himself fifty times and I don't have to feel
like a dolt anymore.
In my usual style, however, I was a wee bit leery of Don's coloring
abilities. He's a barber---coloring is not his speciality, obviously.
Fortunately, I had no need to be. Don knows how anxious I am about my
hair. The poor guy got a huge education in my neuroses when I first
went to him. He whacked off a good eight inches of hair and reassured
me the whole time. He knows the potential freak-out situation he might
have on his hands if he goofs, so he simply makes sure that doesn't
happen. Today, instead of foiling my hair, he asked me if I'd ever used
"a cap"? Nope, I replied, what's that entail? Well, I'll pull the
strands that I want to highlight through the cap and then apply the
coloring. We'll then put you under the dryer and I'll wash it out and
that will be that. Sweet, I replied, knowing that I wasn't going to be
spending two hours at the shop getting my hair done, and that there
would be no painful burning sensation from the coloring and foiling. Go
to it, I told him. And he did. In the cap, I looked like a bald doll
which only had a few stray strands left on the top of her head. Only to
get my thickola hair through the cap he had to yank a wee bit, and my
scalp is killing me right about now. I thought it was the ammonia that
was irritating it, but after I washed it for the third time, I realized
it must be the yanking. Which leads to the question, what exactly do
you do to soothe an irritated scalp? I've never had this problem
before. I can't put skin creams in my hair. That wouldn't work. But the
stinging is driving me nuts. I'll stick with the foiling next time.
Better the devil you know, eh?
Posted by: Kathy at
12:35 PM
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Post contains 1159 words, total size 6 kb.
Have no idea what the
Have no idea what the hell happened to the template, but I wasn't
messing with it. And the husband isn't here right now, so it will
have to wait until he gets home for it to be fixed.
Sorry if it causes you any inconvenience, but I swear it's not my
fault!
messing with it. And the husband isn't here right now, so it will
have to wait until he gets home for it to be fixed.
Sorry if it causes you any inconvenience, but I swear it's not my
fault!
Posted by: Kathy at
12:29 PM
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WOOHOO! We've had a very
WOOHOO!
We've had a very generous donation of $100 toward James' Jaywalkers in
the last twenty-four hours!
{Insert happy dance here}
Thank you very much, Kitty! And just as soon as I figure it out how to
give it to you, my Gmail invite is yours! Courtesy of Rich at seldom sober we still have one Gmail invite to give away to the next person who donates $50.
For the rest of you---there's still plenty o' time to give. Read about James' battle against Type I Diabetes here and if you're one of those philanthropic souls who just LOVES to earn tax deductible donations to worthy causes, go here.
And, once again, I thank you for all of your support!
We've had a very generous donation of $100 toward James' Jaywalkers in
the last twenty-four hours!
{Insert happy dance here}
Thank you very much, Kitty! And just as soon as I figure it out how to
give it to you, my Gmail invite is yours! Courtesy of Rich at seldom sober we still have one Gmail invite to give away to the next person who donates $50.
For the rest of you---there's still plenty o' time to give. Read about James' battle against Type I Diabetes here and if you're one of those philanthropic souls who just LOVES to earn tax deductible donations to worthy causes, go here.
And, once again, I thank you for all of your support!
Posted by: Kathy at
12:22 PM
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Go read this from today's
Go read this
from today's Opinion Journal. I shall opine later about why this is not
only wrong, but that it also smacks of good ol' fashioned snobbery.
Grrrrr.
from today's Opinion Journal. I shall opine later about why this is not
only wrong, but that it also smacks of good ol' fashioned snobbery.
Grrrrr.
Posted by: Kathy at
12:20 PM
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I would never don a
I would never don a Catwoman outfit just for the hell of it. Let's face
it, stuffing my fat behind into a leather suit is probably more effort
than what it's worth. It should be more than obvious that there would
have to be a really good reason for such an event.
Perhaps Christian Bale would provide such a reason for moi?
Damn! Meee-owwww!
General Disclaimer I: Just because I said I might
don a Catwoman outfit for Christian, does not mean Christian Bale has
suddenly replaced Michael Keaton as my favorite Batman. All this means
is that he fills that suit out nicely, thank you ever so bloody much.
Disclaimer to the husband: Don't even think about it. It's not
happening and this is meant to be comedic. Nothing more, nothing less.
Don't get your nose out of joint.
it, stuffing my fat behind into a leather suit is probably more effort
than what it's worth. It should be more than obvious that there would
have to be a really good reason for such an event.
Perhaps Christian Bale would provide such a reason for moi?
Damn! Meee-owwww!
General Disclaimer I: Just because I said I might
don a Catwoman outfit for Christian, does not mean Christian Bale has
suddenly replaced Michael Keaton as my favorite Batman. All this means
is that he fills that suit out nicely, thank you ever so bloody much.
Disclaimer to the husband: Don't even think about it. It's not
happening and this is meant to be comedic. Nothing more, nothing less.
Don't get your nose out of joint.
Posted by: Kathy at
12:15 PM
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I have no idea who
I have no idea who Carroll Andrew Morse is, but he has written and published the most unenlightened commentary about Darfur that I've read yet. And keep in mind that I've read a lot
of stupid commentary when it comes to Darfur in particular and Sudan in
general. This one takes the cake, however.
His solution to the crisis? Let Darfur secede from
Sudan. He quite reasonably begins his argument by stating
the rather obvious fact that America is more inclined to intercede in a
humanitarian disaster when said disaster is caused by Mother Nature and
not man.
True, so very true. But what follows isn't.
me. This man knows absolutely nothing
about Sudan. If he did, perhaps he might have dropped
a hint that secession from the northern, ruling government is
precisely what the south wants. In all of his research
over what a great option this would be for Darfur, did he just miss the
fact that the south just signed a peace accord with the north to
ensure a vote on that exact eventuality six years
hence? And that the north isn't really all that pleased about it?
Type "Navaisha Accords" into Google and this is
what you come up with. Is this man actually trying to tell
his readers that he was completely unaware of how this hard-fought
peace treaty is gumming up the international aid works when it comes to
Darfur? And how southern secession has been a major
stumbling block in getting the accords signed in the first place? Or is
he simply someone who is trying to make a case for a favorite
argument using Darfur as Exhibit A?
Let me sum it up for Mr. Morse: the south is where all the oil is; the
north has been waging a war against the southerners, who want autonomy,
for over twenty years now; the international community (read France and
Russia, to name a few) doesn't want those accords to go down the tubes
over government supported genocide in Darfur. But they don't
want to piss off the people they've inked the deals with,
either: they're willing to look the other way because peace is on
its way to being established, the oil will soon flow
and if southern Sudan votes to become independent, well,
they've got a whole six years before that happens to ink
new deals with the people who might be in charge at that
point in time. Secession is not something the northern government
likes. They don't think it a good option on the whole.
Why, exactly, would the Sudanese government let Darfur secede
when they've set the precedent that secession is not viable?
Yes, yes. Darfur doesn't have any natural resources to speak
of. Secession might theoretically be
possible. But why would Sudan let Darfur secede? And it
would be a case of letting them
secede: it could only happen with the Sudanese government's permission.
Theory doesn't go very far before reality intrudes,
does it? Let's look at the facts.
Bupkiss.
You have to give me a better, more realistic argument before you
can tell me this is the best option for Darfur and will end the
violence. Because chances are, it won't.
of stupid commentary when it comes to Darfur in particular and Sudan in
general. This one takes the cake, however.
His solution to the crisis? Let Darfur secede from
Sudan. He quite reasonably begins his argument by stating
the rather obvious fact that America is more inclined to intercede in a
humanitarian disaster when said disaster is caused by Mother Nature and
not man.
When humanitarian crises are man-made, Americans
reverse their order of response. Before trying to help, we ask, "is it
any of our business?" or "can we really make a difference in the long
run?" Remember Ethiopia? For about 30 years, civil wars, droughts, and
their combination have been killing civilians in Ethiopia. When the
primary cause of death is perceived to be drought, aid flows
generously. When the primary cause is perceived to be war, America and
the west pay much less attention. The difference in response is
a form of triage informed by historical memory. The United States knows
that it does not have the resources to help everyone. Resources must be
directed to the places where they will do the most good. Americans do
not see attempting to alleviate the suffering caused by the Third
World's Hobbesian politics as a good use of emergency resources. Even
if immediate aid fixes the situation today, the political circumstances
that created the problem will still be there tomorrow. So, when
Americans hear about yet another third-world government massacring its
citizens, we make a cold but rational choice not to overly involve
ourselves in a situation that we probably cannot resolve. Better to
save our efforts for one-time events like natural disasters. The
consensus of despair magnifies the power of dictators. Democratic
leaders are slow to advocate foreign interventions, even for noble
humanitarian purposes. Driven by domestic political calculations, they
fear (justifiably) that the magnitude of commitment involved in fixing
broken states will frighten their constituents. Meanwhile, the measures
that do garner public support -- UN resolutions and amorphous ideas of
"diplomatic pressure" -- cannot be effective unless backed by a
credible threat of force. The result is a vicious cycle. Dictators
expand their intrastate power by the most violent means possible,
knowing that the outside world is fearful of intervening in situations
where violence is too extreme. The cycle can be broken. There
are steps that lie between the poles of military intervention and
quietist non-involvement. Nations unwilling to tolerate Sudan's state
sponsored program of killing can derecognize Sudan's legal control over
Darfur and support the secession of western Sudan. If the outside world
cannot solve the problems in Sudan, it can remove Sudan from the
problems.
True, so very true. But what follows isn't.
Recognizing the secession of oppressed provinces of failedSpare
states should be a part of the standard diplomatic toolkit. Do we not
agree that every reasonable non-violent alternative should proceed the
use of force? Recognizing secession is a non-violent option, though one
that is rarely mentioned. Somehow, the international system has evolved
to a point where threatening to derecognize a savage government is
considered unthinkable while allowing hundreds of thousands to starve
to death is considered business-as-usual. Arguments that recognizing
western Sudan as an independent state will lead to violence are not
compelling. The violence is already out of control. Doing nothing only
enables its continuation. Endorsing western Sudan's secession is
a reasonable course of action given Sudan's utter failure as a state.
For democrats and humanitarians, Sudan's failure is beyond obvious. For
those agnostic about democracy so long as state machinery delivers
efficient rule, Sudan is still a monumental failure. And for
hard-headed realists, disinterested in domestic tranquility, so long as
the stability of the international system limits and regulates of the
use of force, preserving Sudan is of no value. Since 1955, Sudan has
been engaged in a brutal winner-take-all contest for power and prestige
that comes from legal control of a populous nation. Removing the prize
will reduce the violence.
me. This man knows absolutely nothing
about Sudan. If he did, perhaps he might have dropped
a hint that secession from the northern, ruling government is
precisely what the south wants. In all of his research
over what a great option this would be for Darfur, did he just miss the
fact that the south just signed a peace accord with the north to
ensure a vote on that exact eventuality six years
hence? And that the north isn't really all that pleased about it?
Type "Navaisha Accords" into Google and this is
what you come up with. Is this man actually trying to tell
his readers that he was completely unaware of how this hard-fought
peace treaty is gumming up the international aid works when it comes to
Darfur? And how southern secession has been a major
stumbling block in getting the accords signed in the first place? Or is
he simply someone who is trying to make a case for a favorite
argument using Darfur as Exhibit A?
Let me sum it up for Mr. Morse: the south is where all the oil is; the
north has been waging a war against the southerners, who want autonomy,
for over twenty years now; the international community (read France and
Russia, to name a few) doesn't want those accords to go down the tubes
over government supported genocide in Darfur. But they don't
want to piss off the people they've inked the deals with,
either: they're willing to look the other way because peace is on
its way to being established, the oil will soon flow
and if southern Sudan votes to become independent, well,
they've got a whole six years before that happens to ink
new deals with the people who might be in charge at that
point in time. Secession is not something the northern government
likes. They don't think it a good option on the whole.
Why, exactly, would the Sudanese government let Darfur secede
when they've set the precedent that secession is not viable?
Yes, yes. Darfur doesn't have any natural resources to speak
of. Secession might theoretically be
possible. But why would Sudan let Darfur secede? And it
would be a case of letting them
secede: it could only happen with the Sudanese government's permission.
Theory doesn't go very far before reality intrudes,
does it? Let's look at the facts.
- The region's been ethnically cleansed; it's fresh and shiny;
what possible reason, now that the black Africans have bugged out
for safer territory---something that the legally recognized government
of Sudan let happen and participated in---would they want to let them
run the show? What would all the expenditure in men
and materiel have been about it if they just let the region become
autonomous? - If you think that Iraq is unwieldy
in a sheer territorial sense, then you'd better take a good look
at a map when it comes to Darfur. How would it be possible
to enforce such a secession, because Sudan, sure as the sun will rise
in the morning, will not want to give it up and will have no
qualms about using their superior military to prevent such an
outcome. And let's be clear about the Sudanese Army's
superiority: would the refugees have run if they were
armed? Are we now going to arm them to ensure that the
secession succeeds? - So, if the international
community takes Mr. Morse's recommendation in Darfur and
legally recognizes the new country, while internationally
isolating the old, they're essentially solving the problem of
Darfur on the backs of the southern Sudanese. Because
Darfur could just break off and that would solve that problem, wouldn't
it?
But it still leaves the problem of the south,
where there is still no cease fire to back up the peace accords: full
scale civil war could break out again. Given that the south is
where the oil is, what do you think is the potential for a Darfur
secession are within the international community?
Bupkiss.
You have to give me a better, more realistic argument before you
can tell me this is the best option for Darfur and will end the
violence. Because chances are, it won't.
Posted by: Kathy at
12:13 PM
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Post contains 1402 words, total size 9 kb.
Courtesy of Mr. H. who
Courtesy of Mr. H. who is always on the lookout for Silly German
stories for me. He came up with a doozy this time.
"Grossly inappropriate behavior," eh? More like just plain gross.
Bleh.
stories for me. He came up with a doozy this time.
"Grossly inappropriate behavior," eh? More like just plain gross.
Bleh.
Posted by: Kathy at
12:01 PM
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Post contains 44 words, total size 1 kb.
I swear, animal rights activists
I swear, animal rights activists will get their knickers in a twist
over just about anything.
Sure, a PETA chick wearing a faux fur coat can drink out of a toilet to
drive home the message that no one but a damn dog should wear fur (I
still don't get that one), but a goat can't lick salt off a model.
Which instance is more cruel?
I pity that poor toilet.
over just about anything.
Sure, a PETA chick wearing a faux fur coat can drink out of a toilet to
drive home the message that no one but a damn dog should wear fur (I
still don't get that one), but a goat can't lick salt off a model.
Which instance is more cruel?
I pity that poor toilet.
Posted by: Kathy at
11:41 AM
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Post contains 81 words, total size 1 kb.
Talk about the "red haze
Talk about the "red haze of anger."
Posted by: Kathy at
11:40 AM
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Post contains 17 words, total size 1 kb.
I've mentioned before I'm married
I've mentioned before I'm married to a member of the phylla Geekus Extraordinarius. He's a gamer. An early adopter. He spends at least twelve hours a day on the computer. At least.
He's also a Star Wars junkie. For whatever reason, these two traits
always seem to mutually intertwined. I asked him if he'd heard about this,
thinking that maybe, for once, I could tell him something new. His
reply: "People on the boards suggested that one about a year ago."
{insert shaking of head here}
Unfortunately, even though Lucasfilm took the fans' recommendation for
the title, this is no guarantee that this flick will not suck rocks.
He's also a Star Wars junkie. For whatever reason, these two traits
always seem to mutually intertwined. I asked him if he'd heard about this,
thinking that maybe, for once, I could tell him something new. His
reply: "People on the boards suggested that one about a year ago."
{insert shaking of head here}
Unfortunately, even though Lucasfilm took the fans' recommendation for
the title, this is no guarantee that this flick will not suck rocks.
Posted by: Kathy at
11:38 AM
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Post contains 118 words, total size 1 kb.
What has the blogosphere come
What has the blogosphere come to? I can't believe I'm going to do what
I'm about to do, which is that I'm going to sit here and write a
defense of the word "cakewalk" because Sullivan has maligned it. Fer
chrissakes. It's not like there aren't better things I could do with my
time. But, damnit, I like the word "cakewalk" and I'm not going to let
him ruin it for me. I'm just not going to. The buck stops here. Go here and scroll down. (His permalinks never freakin' work for anyone other than Instapundit.)
Apparently, it seems that there are now so many politically incorrect words out there that the New York Times has even goofed in its use of one. Sullivan quotes from a NYT op-ed:
Then Sully posts an emailed-in definition of the word "cakewalk."
(Apparently they don't have cakewalks in England, hence his need for
defining. Why he needed someone to email it in to him, I have no idea.)
Ok, now scroll further up his page, and note the alternative definition
of cakewalk sent in by another reader to supplement. Then note that
Sully has gone trolling on the Internet and has found examples of the
minstrel show definition of a cakewalk, then says, "I don't think
there's much doubt, ahem, about the racist message."
Hence, of course, the implication of this whole thing is that because
the Democratic Senatorial candidate from Illinois, Mr. Obama, is black,
the NYT has maligned this man by using this term associated with
minstrel shows from a hundred years ago. To qualify: this is what I
pulled from all of this. I could be completely wrong in where my mind
is leading me, but I don't think so. Of course, Sullivan never comes
out and says this. He simply leaves you to wonder. It appears to me
that Sullivan has chosen the more dramatic definition of the word
"cakewalk" and has run with it, even without saying as much. According
to the Random House Dictionary of the English Language, 2nd Ed. Unabridged, a cakewalk is:
I never knew that a "cakewalk" was of African-American origin. Nor did
I know that this was a dance performed in minstrel shows. You wanna
know what I do
know about cakewalks? Just that I've been a participant in more of them
than I can remember. Where I grew up it's a popular little game played
at church festivals, birthday parties and the like. The variant that I
grew up with goes something like this: a large circle is laid out, with
squares marking where people are supposed to stand. Music is played,
and you walk from square to square, while the people who run the thing
take a square away each round, leaving someone as the odd man out when
the music is stopped. This eventually eliminates all the contestants
save one. It's musical chairs with squares instead of chairs. The last
person standing gets the cake. Due to some odd twist of fate, I am good
at this. I always win a cakewalk. I even won the cakewalk at my neice's
birthday party last year. (I got a box of Little Debbie Strawberry
Shortcake ho-ho's. Mmmm. Now watch someone blast me for using the word
"ho-ho's" because it's offensive to prostitutes.) I remember going to a
festival sponsored by the church in my Dad's hometown once. My parents
really wanted the prize cake, and of course, I won. No skill was needed
to do so, either. Hence, this experience has always led me to the
definition that cakewalks are easy,
because if I could win one, well hell, then anyone could. I was pleased
when I learned that yes, indeedy, when someone used the word "cakewalk"
to describe something, that my definition of it being an easy thing
jibed with the original. Now, apparently, if you listen to what Sully
has to say, "cakewalk" is a racist term, hence is politically
incorrect.
I think not. "Cakewalk" is simply one of those words where the meaning
has changed with time. I see a cakewalk as a happy thing. Most people
see it like this, I'm sure. Something fun and easy with a prize
attached. Musical chairs without the chairs. With a nice, homemade cake
as the prize for winning. It's never been a racist term to most of us,
but the message Sullivan sends out is that the NYT is using a word with
a racist meaning, hence none of us should be using it. Particularly
since he came up with proof of what a cakewalk was, a hundred years
ago.
Why should I change my usage of this term, which is actually listed as
one of the official definitons in my dictionary, because someone says
there's a long-forgotten racist connection to this word? I'm not going
to stop using it. Morever, I think it's ridiculous that Sullivan would
throw this out there like he has, without drawing any firm conclusions.
It's an overwhelming lame thing for him to do, particularly as he
is---supposedly---a champion of the anti-PC movement. Yet, what he's
written is completely in-line with the entire political correctness
movement. He's changed things in a completely sneaky way, never saying
it's right or wrong, simply pointinng out the perceived faux pas, and
letting us draw our own conclusions. {Insert waggling of eyebrows
here}. Well, I'm not buying it. I'm sick and tired of this kind of
crap. It keeps happening over and over again, and as a result the
language has morphed into something that can be used as a weapon
against the user, tainting the user even if they had no idea. The idea
is to shut people up. This picking and choosing of definitions and then
in a de facto sort of way, banning the usage of some words because they
might
be considered offensive to someone has got to stop. We all need to get
thicker skins. I'm assuming that I'm not alone here in having words
switch definitions in midair because of "political correctness." When I
was in college, in "Business English" I was reamed for automatically
using the masculine instead of using "he or she" or "their". (Can you
tell that this still annoys me?) It was simply what I was taught and
when I called the professor on it because my grade had suffered, she
simply shrugged irritably and said, "Well, you can't do that anymore.
It's changed." HOLD THE FREAKIN' PHONE? I stood there, in complete
disbelief that the rules of the English language had changed. It was as
if someone had said you couldn't use adverbs anymore. "It wasn't in the
textbook," I pointed out. "Well, that doesn't matter. You should have
known because always using the masculine is sexist, so I'm not changing
your grade." We went a few rounds in the middle of class on this one,
and I pointed out that how the hell was I supposed to know that the way
I'd been writing papers for four years in college---I'd never been
corrected on it before---was now unacceptable? She stuck to her guns
and said I should have known, and furthermore, as a woman, why wasn't I
offended by the "blatantly sexist" usage of the masculine when
referring to a person whose gender was unknown? I said I'd never
thought about it. "Well, you should have. You offended me with your
usage by automatically putting me, as a female, in second place." That
shut me up. Thoroughly chastised and stunned, I sat back down. I should have known?
How? The rules had changed somewhere between high school and college
and no one had bothered to tell me. This is representative of the
political correctness movement, in my opinion. I always find out too
late about words I shouldn't be using anymore. And then there's always
the corresponding expression of pity and condescension from the person
who corrects you, who would probably tut-tut if they weren't afraid of
offending you.
How definitions can change automatically without some memo being sent
out to those of us who aren't pointy-headed academics is beyond me.
It's simply not fair and it always leads to someone being caught with
their pants down, and hence looking bad, if not worse, if we didn't
know about some arbitrary change of definition. Don't think this is the
way it happens? Well, what do you want to bet that the next time
someone uses the word "cakewalk" in a completely innocuous way,
Sullivan jumps all over them and calls them a racist because of said
usage? UPDATE: protein wisdom has his own take on political correctness and, as usual, it's much better than mine.
Less windy, too, even though I just edited for clarity. Like that's going to help.
I'm about to do, which is that I'm going to sit here and write a
defense of the word "cakewalk" because Sullivan has maligned it. Fer
chrissakes. It's not like there aren't better things I could do with my
time. But, damnit, I like the word "cakewalk" and I'm not going to let
him ruin it for me. I'm just not going to. The buck stops here. Go here and scroll down. (His permalinks never freakin' work for anyone other than Instapundit.)
Apparently, it seems that there are now so many politically incorrect words out there that the New York Times has even goofed in its use of one. Sullivan quotes from a NYT op-ed:
All this fumbling has left Mr. Obama, the smooth-talking,
Harvard-educated law professor from Chicago, looking like the only
candidate in a race that may make him the only African-American in the
Senate. Voters who don't know him yet surely will after the Democratic
National Convention, where he will be keynote speaker. But it would be
too bad if Mr. Obama cakewalked into Washington. Not just for Mr.
Obama, who would take office with an asterisk ("*ran against
incompetents"). Illinois voters deserve to see a capable opponent force
him to answer tough questions and defend his positions. In other words,
they deserve a nonludicrous race.
Then Sully posts an emailed-in definition of the word "cakewalk."
(Apparently they don't have cakewalks in England, hence his need for
defining. Why he needed someone to email it in to him, I have no idea.)
. 1. Something easily accomplished: Winning the race was a
cakewalk for her. 2. A 19th-century public entertainment among African
Americans in which walkers performing the most accomplished or amusing
steps won cakes as prizes. 1. A strutting dance, often performed in
minstrel shows. 2. The music for this dance.
Ok, now scroll further up his page, and note the alternative definition
of cakewalk sent in by another reader to supplement. Then note that
Sully has gone trolling on the Internet and has found examples of the
minstrel show definition of a cakewalk, then says, "I don't think
there's much doubt, ahem, about the racist message."
Hence, of course, the implication of this whole thing is that because
the Democratic Senatorial candidate from Illinois, Mr. Obama, is black,
the NYT has maligned this man by using this term associated with
minstrel shows from a hundred years ago. To qualify: this is what I
pulled from all of this. I could be completely wrong in where my mind
is leading me, but I don't think so. Of course, Sullivan never comes
out and says this. He simply leaves you to wonder. It appears to me
that Sullivan has chosen the more dramatic definition of the word
"cakewalk" and has run with it, even without saying as much. According
to the Random House Dictionary of the English Language, 2nd Ed. Unabridged, a cakewalk is:
1. (formerly)a promenade or walk, of black African origin,
in which the couples with the most intricate or eccentric steps
received cakes as prizes. 2. a dance with a strutting step based on
this promenade. 3. music for this dance. 4. Informal something easy, sure or certain. 5. to walk or dance in or as if in a cakewalk. {1860-65; cake + walk}.
I never knew that a "cakewalk" was of African-American origin. Nor did
I know that this was a dance performed in minstrel shows. You wanna
know what I do
know about cakewalks? Just that I've been a participant in more of them
than I can remember. Where I grew up it's a popular little game played
at church festivals, birthday parties and the like. The variant that I
grew up with goes something like this: a large circle is laid out, with
squares marking where people are supposed to stand. Music is played,
and you walk from square to square, while the people who run the thing
take a square away each round, leaving someone as the odd man out when
the music is stopped. This eventually eliminates all the contestants
save one. It's musical chairs with squares instead of chairs. The last
person standing gets the cake. Due to some odd twist of fate, I am good
at this. I always win a cakewalk. I even won the cakewalk at my neice's
birthday party last year. (I got a box of Little Debbie Strawberry
Shortcake ho-ho's. Mmmm. Now watch someone blast me for using the word
"ho-ho's" because it's offensive to prostitutes.) I remember going to a
festival sponsored by the church in my Dad's hometown once. My parents
really wanted the prize cake, and of course, I won. No skill was needed
to do so, either. Hence, this experience has always led me to the
definition that cakewalks are easy,
because if I could win one, well hell, then anyone could. I was pleased
when I learned that yes, indeedy, when someone used the word "cakewalk"
to describe something, that my definition of it being an easy thing
jibed with the original. Now, apparently, if you listen to what Sully
has to say, "cakewalk" is a racist term, hence is politically
incorrect.
I think not. "Cakewalk" is simply one of those words where the meaning
has changed with time. I see a cakewalk as a happy thing. Most people
see it like this, I'm sure. Something fun and easy with a prize
attached. Musical chairs without the chairs. With a nice, homemade cake
as the prize for winning. It's never been a racist term to most of us,
but the message Sullivan sends out is that the NYT is using a word with
a racist meaning, hence none of us should be using it. Particularly
since he came up with proof of what a cakewalk was, a hundred years
ago.
Why should I change my usage of this term, which is actually listed as
one of the official definitons in my dictionary, because someone says
there's a long-forgotten racist connection to this word? I'm not going
to stop using it. Morever, I think it's ridiculous that Sullivan would
throw this out there like he has, without drawing any firm conclusions.
It's an overwhelming lame thing for him to do, particularly as he
is---supposedly---a champion of the anti-PC movement. Yet, what he's
written is completely in-line with the entire political correctness
movement. He's changed things in a completely sneaky way, never saying
it's right or wrong, simply pointinng out the perceived faux pas, and
letting us draw our own conclusions. {Insert waggling of eyebrows
here}. Well, I'm not buying it. I'm sick and tired of this kind of
crap. It keeps happening over and over again, and as a result the
language has morphed into something that can be used as a weapon
against the user, tainting the user even if they had no idea. The idea
is to shut people up. This picking and choosing of definitions and then
in a de facto sort of way, banning the usage of some words because they
might
be considered offensive to someone has got to stop. We all need to get
thicker skins. I'm assuming that I'm not alone here in having words
switch definitions in midair because of "political correctness." When I
was in college, in "Business English" I was reamed for automatically
using the masculine instead of using "he or she" or "their". (Can you
tell that this still annoys me?) It was simply what I was taught and
when I called the professor on it because my grade had suffered, she
simply shrugged irritably and said, "Well, you can't do that anymore.
It's changed." HOLD THE FREAKIN' PHONE? I stood there, in complete
disbelief that the rules of the English language had changed. It was as
if someone had said you couldn't use adverbs anymore. "It wasn't in the
textbook," I pointed out. "Well, that doesn't matter. You should have
known because always using the masculine is sexist, so I'm not changing
your grade." We went a few rounds in the middle of class on this one,
and I pointed out that how the hell was I supposed to know that the way
I'd been writing papers for four years in college---I'd never been
corrected on it before---was now unacceptable? She stuck to her guns
and said I should have known, and furthermore, as a woman, why wasn't I
offended by the "blatantly sexist" usage of the masculine when
referring to a person whose gender was unknown? I said I'd never
thought about it. "Well, you should have. You offended me with your
usage by automatically putting me, as a female, in second place." That
shut me up. Thoroughly chastised and stunned, I sat back down. I should have known?
How? The rules had changed somewhere between high school and college
and no one had bothered to tell me. This is representative of the
political correctness movement, in my opinion. I always find out too
late about words I shouldn't be using anymore. And then there's always
the corresponding expression of pity and condescension from the person
who corrects you, who would probably tut-tut if they weren't afraid of
offending you.
How definitions can change automatically without some memo being sent
out to those of us who aren't pointy-headed academics is beyond me.
It's simply not fair and it always leads to someone being caught with
their pants down, and hence looking bad, if not worse, if we didn't
know about some arbitrary change of definition. Don't think this is the
way it happens? Well, what do you want to bet that the next time
someone uses the word "cakewalk" in a completely innocuous way,
Sullivan jumps all over them and calls them a racist because of said
usage? UPDATE: protein wisdom has his own take on political correctness and, as usual, it's much better than mine.
Less windy, too, even though I just edited for clarity. Like that's going to help.
Posted by: Kathy at
11:16 AM
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Post contains 1689 words, total size 10 kb.
...and so I have a
...and so I have a bunch of haus frau-ey stuff to do today. Like
cleaning the house and deciding what the hell I'm going to make for
dinner, let alone for dessert. Because dessert is a food group
for the husband's family. (And they pronounce it like this:
deeeee-sert, because that's the way Grandpa says it.
Seriously. Although they're mocking him when they say it like
that.) I'm thinking a pie, but who knows. Pie is easy and is
a crowd pleaser.
Yep. That settles it. Pie it is. What
kind, though? I saw peaches were on sale yesterday at the
store. Hmmmmm. I like peach pie. But do the rest of
them like peach pie? I dunno. The mother in law generally
makes jello-related desserts. Replete with Cool
Whip. You might get the occasional cobbler, but
rarely pie and cake only on birthdays.
Much thought is required. Feel free to chime in with suggestions.
Dinner is another story. I'm going to have to make a lot of
food. To sum up quickly: the mother in law grew up on a
farm. Meals were big and loaded with items from the five food
groups. Meat, potatoes, vegetables, bread and, of course,
dessert. There is always an extraordinary amount of
food on the table whenever she cooks. The husband
and I, however, have dropped the habit of eating like we
needed to fuel ourselves for hand threshing, yet we have to revert to
old habits when they come to dinner. I always think I'm going to
have leftovers when they come over for dinner, but I never
do. I need something that goes well with corn on
the cob. I'm not frying chicken for seven people---two of
whom are lovely children, but whose picky eating habits mean that
lately one of them looks like he's starving. Nooooo sirrreee no
frying of the chicken. It'd take forever.
Fugettaboutit. Hmmm.
Oh, well. I'm sure it will come to me while I'm
cleaning. Or while I'm ironing. Have that to do today,
too.
Must get cracking.
cleaning the house and deciding what the hell I'm going to make for
dinner, let alone for dessert. Because dessert is a food group
for the husband's family. (And they pronounce it like this:
deeeee-sert, because that's the way Grandpa says it.
Seriously. Although they're mocking him when they say it like
that.) I'm thinking a pie, but who knows. Pie is easy and is
a crowd pleaser.
Yep. That settles it. Pie it is. What
kind, though? I saw peaches were on sale yesterday at the
store. Hmmmmm. I like peach pie. But do the rest of
them like peach pie? I dunno. The mother in law generally
makes jello-related desserts. Replete with Cool
Whip. You might get the occasional cobbler, but
rarely pie and cake only on birthdays.
Much thought is required. Feel free to chime in with suggestions.
Dinner is another story. I'm going to have to make a lot of
food. To sum up quickly: the mother in law grew up on a
farm. Meals were big and loaded with items from the five food
groups. Meat, potatoes, vegetables, bread and, of course,
dessert. There is always an extraordinary amount of
food on the table whenever she cooks. The husband
and I, however, have dropped the habit of eating like we
needed to fuel ourselves for hand threshing, yet we have to revert to
old habits when they come to dinner. I always think I'm going to
have leftovers when they come over for dinner, but I never
do. I need something that goes well with corn on
the cob. I'm not frying chicken for seven people---two of
whom are lovely children, but whose picky eating habits mean that
lately one of them looks like he's starving. Nooooo sirrreee no
frying of the chicken. It'd take forever.
Fugettaboutit. Hmmm.
Oh, well. I'm sure it will come to me while I'm
cleaning. Or while I'm ironing. Have that to do today,
too.
Must get cracking.
Posted by: Kathy at
11:09 AM
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Post contains 352 words, total size 2 kb.
And of course, Steve-o didn't
And of course, Steve-o didn't let me down.
Thank God. Dork indeed.
{Insert much mirth here}
Thank God. Dork indeed.
{Insert much mirth here}
Posted by: Kathy at
11:08 AM
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Post contains 26 words, total size 1 kb.
My sister's fam has left
My sister's fam has left the building!
Now I have to put things back to rights.
Blogging will be sporadic--- and potentially nonexistent---until tomorrow.
And I should probably let you know now that I'm going out of town on Friday, sans laptop, so it's going to be a short week.
I know. I'm forever disappointing you people. You'll live, though, I'm sure.
Oh, and yeah, I'm still dealing with sunburned cleavage. Hasn't gone away yet.
Owiiiieeeeeee.
Now I have to put things back to rights.
Blogging will be sporadic--- and potentially nonexistent---until tomorrow.
And I should probably let you know now that I'm going out of town on Friday, sans laptop, so it's going to be a short week.
I know. I'm forever disappointing you people. You'll live, though, I'm sure.
Oh, and yeah, I'm still dealing with sunburned cleavage. Hasn't gone away yet.
Owiiiieeeeeee.
Posted by: Kathy at
11:03 AM
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Post contains 86 words, total size 1 kb.
Yes, I am referencing myself.
Yes, I am referencing myself. I feel I owe you all an apology. I've
been producing nothing but crap here lately. How do I know this? Well,
I've been boring myself. And it's a pretty sad thing when you're boring
yourself. The post I wrote about who will be the next James Bond
clinched it for me. After rereading it this morning, I came to the
conclusion that nowhere in that post does anyone get the idea that I am
a James Bond nut. I love James Bond. I find this to be a very
interesting topic of conversation. But my enthusiasm didn't come
through in my writing. I gave no one a reason to care about my thoughts
on the matter because I'm bored with blogging right now. This isn't
anyone's fault but mine. I'm bored, and there's absolutely no good
reason as to why you, my audience, shouldn't be bored, too. This, if
you've read the "About Me" thing on the sidebar, is the exact opposite
of what I intended to do when I started out. I want to write about
things that interest me. Those were---and are---the parameters I
started out with. But nothing has really been interesting me this week.
Yes, that's mainly the fault of the DNC Convention, but the siren call
of summer has been luring me away from the computer as well. Whether
this means this blog is going to sail through the fog only to crash
upon the rocks, I haven't the faintest idea. All I really know is that
I finally have a life again. My presence is required elsewhere, and I
find that more interesting than coming up with content for this thing.
So, what does this mean for the fifty people who show up here on a
daily basis, wondering what I'm going to write about next? Well, I
don't know, exactly. Sunday is the first anniversary of the Cake Eater
Chronicles. On the whole, I've found blogging to be a rewarding
experience. It's kept me sane during a VERY rough year by making me
focus my attentions anyplace other than my misery. But, now that we've
come through the worst part of the storm, I have to focus my attentions
elsewhere. I've written two-thirds of a manuscript. The stupid thing
needs a final act. Then it needs to be revised and sent off to a
thousand different agencies with a hope and a prayer that I will
finally find an agent, the manuscript will be sold and I can finally
call myself a full-time writer without cringing at the blatant
dishonesty I feel I'm giving off right now when I say that. I also have
a house to take care of, but more importantly, I also have a husband
who has been very good to me and whose faith in me needs to be
restored. The man supports me. He pays the bills and says that I don't
need to work at a regular, paying, job because he wants me to work on
making my dreams come true. But I haven't been working on the
manuscript very much. I feel like an absolute shit whenever I see him
trying not to cringe every time I talk about the blog, rather than the
manuscript. He deserves better than this. The conundrum here is that
I'm a one-track mind sort of girl. It's hard for me to multitask. When
I go at something, I go whole-hog, or not at all. I'm trying to learn
how to balance things out better, but I haven't been doing an admirable
job of it, I'm afraid. I have edited the thing many times. I'm working
on making it tighter. But that's not good enough. While ideas have
been swirling, very little has actually made the leap from my brain
into Microsoft Word. I need to work on that. And blogging, while a
great vent, is also distracting from this goal of mine. To put it
simply, our lives have been in limbo, and this blog is the perfect
example of what limbo looks like. Ever since February 10, 2003, our
life has been up in the air. We've been just plugging along, trying to
make it through, and what you think is my life really is not typical of
normality. I'm not going to explain it all here---but if you go
trolling through the archives, you can probably figure out what I'm
talking about. But the crisis is over. Life is finally getting back to
normal. I need to move on. Whether or not I'll be able to both write
the manuscript and blog at the same time, well...I don't know. I'm
going to give it a shot, but I don't hold high hopes that I will be
able to do both at the same time. I figure it's only fair to let
everyone know this.
So, what to expect in reality? I can't tell you that because when I sat
down to write this post, I was simply planning to excuse myself for the
afternoon. Really. We didn't celebrate the husband's birthday
yesterday. I need to make a tiramisu this morning before we go and do
something fun this afternoon. This was what I was planning on posting.
But, somehow, all of this leapt from my mind, shot through my fingers
and made it onto the page. I would have to think the simple fact that I
have this outlet, that it allows me to talk to people, that there are
people who care about what I'm thinking, would be a pretty good reason
as to why I will keep blogging, but who knows? If the last year and a
half has taught me anything it's that I am not a fortune teller, and
that I need to be more flexible. I'm simply trying to apply the lessons
I've learned so that the husband and I can have a better, more
satisfying and more fulfilling life by cutting out the grand
expectations of what our life should be. I'm trying to keep it simple.
And I'll be damned if I know if this is making any sense whatsoever to
all of you. I'm purposefully going to keep the promises vague because I
may break them. I may be back at blogging full-time before you know it.
But, unless I've learned how to write the manuscript at the same time,
well, we shouldn't consider this to be a good thing. Balance. I'm
seeking the balance that has been lacking up until now. I'm going to
give it a shot, but we'll have to see how that translates into reality.
You all might just get a boat load of crap. I don't know. If it's not
obvious, I'm still trying to figure this all out.
Expect a few posts a day, but don't be surprised if there aren't any.
Blogging has just shot down the list of priorities.
been producing nothing but crap here lately. How do I know this? Well,
I've been boring myself. And it's a pretty sad thing when you're boring
yourself. The post I wrote about who will be the next James Bond
clinched it for me. After rereading it this morning, I came to the
conclusion that nowhere in that post does anyone get the idea that I am
a James Bond nut. I love James Bond. I find this to be a very
interesting topic of conversation. But my enthusiasm didn't come
through in my writing. I gave no one a reason to care about my thoughts
on the matter because I'm bored with blogging right now. This isn't
anyone's fault but mine. I'm bored, and there's absolutely no good
reason as to why you, my audience, shouldn't be bored, too. This, if
you've read the "About Me" thing on the sidebar, is the exact opposite
of what I intended to do when I started out. I want to write about
things that interest me. Those were---and are---the parameters I
started out with. But nothing has really been interesting me this week.
Yes, that's mainly the fault of the DNC Convention, but the siren call
of summer has been luring me away from the computer as well. Whether
this means this blog is going to sail through the fog only to crash
upon the rocks, I haven't the faintest idea. All I really know is that
I finally have a life again. My presence is required elsewhere, and I
find that more interesting than coming up with content for this thing.
So, what does this mean for the fifty people who show up here on a
daily basis, wondering what I'm going to write about next? Well, I
don't know, exactly. Sunday is the first anniversary of the Cake Eater
Chronicles. On the whole, I've found blogging to be a rewarding
experience. It's kept me sane during a VERY rough year by making me
focus my attentions anyplace other than my misery. But, now that we've
come through the worst part of the storm, I have to focus my attentions
elsewhere. I've written two-thirds of a manuscript. The stupid thing
needs a final act. Then it needs to be revised and sent off to a
thousand different agencies with a hope and a prayer that I will
finally find an agent, the manuscript will be sold and I can finally
call myself a full-time writer without cringing at the blatant
dishonesty I feel I'm giving off right now when I say that. I also have
a house to take care of, but more importantly, I also have a husband
who has been very good to me and whose faith in me needs to be
restored. The man supports me. He pays the bills and says that I don't
need to work at a regular, paying, job because he wants me to work on
making my dreams come true. But I haven't been working on the
manuscript very much. I feel like an absolute shit whenever I see him
trying not to cringe every time I talk about the blog, rather than the
manuscript. He deserves better than this. The conundrum here is that
I'm a one-track mind sort of girl. It's hard for me to multitask. When
I go at something, I go whole-hog, or not at all. I'm trying to learn
how to balance things out better, but I haven't been doing an admirable
job of it, I'm afraid. I have edited the thing many times. I'm working
on making it tighter. But that's not good enough. While ideas have
been swirling, very little has actually made the leap from my brain
into Microsoft Word. I need to work on that. And blogging, while a
great vent, is also distracting from this goal of mine. To put it
simply, our lives have been in limbo, and this blog is the perfect
example of what limbo looks like. Ever since February 10, 2003, our
life has been up in the air. We've been just plugging along, trying to
make it through, and what you think is my life really is not typical of
normality. I'm not going to explain it all here---but if you go
trolling through the archives, you can probably figure out what I'm
talking about. But the crisis is over. Life is finally getting back to
normal. I need to move on. Whether or not I'll be able to both write
the manuscript and blog at the same time, well...I don't know. I'm
going to give it a shot, but I don't hold high hopes that I will be
able to do both at the same time. I figure it's only fair to let
everyone know this.
So, what to expect in reality? I can't tell you that because when I sat
down to write this post, I was simply planning to excuse myself for the
afternoon. Really. We didn't celebrate the husband's birthday
yesterday. I need to make a tiramisu this morning before we go and do
something fun this afternoon. This was what I was planning on posting.
But, somehow, all of this leapt from my mind, shot through my fingers
and made it onto the page. I would have to think the simple fact that I
have this outlet, that it allows me to talk to people, that there are
people who care about what I'm thinking, would be a pretty good reason
as to why I will keep blogging, but who knows? If the last year and a
half has taught me anything it's that I am not a fortune teller, and
that I need to be more flexible. I'm simply trying to apply the lessons
I've learned so that the husband and I can have a better, more
satisfying and more fulfilling life by cutting out the grand
expectations of what our life should be. I'm trying to keep it simple.
And I'll be damned if I know if this is making any sense whatsoever to
all of you. I'm purposefully going to keep the promises vague because I
may break them. I may be back at blogging full-time before you know it.
But, unless I've learned how to write the manuscript at the same time,
well, we shouldn't consider this to be a good thing. Balance. I'm
seeking the balance that has been lacking up until now. I'm going to
give it a shot, but we'll have to see how that translates into reality.
You all might just get a boat load of crap. I don't know. If it's not
obvious, I'm still trying to figure this all out.
Expect a few posts a day, but don't be surprised if there aren't any.
Blogging has just shot down the list of priorities.
Posted by: Kathy at
10:28 AM
| No Comments
| Add Comment
Post contains 1163 words, total size 6 kb.
I'm tired and I'm sunburned.
I'm tired and I'm sunburned. Still. Unfortunately for me, I have a mix
of skin-types. After spending many hours baking in the sun while well
protected by sunscreen, I can get to the point where if you squint and
look at me sideways, I could
resemble a golden goddess. It is possible. But this does not discount
the plain and simple fact that---a good ten months out of the year---I
am a whitey. A whiter than white whitey. Most of the time I glow. In
fact, I am visible from space. You wanna know why the Hubble Telescope
always needed repairing when NASA actually cared about such things?
Well, that's my fault. I'm owning up to it. Sorry. Generally my legs
are white enough that they reflect the sunlight right back out of the
atmosphere. This, of course, goofed with the finely calibrated
technology that allowed us to see all sorts of junk at the back end of
the universe. I don't know what I was thinking: I should have worn
jeans all the damn time. But I didn't. Forgive me. I am one of two
natural brunettes in my immediate family: the rest are redheads and
blondes, who, due to puberty, have since joined the ranks of the
brunettes. My brother Tim and I are no longer the lone
brunettes---well, except for Susie, but she's a bottle blonde. Since I
got the brown hair, one would assume that I got the coloring that goes
with it. Nope. I got the redhead skin type, but with a twist: I can
turn into a golden goddess with time and effort---they can't. They just
sit out in the sun to get more freckles so it looks like they've got a
tan. I get the freckles, the sunburn, and
the tan.
But it's been rainy here, and I've been errant about working on "my
base" in a way that would make Karl Rove very unhappy were he to hear
about it. Today I'm paying for it. Sizzle goes the skin. Particularly
my cleavage...ouch! I bought a new swimsuit and it's cut lower in that
area than past swimsuits---virgin suntanning territory in other words.
Well, it is white no longer: it is pink. Very
pink. Aloe is doing wonders and it's not nearly as inflamed as it was
yesterday, but it's still pretty darn red. Maybe I should buy a green
bra, take a picture, and advertise "Christmas in July"?
Ya' think? Ever notice how sunburn tires you out? It shouldn't, but it
does. My body is using its extra resources to work on healing my skin,
hence I'm logy. Tack that onto the drive and the fun and staying up
late and chatting---and you have one tired girl. And I have a house to
prepare for visitors today, so I really should get to it.
I don't know what to tell you about blogging. Maybe I will. Maybe I
won't. I don't know. But don't expect too darn much from me until
Monday or Tuesday. Think of anything that you get as gravy and that way
you won't be too disappointed.
of skin-types. After spending many hours baking in the sun while well
protected by sunscreen, I can get to the point where if you squint and
look at me sideways, I could
resemble a golden goddess. It is possible. But this does not discount
the plain and simple fact that---a good ten months out of the year---I
am a whitey. A whiter than white whitey. Most of the time I glow. In
fact, I am visible from space. You wanna know why the Hubble Telescope
always needed repairing when NASA actually cared about such things?
Well, that's my fault. I'm owning up to it. Sorry. Generally my legs
are white enough that they reflect the sunlight right back out of the
atmosphere. This, of course, goofed with the finely calibrated
technology that allowed us to see all sorts of junk at the back end of
the universe. I don't know what I was thinking: I should have worn
jeans all the damn time. But I didn't. Forgive me. I am one of two
natural brunettes in my immediate family: the rest are redheads and
blondes, who, due to puberty, have since joined the ranks of the
brunettes. My brother Tim and I are no longer the lone
brunettes---well, except for Susie, but she's a bottle blonde. Since I
got the brown hair, one would assume that I got the coloring that goes
with it. Nope. I got the redhead skin type, but with a twist: I can
turn into a golden goddess with time and effort---they can't. They just
sit out in the sun to get more freckles so it looks like they've got a
tan. I get the freckles, the sunburn, and
the tan.
But it's been rainy here, and I've been errant about working on "my
base" in a way that would make Karl Rove very unhappy were he to hear
about it. Today I'm paying for it. Sizzle goes the skin. Particularly
my cleavage...ouch! I bought a new swimsuit and it's cut lower in that
area than past swimsuits---virgin suntanning territory in other words.
Well, it is white no longer: it is pink. Very
pink. Aloe is doing wonders and it's not nearly as inflamed as it was
yesterday, but it's still pretty darn red. Maybe I should buy a green
bra, take a picture, and advertise "Christmas in July"?
Ya' think? Ever notice how sunburn tires you out? It shouldn't, but it
does. My body is using its extra resources to work on healing my skin,
hence I'm logy. Tack that onto the drive and the fun and staying up
late and chatting---and you have one tired girl. And I have a house to
prepare for visitors today, so I really should get to it.
I don't know what to tell you about blogging. Maybe I will. Maybe I
won't. I don't know. But don't expect too darn much from me until
Monday or Tuesday. Think of anything that you get as gravy and that way
you won't be too disappointed.
Posted by: Kathy at
10:21 AM
| No Comments
| Add Comment
Post contains 528 words, total size 3 kb.
Well kids, sorry to do
Well kids, sorry to do this to you, but I'm off to the lake for today
and part of tomorrow. After constant rain yesterday, it seems as if the
weather has made a turn for the better and I shall think of you for
approximately five seconds while I'm sitting on the beach, chatting
with my sister, her husband and her kids. You'll manage to live without
me for a time, I'm sure.
In the meanwhile go and read Fausta .
There's a lot of goody over at her site today. And for other juicy,
non-Kerry related tidbits go over to the Babalu Blog and read Val's
email battle with a Castro-lovin', Bush-hatin' educator who---I
think---was trying to solicit PR help for a student exchange program.
You can find his posts here and here. The Jane Austen Cage Match is awaiting your sensible judgment. Chime in and let us know who beat the snot out of whom.
If all that goody fails to satisfy you in my absence, well, there's just no hope for you, is there?
Lastly, I'm visiting James
today and as he's coming here on Friday, I would love to be able to
greet him with the news that a few more people have donated to help him
make his diabetes disappear.
Have I mentioned that the kid has a temper? Spare me his wrath, would you?
Oh, and Rich still has a Gmail account to give away to the next person who donates $50.
It's 100% tax deductible and
you will be helping researchers find a cure for a disease that keeps
kids like James from snarfing mini-snickers bars on Halloween. As you
reach into the bottom drawer of your desk for a little sweet to get you
through your day, remember that James doesn't get that option: he
hasn't tasted a candy bar since he was two-years-old. He doesn't
remember that chocolatey, caramely goodness. Donate a few bucks toward
sharing the experience, eh? /guilt trip.
and part of tomorrow. After constant rain yesterday, it seems as if the
weather has made a turn for the better and I shall think of you for
approximately five seconds while I'm sitting on the beach, chatting
with my sister, her husband and her kids. You'll manage to live without
me for a time, I'm sure.
In the meanwhile go and read Fausta .
There's a lot of goody over at her site today. And for other juicy,
non-Kerry related tidbits go over to the Babalu Blog and read Val's
email battle with a Castro-lovin', Bush-hatin' educator who---I
think---was trying to solicit PR help for a student exchange program.
You can find his posts here and here. The Jane Austen Cage Match is awaiting your sensible judgment. Chime in and let us know who beat the snot out of whom.
If all that goody fails to satisfy you in my absence, well, there's just no hope for you, is there?
Lastly, I'm visiting James
today and as he's coming here on Friday, I would love to be able to
greet him with the news that a few more people have donated to help him
make his diabetes disappear.
Have I mentioned that the kid has a temper? Spare me his wrath, would you?
Oh, and Rich still has a Gmail account to give away to the next person who donates $50.
It's 100% tax deductible and
you will be helping researchers find a cure for a disease that keeps
kids like James from snarfing mini-snickers bars on Halloween. As you
reach into the bottom drawer of your desk for a little sweet to get you
through your day, remember that James doesn't get that option: he
hasn't tasted a candy bar since he was two-years-old. He doesn't
remember that chocolatey, caramely goodness. Donate a few bucks toward
sharing the experience, eh? /guilt trip.
Posted by: Kathy at
10:16 AM
| No Comments
| Add Comment
Post contains 340 words, total size 2 kb.
I've said before that Blogger's
I've said before that Blogger's lack of communication hasn't really
been an issue for me. It would be nice to know when they want to, you
know, update the entire system, like they did in May (we Blogspot users
had no clue about that---it just appeared). It would also be nice to
know when they plan on updating the posting window. But on the
whole, it hasn't been a bad thing. Until now. Last Friday
they switched the posting window to a graphical interface (or that's
what the husband's calling it)and it's been giving me headaches ever
since I started posting again. And I have absolutely no idea why, all
of a sudden, all my posts are now going into two columns, not one. The
husband has no clue, either, which really isn't a good sign. He can
usually suss this sort of thing out without any hitches in his stride.
He spent a good hour gazing at the template code and was left without
any ideas. He thought that by deleting the Gratuitous Veggie Blogging
post (the one with the pictures) it would solve the problem. This
was his recommendation yesterday, and I was loath to follow
through because I don't ever want to lose a post. But I got
desperate this morning and did so and now it looks to be even
more screwed up than before! The husband emailed Blogger
Support on my behalf YESTERDAY and they still haven't gotten back to
me. STILL. I realize the service is free, but you would think that they
could muster up some communication of the personalized kind on a
problem of this magnitude. An auto-reply email doesn't really cut
it when your entire blog is screwed up and there's nothing you can
do about it until they do contact you.
I realize beggars can't be choosers, but still. We're
talking almost twenty-four hours and no contact other than an
auto-reply email. That's just wrong. I take a goodly amount
of crap for being a Blogspot Blogger. Despite the new
templates and all the improvements, people still don't take you
seriously if you're on this service. It's blog snobbery,
yes, but what the hell can I do about it? That's just the
way the world works. Yet, I don't mind all that
much---normally---because it's free. We've been in a budget crunch here
while the husband starts up his software company and this is just
a freakin' hobby for me: it shouldn't cost me an arm and a leg to do
this, and if I actually have to pay for software and hosting and
all the other assorted crap, well, that's normally something I
would consider to be counterproductive. I repeat: normally.
This is turning into one of those situations where the camel's back is
becoming loaded. When will it break? No one really
knows. I'd better get an email from Blogger telling me how to fix
the damn problem sometime today or this could be the proverbial
straw.
Again, I apologize to my regular readers for the goofup. I
shouldn't be the one apologizing, because for once, this isn't my
fault, but still, I feel the obligation. Also, to any new
readers, know that it's not normally this screwed up around here and
I'm sorry for giving you a big,"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH THIS
FREAKIN' BLOG?" moment when you first hit my site.
I'm not going to bother posting anything new until the problem is
resolved. Blogging will resume when Blogger gets
off its collective ass and fixes what's wrong.
been an issue for me. It would be nice to know when they want to, you
know, update the entire system, like they did in May (we Blogspot users
had no clue about that---it just appeared). It would also be nice to
know when they plan on updating the posting window. But on the
whole, it hasn't been a bad thing. Until now. Last Friday
they switched the posting window to a graphical interface (or that's
what the husband's calling it)and it's been giving me headaches ever
since I started posting again. And I have absolutely no idea why, all
of a sudden, all my posts are now going into two columns, not one. The
husband has no clue, either, which really isn't a good sign. He can
usually suss this sort of thing out without any hitches in his stride.
He spent a good hour gazing at the template code and was left without
any ideas. He thought that by deleting the Gratuitous Veggie Blogging
post (the one with the pictures) it would solve the problem. This
was his recommendation yesterday, and I was loath to follow
through because I don't ever want to lose a post. But I got
desperate this morning and did so and now it looks to be even
more screwed up than before! The husband emailed Blogger
Support on my behalf YESTERDAY and they still haven't gotten back to
me. STILL. I realize the service is free, but you would think that they
could muster up some communication of the personalized kind on a
problem of this magnitude. An auto-reply email doesn't really cut
it when your entire blog is screwed up and there's nothing you can
do about it until they do contact you.
I realize beggars can't be choosers, but still. We're
talking almost twenty-four hours and no contact other than an
auto-reply email. That's just wrong. I take a goodly amount
of crap for being a Blogspot Blogger. Despite the new
templates and all the improvements, people still don't take you
seriously if you're on this service. It's blog snobbery,
yes, but what the hell can I do about it? That's just the
way the world works. Yet, I don't mind all that
much---normally---because it's free. We've been in a budget crunch here
while the husband starts up his software company and this is just
a freakin' hobby for me: it shouldn't cost me an arm and a leg to do
this, and if I actually have to pay for software and hosting and
all the other assorted crap, well, that's normally something I
would consider to be counterproductive. I repeat: normally.
This is turning into one of those situations where the camel's back is
becoming loaded. When will it break? No one really
knows. I'd better get an email from Blogger telling me how to fix
the damn problem sometime today or this could be the proverbial
straw.
Again, I apologize to my regular readers for the goofup. I
shouldn't be the one apologizing, because for once, this isn't my
fault, but still, I feel the obligation. Also, to any new
readers, know that it's not normally this screwed up around here and
I'm sorry for giving you a big,"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH THIS
FREAKIN' BLOG?" moment when you first hit my site.
I'm not going to bother posting anything new until the problem is
resolved. Blogging will resume when Blogger gets
off its collective ass and fixes what's wrong.
Posted by: Kathy at
09:39 AM
| No Comments
| Add Comment
Post contains 603 words, total size 4 kb.
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