I went to a dinner party at Nina's, who has recently launched her Ask For An Ocean View companion site. The site's slogan is a spot-on distillation of Ninaness and worth clicking over just for that. Anyway, for the dinner, I bought a bottle over of Bogle wine, and explained that the reason that I bought it was that the name was an anagram of BLOG + E, for Blog Entrepeneur. Nina did a passable job of acting amused.
Not like the time shortly after I began at Madison and was invited to a beginning of the year party. I brought tarts. I said I brought them because "tarts" was an anagram of START and so seemed the rousing choice given the party theme. The person to whom I said this looked at me the way you might imagine someone would look if the seemingly ordinary conversationalist she had been talking with had been suddenly replaced by a two-headed space alien, especially if that alien had something incredibly disgusting hanging out of one of its noses.
Moral: If you are someone who enjoys anagram humor, understand that this is a lonesome joy that will only bring awkwardness and pain if you try to share it with others.
Showing posts with label Nina. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nina. Show all posts
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Thursday, February 09, 2006
they make it look so easy
In a variety of contexts over the past month, I have heard the phrase "slam dunk"* used seemingly a hundred times to refer to situations that were easy, simple, or straightforward. The phrase, of course, has been common parlance for a long time, and I've probably heard it used closer to a thousand times in different conversations. And yet, I have never heard it used by someone who seemed like they could actually slam dunk a regulation basketball on a regulation court. Or, for that matter, even if you lowered the hoop by a foot.
* a.k.a. "slam dunker" in the idiolect of certain immigrant bloggers I could name.
* a.k.a. "slam dunker" in the idiolect of certain immigrant bloggers I could name.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
nina turns two!
(Nina and Jeremy in NYC, photo credit to Tonya)
(See post here.) And, unlike me, she's blogged every day, through thick and thin--and even through the thick-headedness and thinning-hairedness of certain Cantabrigian friends. And, also unlike me, she doesn't fiddle with the timestamps of her posts either.
Friday, August 12, 2005
dispatch from philadelphia
I have finally made it to my hotel in Philly. I have gotten something like 7 hours of sleep in the last 72 hours, and I am desperately underprepared for the presentation I am giving tomorrow. However, the grant proposal I've been collaborating on was successfully completed and movers did show up today to start hauling my stuff to Cambridge. Granted, they did show up 2 hours late, worked at such a imperceptible pace that it seemed whenever you were looking at them that they weren't actually working at all, and weren't done by the time I had to go to the airport. Never in my life have I had so little confidence in people I was entrusting with so much. My furniture is probably ablaze in a ditch somewhere in northern Indiana as I type this.
Incidentally, Nina and Dorotha were both a huge help with the move today and deserve dozens of newly minted karma points, making it all the more a pity that karma doesn't actually exist. Meanwhile, the non-existence of karma continues to work out pretty well for me, as it enables me to have all these friends who are far better than what I deserve.
Update: Okay, okay. "Incidentally" was not the right word. When I'm sleep-deprived, the first thing that goes is my diction.
Incidentally, Nina and Dorotha were both a huge help with the move today and deserve dozens of newly minted karma points, making it all the more a pity that karma doesn't actually exist. Meanwhile, the non-existence of karma continues to work out pretty well for me, as it enables me to have all these friends who are far better than what I deserve.
Update: Okay, okay. "Incidentally" was not the right word. When I'm sleep-deprived, the first thing that goes is my diction.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
the bendy straws of polska
Oskar recently posted ten observations from his recent trip to Poland. This reminded me that, on my own recent trip, I had made of list that ten small delights that Poland makes much better use of than the United States (this is not to say that there aren't larger delights that one could also mention). Anyway, I never posted the list, but I pulled out my trusty travel notebook and here it is:
1. The color yellow in exteriors and interiors of buildings.
2. Mushrooms.
3. Snails.
4. Bendy straws.
5. Train travel.
6. Accordians.
7. Smaller, more formal servings of soda.
8. Small cars.
9. Cute, classy glassware.
10. As Nina taught me, the ability to order anything by simply making a buzzing sound and then saying the name of the product. So, to order a Coke, you just have to say "zzzzCoca!"
I had also made a list of ten things I didn't like so much about Poland, which included (a) its obsession with cabbage, (b) dubious claims about the availability of WiFi, (c) weird doorknobs that make the door, in the words of the hotel staff, "locked for an American", and (d) how if you (or, say hypothetically, Nina) spill a full drink in what one could say was just as much the server's fault (or, again hypothetically, wholly and obviously Nina's fault), the restaurant expects you to pay for it. But all those things are so outweighed by the positive memories that it would seem petty and distorting to list completley.
1. The color yellow in exteriors and interiors of buildings.
2. Mushrooms.
3. Snails.
4. Bendy straws.
5. Train travel.
6. Accordians.
7. Smaller, more formal servings of soda.
8. Small cars.
9. Cute, classy glassware.
10. As Nina taught me, the ability to order anything by simply making a buzzing sound and then saying the name of the product. So, to order a Coke, you just have to say "zzzzCoca!"
I had also made a list of ten things I didn't like so much about Poland, which included (a) its obsession with cabbage, (b) dubious claims about the availability of WiFi, (c) weird doorknobs that make the door, in the words of the hotel staff, "locked for an American", and (d) how if you (or, say hypothetically, Nina) spill a full drink in what one could say was just as much the server's fault (or, again hypothetically, wholly and obviously Nina's fault), the restaurant expects you to pay for it. But all those things are so outweighed by the positive memories that it would seem petty and distorting to list completley.
Friday, May 20, 2005
some people see the glass as half empty, while others see it as a nice courtyard
Back when we were in Krakow, Nina and I were talking about how much we liked our hotel rooms.
Nina chirps: "And I also love looking out at the window. I have this view of a nice little courtyard."
Jeremy complains: "Really? My view is just a parking lot."
Then we realized that, given that Nina was staying in Room 211B and I was in Room 111B--meaning that my room was directly beneath hers--whatever it was we are looking out on was ultimately the same thing. Here it is:
I will leave it to the reader to judge which characterization of the area best applies.
Nina chirps: "And I also love looking out at the window. I have this view of a nice little courtyard."
Jeremy complains: "Really? My view is just a parking lot."
Then we realized that, given that Nina was staying in Room 211B and I was in Room 111B--meaning that my room was directly beneath hers--whatever it was we are looking out on was ultimately the same thing. Here it is:
I will leave it to the reader to judge which characterization of the area best applies.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
from paris: chronicling the more mellifluous part of this trip
Several posts about our trip are already up on NinaNet (starting here). If you've ever spent any time reading Nina's blog, you know that she really loves to post photos of food. As somebody with High Hydration Needs, I have always felt she was a little unfair about this, because she has never given drink anything like the kind of visual attention she lavishes on food. So, knowing that she was going to also be posting many photos of food from the restaurants we visited on this trip, I decided that I would make myself the official chronicler of the beverage encounters on this sojourn. Forthwith, my first dispatch:
1. Sure, Air France has free alcohol on international flights. But, if you have access to the business lounge, you don't have to wait until you actually get on the plane before you start drinking for free. Nina and I had a glass of champagne just before boarding:
2. Of course, we also took advantage of the drinks offered immediately after takeoff:
3. The second serving of wine came while Nina and I were playing chess*. Although she spent some time sentences to one of the Eastern European chess camps in a girl, Nina says she hadn't played chess in two decades; I hadn't played in something close to one. Anyway, she lasted 11 moves:
4. It's not like we were going to pass up wine with dinner. (If you've never flown Air France, by the way, be prepared for complete culture shock with the airplane food. I spontaneously shouted 'Viva La France' and started singing La Marseillaise while eating my pasta.
5. After spending something like three hours struggling with a series of delays in getting from the plane to our hotel--during which I was most certainly not singing La Marseillaise--Madeline**, Nina, and I had a carafe of white wine:
6. In a cafe in the late afternoon, I finally got a Coca-Cola. I'm not sure when the last time was that I went 24 consecutive hours with neither caffeine nor e-mail:
7. Nina selected the restaurant for dinner in part, she said, because of their attractive waiters. I didn't think they were anything to ecrire home about, but I'm not always good at judging the comeliness of members of my own set. In any case, the three of us had a bottle of burgundy:
*Also, according to Nina, the Camic family's favorite musical.
** I was the one who suggested this pseudonym, btw. Aren't I so the literary dickens?
1. Sure, Air France has free alcohol on international flights. But, if you have access to the business lounge, you don't have to wait until you actually get on the plane before you start drinking for free. Nina and I had a glass of champagne just before boarding:
2. Of course, we also took advantage of the drinks offered immediately after takeoff:
3. The second serving of wine came while Nina and I were playing chess*. Although she spent some time sentences to one of the Eastern European chess camps in a girl, Nina says she hadn't played chess in two decades; I hadn't played in something close to one. Anyway, she lasted 11 moves:
4. It's not like we were going to pass up wine with dinner. (If you've never flown Air France, by the way, be prepared for complete culture shock with the airplane food. I spontaneously shouted 'Viva La France' and started singing La Marseillaise while eating my pasta.
5. After spending something like three hours struggling with a series of delays in getting from the plane to our hotel--during which I was most certainly not singing La Marseillaise--Madeline**, Nina, and I had a carafe of white wine:
6. In a cafe in the late afternoon, I finally got a Coca-Cola. I'm not sure when the last time was that I went 24 consecutive hours with neither caffeine nor e-mail:
7. Nina selected the restaurant for dinner in part, she said, because of their attractive waiters. I didn't think they were anything to ecrire home about, but I'm not always good at judging the comeliness of members of my own set. In any case, the three of us had a bottle of burgundy:
*Also, according to Nina, the Camic family's favorite musical.
** I was the one who suggested this pseudonym, btw. Aren't I so the literary dickens?
from paris: how do you say 'lost in translation' in french?
The hotel where we are staying has Wi-Fi in the Lobby. Nina was down here blogging last night, but I was way too tired for any such iJinks and went to bed. Even so, and despite my own pleas to have tomorrow's start time be 8 instead of 7, I found myself wide awake at 4AM. I thought I might as well come down to the lobby to check e-mail and perhaps begin to catch up on my own blogging. In the corner of the lobby was Nina with her laptop, already back to composing e-mails and posts after three hours of sleep.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
back on the blogck
Showing that reverse migration from the "fallen travelers" to "fellow travelers" sections of my sidebar is possible, The Divine Tonya B is back among the living-breathing-blogging. This anecdote that she tells about the recent birthday dinner at Nina's is completely true:
Jeremy was too exhausted to stay for the entire party and announced that he'd leave early, but I wasn't prepared for the curious manner in which he would make his exit. One minute he was sitting almost right next to me and, a second later, Nina was whisking -- or perhaps shoving -- him out the door. It seemed that she suddenly decided that it was time for him to leave and out, out, out he went. It happened so quickly that the entire thing was a blur. Jeremy didn't even get a chance to say a proper goodbye to the rest of us. As Nina was slamming the door in his face, I think I heard him cry out a muffled farewell.I'm not sure what it was about. At least I got to have my cup of borsch before I was whisked out the door. It was my first experience with borsch, and so now there's a puzzle to be resolved: do I love borsch, or just Nina's borsch? This being the common causal problem posed by trying new dishes made by someone who is an excellent cook.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
happy birthday nina!
I'm sitting here at Camic Central, where it is Nina's birthday. I'm looking at a bunch of wonderful food that Nina is preparing for a dinner party that I, uber-flake that I am, will probably be flaking out on. Nina is showing me a birthday e-mail that she received from one of her daughters today, which was surreptitiously sent during some class and included a photo she took with her cel phone during the class. Kids these days with their crazy technologies and new dances.
If there is any doubt that Nina is more deserving than anyone of being on the canonization fast-track, consider this: she just made me some eggs. Granted, she's saintly, but saintly with an edge to her: while I was eating the eggs, she insisted on waving this herring in my face and saying "Look, look at its beady little eyes! Look!" You try eating eggs while someone is squeezing a dead fish's belly to make its eyes bulge out at you.
Laying on the counter are some lecture notes from one of Nina's classes. They look immaculately prepared, to be sure, but I keep focusing on the first line, which is: "Let me tell you about Poland." I've been long surprised that Nina hasn't used these six words as her a signature file.
Last night I was talking to Nina on the phone and, now that I don't have Internet access at home, she started reading comments from yesterday's "Comment" post to me. I must say: Nina does a pretty awesome 80-year-old Jewish man accent. Thing is, when she got to the punch line:
"Oh, it's some kind of religious reference."
"What does it say?"
"B-4, I-19, N-38..."
"Nina, that's not religious, that's Bingo!"
"Oh, they don't have bingo in Poland."
Nina just pulled out the chocolate cake that she's made for this evening. It is one of the most scrumptuous looking desserts I have ever seen in my life. Since the meal this evening apparently has some kind of Polish theme, I'm trying to convince her that she can tell her guests that there is a Polish custom that you always take a piece out of the cake before serving it. "Tell them it's supposed to appease the Spirts of Death and keep everyone healthy. Or something. They'll believe whatever as long as you say it with an authentic Old World air."
If there is any doubt that Nina is more deserving than anyone of being on the canonization fast-track, consider this: she just made me some eggs. Granted, she's saintly, but saintly with an edge to her: while I was eating the eggs, she insisted on waving this herring in my face and saying "Look, look at its beady little eyes! Look!" You try eating eggs while someone is squeezing a dead fish's belly to make its eyes bulge out at you.
Laying on the counter are some lecture notes from one of Nina's classes. They look immaculately prepared, to be sure, but I keep focusing on the first line, which is: "Let me tell you about Poland." I've been long surprised that Nina hasn't used these six words as her a signature file.
Last night I was talking to Nina on the phone and, now that I don't have Internet access at home, she started reading comments from yesterday's "Comment" post to me. I must say: Nina does a pretty awesome 80-year-old Jewish man accent. Thing is, when she got to the punch line:
"Oh, it's some kind of religious reference."
"What does it say?"
"B-4, I-19, N-38..."
"Nina, that's not religious, that's Bingo!"
"Oh, they don't have bingo in Poland."
Nina just pulled out the chocolate cake that she's made for this evening. It is one of the most scrumptuous looking desserts I have ever seen in my life. Since the meal this evening apparently has some kind of Polish theme, I'm trying to convince her that she can tell her guests that there is a Polish custom that you always take a piece out of the cake before serving it. "Tell them it's supposed to appease the Spirts of Death and keep everyone healthy. Or something. They'll believe whatever as long as you say it with an authentic Old World air."
Saturday, January 22, 2005
(simulblogging) dinner@nina's
7:00 pm: Okay, the blogger dinner is underway. In attendance: Tom, Tonya, Ann, Nina, and me. We've started the evening drinking champagne, in a curious celebration of a turn of events in one of our lives that has not actually, as yet, happened.
7:05 pm: Cameras are out. I'm sitting on one of these new stools that Nina has bought, that may be among the most awesome pieces of furniture I've ever seen. I might steal mine. When she reveals they only cost $99, I am tempted to order a dozen.
7:14 pm: Already there has been a discussion about whether truth-in-blogging requires one to write posts about gastrointestinal issues. Now, we've moved onto blogging about the strange drooling and spitting behaviors of others.
7:18 pm: Tonya comes over and reads what I'm blogging over my shoulder. She's quickly bored and moves on.
7:24 pm: First Google game of the evening: Will searching [ "Central Park" "rough sex" murder ] be enough to bring up the Preppy Murder case as the first entry? (Tonya's idea, btw.) Answer: Yes!
7:30 pm: Nina is engaged in retaliatory temperature control. Last time we all ate over here, we had to complain and stage a coup'd'temp because it was like 90 degrees here. So now, she's opened up a window and has the winter wind swooshing through here. I feel a need to keep typing so as not to lose any fingers to frostbite.
7:44 pm: Dinner. Suspension of simulblogging.
8:45 pm: Dinner over. Apples and Polish cheese on the table. Meanwhile, electronic photos of children are circulating. Not to be outdone, Nina is pulling out several thick albums of photos. Oh look, her daughters in little sailor suits--how adorable! Now her daughters dressed like the characters in the Wizard of Oz. Now they're holding up something that looks like a giant trout. What fun!
8:55 pm: Nina broke a glass while I was in the bathroom. Meanwhile, there's like a Rashomon-like reconstruction of what were the events that led up to the shattering.
9:02pm: Nina is now trying to pour cognac down our throats. I haven't had this much peer pressure regarding alcohol since high school out in rural Iowa. I stand firm with white wine.
9:03pm: Tonya nudges me and shows me the thumbnails of her Dave Matthews photo folder. She has something on the order of a thousand photos of him. She starts visibly salivating as she scrolls through them. You'd think Nina served up another course of tenderloin.
9:05pm: More photos going around. Why is everyone on the planet more photogenic than me? (A: Because everyone on the planet is actually better-looking than me.)
9:19pm: Tonya denies that she was salivating over the Dave Matthews photos. She's lying!
9:30pm: Nina and Ann are re-living some dispute they had 20 years ago about the starting time of their respective classes. Further evidence of the old rule that if you didn't resolve a dispute a couple decades ago when it was going on, you aren't going to resolve it now.
9:40pm: After vetoing the post-ability roughly two hundred different photos of her, Tonya is now complaining that Ann doesn't have any photos of her on her blog. "It's like you've erased me or something. It's like I'm not even here."
9:50pm: Nina breaks out the game. Hoopla. I've never played it. Ann seems skeptical. I'm hoping if it is lame Ann will take over the cranky work of vetoing it.
post 9:50pm: Hoopla festivities discussed in the comments below.
7:05 pm: Cameras are out. I'm sitting on one of these new stools that Nina has bought, that may be among the most awesome pieces of furniture I've ever seen. I might steal mine. When she reveals they only cost $99, I am tempted to order a dozen.
7:14 pm: Already there has been a discussion about whether truth-in-blogging requires one to write posts about gastrointestinal issues. Now, we've moved onto blogging about the strange drooling and spitting behaviors of others.
7:18 pm: Tonya comes over and reads what I'm blogging over my shoulder. She's quickly bored and moves on.
7:24 pm: First Google game of the evening: Will searching [ "Central Park" "rough sex" murder ] be enough to bring up the Preppy Murder case as the first entry? (Tonya's idea, btw.) Answer: Yes!
7:30 pm: Nina is engaged in retaliatory temperature control. Last time we all ate over here, we had to complain and stage a coup'd'temp because it was like 90 degrees here. So now, she's opened up a window and has the winter wind swooshing through here. I feel a need to keep typing so as not to lose any fingers to frostbite.
7:44 pm: Dinner. Suspension of simulblogging.
8:45 pm: Dinner over. Apples and Polish cheese on the table. Meanwhile, electronic photos of children are circulating. Not to be outdone, Nina is pulling out several thick albums of photos. Oh look, her daughters in little sailor suits--how adorable! Now her daughters dressed like the characters in the Wizard of Oz. Now they're holding up something that looks like a giant trout. What fun!
8:55 pm: Nina broke a glass while I was in the bathroom. Meanwhile, there's like a Rashomon-like reconstruction of what were the events that led up to the shattering.
9:02pm: Nina is now trying to pour cognac down our throats. I haven't had this much peer pressure regarding alcohol since high school out in rural Iowa. I stand firm with white wine.
9:03pm: Tonya nudges me and shows me the thumbnails of her Dave Matthews photo folder. She has something on the order of a thousand photos of him. She starts visibly salivating as she scrolls through them. You'd think Nina served up another course of tenderloin.
9:05pm: More photos going around. Why is everyone on the planet more photogenic than me? (A: Because everyone on the planet is actually better-looking than me.)
9:19pm: Tonya denies that she was salivating over the Dave Matthews photos. She's lying!
9:30pm: Nina and Ann are re-living some dispute they had 20 years ago about the starting time of their respective classes. Further evidence of the old rule that if you didn't resolve a dispute a couple decades ago when it was going on, you aren't going to resolve it now.
9:40pm: After vetoing the post-ability roughly two hundred different photos of her, Tonya is now complaining that Ann doesn't have any photos of her on her blog. "It's like you've erased me or something. It's like I'm not even here."
9:50pm: Nina breaks out the game. Hoopla. I've never played it. Ann seems skeptical. I'm hoping if it is lame Ann will take over the cranky work of vetoing it.
post 9:50pm: Hoopla festivities discussed in the comments below.
Monday, January 03, 2005
ocean's twelve (months)
Yesterday, Nina celebrated her first anniversary of her blog with a rousing brunch that included her husband,* her two relentlessly smart daughters, Ann, and myself. When you are invited to eat over the Camics, you can count on three things: (1) great food, (2) great conversation, and (3) prior to either of these, something getting torched in the kitchen. This time, the bacon Nina had put in the oven started burning just as Nina began talking smack about something in my blog, providing further evidence that God Loves JFW.
Blogging was indeed the most prominent topic of conversation, and the fuzzy world of blogger ethics were recurrently addressed. I was judged a web-weasel for sometimes changing the times of posts, but, despite the reproach, I will persist in the practice as I see fit. I was surprised later, however, when Ann, Nina, and All The Other Camics readily agreed that if you send an e-mail to a blogger, that e-mail is fair game to be posted to the blog without further consent. In a spirit of nostalgia, then, I thought that--even though I haven't explicitly gotten Nina's okay to do this--I would go back and look up the very first e-mail that ever I received from Nina. Sent 1/14/04, here it is:
In addition to being arguably the single most irrepressible spirit to walk the earth, Nina is also one of the most generous people I know. As a small example, she goes all the way to Poland and New York City, and she took the time out to get me some magnets. Including three in her campaign to get me back to blogging:
You're the best, Nina! Happy anniversary! I raise a steaming mug of vegetable broth to my screen in your honor!
* Who, incidentally, said he would rather be forced to spend a year blogging--even blogging exclusively about either (a) obituaries that he read in the newspaper that morning or (b) irregularities in the UW library fine system--than to spend a moment inside a karaoke bar.
** Of course, she did not stay huddled beneath this cloak of secrecy for very long.
*** Yes, she was talking about Ann's blog.
Blogging was indeed the most prominent topic of conversation, and the fuzzy world of blogger ethics were recurrently addressed. I was judged a web-weasel for sometimes changing the times of posts, but, despite the reproach, I will persist in the practice as I see fit. I was surprised later, however, when Ann, Nina, and All The Other Camics readily agreed that if you send an e-mail to a blogger, that e-mail is fair game to be posted to the blog without further consent. In a spirit of nostalgia, then, I thought that--even though I haven't explicitly gotten Nina's okay to do this--I would go back and look up the very first e-mail that ever I received from Nina. Sent 1/14/04, here it is:
Ever since my daughters have pointed me to your blog, I've been periodically amused by it. I keep a blog, but mine really is quite primitive -- intended for friends rather than for the general public**.... I steered a colleague of mine at the law school to your blog just today because she was interested in starting one, and I thought yours was a better illustration of a really nice style than mine was. She was equally impressed and launched one just today.*** So, you've been an inspiration !!Anyway, it's late and I'm tired, so I don't have the energy to type something appropriately gushy and mushy about Nina's blog, even though gushiness and mushiness are deeply deserved. Although, let me tell you, if you only know Nina through her blog, you are really missing out.
[a couple general questions about blogs]
Just to buy answers to my questions, I'll include a REALLY DUMB JOKE that I learnt back in the 60s when I was in school:
So on a chilly December day, in the city of Leningrad (we are in the 1960s), a rich American couple is touring the city in a limo, chauferred by one of those dour looking Soviet drivers by the name of Rudolf. The husband looks out the window of the limo and says in delight "look, dear, it is snowing in Leningrad!" The wife, feeling at odds with her husband, looks out and sees only the wet drops hitting the windshield. The husband is adamant: "It's snowing!" He exclaims. "Raining!" She counters. "Snowing!" He insists. She turns to the driver for verification-- "Is it raining or snowing?" she asks coyly. "Da, raining" he answers gruffly. She turns to her husband with a smug smile: "Aha! You see! Rudolf the Red knows rain, dear."
In addition to being arguably the single most irrepressible spirit to walk the earth, Nina is also one of the most generous people I know. As a small example, she goes all the way to Poland and New York City, and she took the time out to get me some magnets. Including three in her campaign to get me back to blogging:
You're the best, Nina! Happy anniversary! I raise a steaming mug of vegetable broth to my screen in your honor!
* Who, incidentally, said he would rather be forced to spend a year blogging--even blogging exclusively about either (a) obituaries that he read in the newspaper that morning or (b) irregularities in the UW library fine system--than to spend a moment inside a karaoke bar.
** Of course, she did not stay huddled beneath this cloak of secrecy for very long.
*** Yes, she was talking about Ann's blog.
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Zigzagging birds and final words
Dispatch from Nina:
Sometimes it appears that JFW brings together the sick, the lonely and the dispirited, with an occasional happy soul thrown in (you know who you are!) just for balance.
“Oh no, not me” you say. “I live an ordinary life. I just especially care about the fate of …feral children... Or, slightly lesser on the scale of injustices -- dating for doughnuts... Or the worth of sausages.” Oh my, hand me just a short day in a repressed society again!
I do not want to appear dismissive here. Every hapless soul has a place on this planet. But have we lost our sense of perspective sometimes, to say nothing of our reserves of positive energy? When I go back to Poland each year, people there always marvel at how “exotic” Americans’ personal problems are. You need only ride the taxi from the airport to downtown Warsaw before you begin to understand what I mean by that.
JFW trackers, you don’t understand how good life is to you!
As I wind up this short period of guest blogging here (to be replaced by the Lonely Doughnut Man? Oh dear.), I have to say it’s been… educational. Okay, fun as well. I’ll end with a Polish Proverb – and this one various people out there have heard me tell:
Once there was a flock of cold birds, shivering and shaking as the winter fast approached (these are Polish birds, but you can pretend they’re from the Dells). They sensed it was time to head south. They dusted off their traveling feathers, got into their formation, cranked up their flying motors and headed (toward Italy? Florida? Choose your side of the ocean) in a beautiful V that spread across the pale winter sky and made the people below look up and stare with wonder. But at the end of one line, a small bird could not get it right. She zigzagged this way and that and found it impossible to maintain that perfect symmetry. Finally she said “forget it, I’m going to wait out the winter here.” She fluttered down and found a barn that provided shelter for the cold season (in Poland I might add that she drank plenty of vodka and sang beautiful ballads with fellow barn-inhabitants all winter long). In spring, she looked up and saw her fine feathered friends pass overhead. Are you leaving? Asked the barn inhabitants. No, I am happy here, she answered as she soared up to sing a reprise of “Fly Me to the Moon” (elsewhere I’d say ‘Lato, Pachnace Mieta’), with an attempt at harmony with a slightly off-key swallow.
Is there a punch line? A bit of wisdom lodged there somewhere? A moral to be learned perhaps? I used to provide one when I told the story – typically as a toast on some special occasion. But JFW readers are an imaginative bunch. Make one up for yourselves!
Thanks, JFW editorial board for the honor of allowing me to post on this extraordinary, punchy, antic and ridiculously witty blog. I’ll return with a postscript from Poland next month.
Sometimes it appears that JFW brings together the sick, the lonely and the dispirited, with an occasional happy soul thrown in (you know who you are!) just for balance.
“Oh no, not me” you say. “I live an ordinary life. I just especially care about the fate of …feral children... Or, slightly lesser on the scale of injustices -- dating for doughnuts... Or the worth of sausages.” Oh my, hand me just a short day in a repressed society again!
I do not want to appear dismissive here. Every hapless soul has a place on this planet. But have we lost our sense of perspective sometimes, to say nothing of our reserves of positive energy? When I go back to Poland each year, people there always marvel at how “exotic” Americans’ personal problems are. You need only ride the taxi from the airport to downtown Warsaw before you begin to understand what I mean by that.
JFW trackers, you don’t understand how good life is to you!
As I wind up this short period of guest blogging here (to be replaced by the Lonely Doughnut Man? Oh dear.), I have to say it’s been… educational. Okay, fun as well. I’ll end with a Polish Proverb – and this one various people out there have heard me tell:
Once there was a flock of cold birds, shivering and shaking as the winter fast approached (these are Polish birds, but you can pretend they’re from the Dells). They sensed it was time to head south. They dusted off their traveling feathers, got into their formation, cranked up their flying motors and headed (toward Italy? Florida? Choose your side of the ocean) in a beautiful V that spread across the pale winter sky and made the people below look up and stare with wonder. But at the end of one line, a small bird could not get it right. She zigzagged this way and that and found it impossible to maintain that perfect symmetry. Finally she said “forget it, I’m going to wait out the winter here.” She fluttered down and found a barn that provided shelter for the cold season (in Poland I might add that she drank plenty of vodka and sang beautiful ballads with fellow barn-inhabitants all winter long). In spring, she looked up and saw her fine feathered friends pass overhead. Are you leaving? Asked the barn inhabitants. No, I am happy here, she answered as she soared up to sing a reprise of “Fly Me to the Moon” (elsewhere I’d say ‘Lato, Pachnace Mieta’), with an attempt at harmony with a slightly off-key swallow.
Is there a punch line? A bit of wisdom lodged there somewhere? A moral to be learned perhaps? I used to provide one when I told the story – typically as a toast on some special occasion. But JFW readers are an imaginative bunch. Make one up for yourselves!
Thanks, JFW editorial board for the honor of allowing me to post on this extraordinary, punchy, antic and ridiculously witty blog. I’ll return with a postscript from Poland next month.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Kalahari Comments: open spaces, casual places
Dispatch from Nina:
It is my tremendous good fortune [sic] to be writing this from the Kalahari Resort at the Wisconsin Dells. [I am attending a State Bar Board of Directors meeting here.] I find it an educational moment in my continued learning about the American Way. I can’t quite disclose the nature of our executive discussions (what, you think I’m blogging while the meeting is in progress? How crass!) but I can reflect on several things that seem JFW-appropriate.
First a question: why is everything so vast in this country? You could house a four-generation Polish family in the hall I had to traverse to get from the front door to the conference room. And the entrance itself: wow! Is this the gateway to the Great Pyramids or is it the driveway to a little bitty water park resort?
Secondly: what is the Wisconsin dress code anyway? I am confused. True, lawyers tend to dress up. Men law profs wear ties, soc profs, I am guessing, tend to dispense with neckwear (yes, I know, I need look no further than my own back yard to run into an exception to this). But for meetings of this type, at a Water Park Resort, was I wrong to take it a step down? I am in casual slacks (okay, call them what they are Рcorduroy pants, though with the nicest cut!) with my best black sweater and tr̬s French scarf. I left my swim suit at home, water park notwithstanding. Judging by the attire around me, I think I made the right decision.
But help me here: where are we at with clothes these days? In Poland, there is little diversity: city people dress in city ways and country people try to dress in city ways. Here, I’m stumped. I was told recently that you can tell someone is from Wisconsin if they are wearing cut offs and a parka. Surely that’s not the expectation though, is it?
Thursday, November 11, 2004
My Word!
Dispatch from Nina:
Lesson from the trenches: one has to be supremely cautious when guest blogging, especially when a comments function remains alive. It’s no job for a person whose first language is not English (me!). Eek!
Though, my lack of sensitivity toward shades of meaning thus far demonstrated on this blog is nothing compared with my struggle to keep up with euphemisms, or, more accurately, what Pinker refers to as the “euphemism treadmill” (when a word originally adopted as a euphemism picks up all the negative meaning of the original and I don’t even notice).
Common treadmill examples: “toilet room", itself a euphemism, was replaced with "bathroom" and "water closet", which were then replaced with "rest room." I’m sure I’ll still be asking for the rest room while the rest of the country has now moved on to “powder room,” though in all honesty I find it hard to imagine men (Jeremy?) asking to use the “powder room.” It’s been suggested that “women’s room” replace “ladies’ room” but it doesn’t feel at all right to me. But then, neither does the “john” or the “little girls’room.”
Or, here’s a classic one: crippled → handicapped → disabled → differently-abled. And where are we now? Who knows!
Sometimes I think I am on safer ground if I stick with foreign euphemisms: derriere, for example, seems fairly safe for another decade or so. Though, did I miss the moment when it officially turned into the gluteus maximus? Sounds a bit supersized to me.
Incidentally, Polish vocabulary doesn not rely on double meaning as much as Englsih vocabulary does. The language is richer in that it simply has a greater number of words in common usage.
Lesson from the trenches: one has to be supremely cautious when guest blogging, especially when a comments function remains alive. It’s no job for a person whose first language is not English (me!). Eek!
Though, my lack of sensitivity toward shades of meaning thus far demonstrated on this blog is nothing compared with my struggle to keep up with euphemisms, or, more accurately, what Pinker refers to as the “euphemism treadmill” (when a word originally adopted as a euphemism picks up all the negative meaning of the original and I don’t even notice).
Common treadmill examples: “toilet room", itself a euphemism, was replaced with "bathroom" and "water closet", which were then replaced with "rest room." I’m sure I’ll still be asking for the rest room while the rest of the country has now moved on to “powder room,” though in all honesty I find it hard to imagine men (Jeremy?) asking to use the “powder room.” It’s been suggested that “women’s room” replace “ladies’ room” but it doesn’t feel at all right to me. But then, neither does the “john” or the “little girls’room.”
Or, here’s a classic one: crippled → handicapped → disabled → differently-abled. And where are we now? Who knows!
Sometimes I think I am on safer ground if I stick with foreign euphemisms: derriere, for example, seems fairly safe for another decade or so. Though, did I miss the moment when it officially turned into the gluteus maximus? Sounds a bit supersized to me.
Incidentally, Polish vocabulary doesn not rely on double meaning as much as Englsih vocabulary does. The language is richer in that it simply has a greater number of words in common usage.
Guest blogging privileges soon to be revoked?
Dispatch from Nina:
The air waves between JFW and Ocean (my blog) have been thick and steamy lately and so I missed the signal indicating that a guest blogger typically blogs about their own take on things rather than commenting on the author of the host blog (and his eating habits, for example). Doing my research (after the fact, but so what), I now find that most guest bloggers add balance to the hosting blog.
I get it now. I am to be the not funny element on JFW (this will be a cinch!). Guest bloggers are in place so that the audience craves the return of the original blogger (who is typically having a grand time watching the guest do exotic and ridiculous things that make the host look finer by the minute). No wonder I was asked to take part.
The air waves between JFW and Ocean (my blog) have been thick and steamy lately and so I missed the signal indicating that a guest blogger typically blogs about their own take on things rather than commenting on the author of the host blog (and his eating habits, for example). Doing my research (after the fact, but so what), I now find that most guest bloggers add balance to the hosting blog.
I get it now. I am to be the not funny element on JFW (this will be a cinch!). Guest bloggers are in place so that the audience craves the return of the original blogger (who is typically having a grand time watching the guest do exotic and ridiculous things that make the host look finer by the minute). No wonder I was asked to take part.
wurse comes to wurst
Note: This was the post I wrote about my recent break from pescatarianism, which I did not get the chance to post before Nina scooped me with her guest post.
Confession: for over two months now, I have been living a lie. I continue to tell people that I am a devout pescatarian, that is, an otherwise-vegetarian who eats meat from the sea. In point of fact, I have had meat-from-the-lands twice in the past two months. What meat might you think would break my pescatarian will, which had gone unbreached since sometime in the latter part of the Clinton administration? Guess.
Go on, guess, I'll wait.
Steak? Pork chops? Chicken tenders? Giant shank of lamb? Veal? Duck? Venison? Fellow plane crash survivor? No, these are all temptations I have been able to successfully resist. Instead, my gastronomical Achilles heel turns out to be bratwurst.
Bratwurst. How sick is that?
What's more sick is how it happened. On Labor Day weekend, as I was driving home from Borders, something carnevil possessed me as I passed by the World's Largest Brat Fest being hosted in the Hilldale Mall Parking Lot. I bought two, slathered them in mustard, and ate them. All by myself. I think when most people who are vegetarian/pescatarian break down and eat something that was formerly a dietary restriction, they probably cave in when they are in a group of people, perhaps even as a result of the pressure or encouragement of those with them. Or maybe they cave because they are drunk and the bar they are in is giving out free bacon. What they don't do is cave right in the middle of the day and for bratwurst. Just to prove that my little tete-a-tete with bratwurst was not a one-time fling--it didn't mean anything, honest!--I got bratwurst again when I went with friends to see the Hawkeyes last month. I would even say that I was looking forward to it.
Confession: for over two months now, I have been living a lie. I continue to tell people that I am a devout pescatarian, that is, an otherwise-vegetarian who eats meat from the sea. In point of fact, I have had meat-from-the-lands twice in the past two months. What meat might you think would break my pescatarian will, which had gone unbreached since sometime in the latter part of the Clinton administration? Guess.
Go on, guess, I'll wait.
Steak? Pork chops? Chicken tenders? Giant shank of lamb? Veal? Duck? Venison? Fellow plane crash survivor? No, these are all temptations I have been able to successfully resist. Instead, my gastronomical Achilles heel turns out to be bratwurst.
Bratwurst. How sick is that?
What's more sick is how it happened. On Labor Day weekend, as I was driving home from Borders, something carnevil possessed me as I passed by the World's Largest Brat Fest being hosted in the Hilldale Mall Parking Lot. I bought two, slathered them in mustard, and ate them. All by myself. I think when most people who are vegetarian/pescatarian break down and eat something that was formerly a dietary restriction, they probably cave in when they are in a group of people, perhaps even as a result of the pressure or encouragement of those with them. Or maybe they cave because they are drunk and the bar they are in is giving out free bacon. What they don't do is cave right in the middle of the day and for bratwurst. Just to prove that my little tete-a-tete with bratwurst was not a one-time fling--it didn't mean anything, honest!--I got bratwurst again when I went with friends to see the Hawkeyes last month. I would even say that I was looking forward to it.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Guest blogger chimes in: on Polish kings and truth in advertising
Dispatch from Nina:
Some may regard it as an honor to be guest blogging on JFW. I can’t say that the invitation to post here was especially charitable. It was presented in the following way: JF: “I am desperate to move beyond some of these [especially lurid and vile?] posts and I haven’t the time. Post something for me!” So I agreed, myself wanting not to wake up anymore to the blistering remarks about the worth of Polish sausages, all just a mere half-dozen posts preceding this day (see comments to “as above so below").
But what really pushed me into this was the next part of the conversation. JF: “Why are you so worked up about the comments on JFW about Polish sausages? You know it’s the truth: brats are better than Polish sausage.” My reply: “How can you say that? You are a vegetarian-piscatorian [is that even a word?]. You don’t know tofu about brats.” JF: “Actually I had a brat during Labor Day week-end. And then another after that. And then another. Delicious.”
And so I feel compelled to say something for the sake of the blog banner of honesty: Jeremy eats brats. And, Jeremy drives a car to work each day (remember that post about biking? Uh-uh). Mr. blogger extraordinaire also thinks his posts can generate comments, more so than anybody’s on this or the other side of the ocean. And I have to agree. In the same way that GWB can capture the southern States even if he does nothing more than perch himself on a fence and shoot spitballs at various passersby, so too it appears that Jeremy can post anything at all, even one flippant little comment about a bumper sticker, and 20 people will trip over themselves in a rush to chime in (you would be correct to point out that I am deserving of a free drink as well, having punched in full a card of “ten comments and the next one’s on us”).
But I do want to say one thing. Don’t bask too long and hard, Mr. JF. There is an old Polish proverb that says “he [yes, the Polish language is gratuitously generous toward the male-kind] who favors brats over kielbasa shows himself to be a mere caricature of a person; but he who exalts the sausage of Polish kings, deserves the crown of a glorious future and the good fortunes that befit a nobleman.” I feel for you, Jeremy. But there’s still time. I’ll send the kielbasa truck to your RV when next I see it. What’s your address again? I don’t seem to recall any RV lots within biking distance of Sociology…
Some may regard it as an honor to be guest blogging on JFW. I can’t say that the invitation to post here was especially charitable. It was presented in the following way: JF: “I am desperate to move beyond some of these [especially lurid and vile?] posts and I haven’t the time. Post something for me!” So I agreed, myself wanting not to wake up anymore to the blistering remarks about the worth of Polish sausages, all just a mere half-dozen posts preceding this day (see comments to “as above so below").
But what really pushed me into this was the next part of the conversation. JF: “Why are you so worked up about the comments on JFW about Polish sausages? You know it’s the truth: brats are better than Polish sausage.” My reply: “How can you say that? You are a vegetarian-piscatorian [is that even a word?]. You don’t know tofu about brats.” JF: “Actually I had a brat during Labor Day week-end. And then another after that. And then another. Delicious.”
And so I feel compelled to say something for the sake of the blog banner of honesty: Jeremy eats brats. And, Jeremy drives a car to work each day (remember that post about biking? Uh-uh). Mr. blogger extraordinaire also thinks his posts can generate comments, more so than anybody’s on this or the other side of the ocean. And I have to agree. In the same way that GWB can capture the southern States even if he does nothing more than perch himself on a fence and shoot spitballs at various passersby, so too it appears that Jeremy can post anything at all, even one flippant little comment about a bumper sticker, and 20 people will trip over themselves in a rush to chime in (you would be correct to point out that I am deserving of a free drink as well, having punched in full a card of “ten comments and the next one’s on us”).
But I do want to say one thing. Don’t bask too long and hard, Mr. JF. There is an old Polish proverb that says “he [yes, the Polish language is gratuitously generous toward the male-kind] who favors brats over kielbasa shows himself to be a mere caricature of a person; but he who exalts the sausage of Polish kings, deserves the crown of a glorious future and the good fortunes that befit a nobleman.” I feel for you, Jeremy. But there’s still time. I’ll send the kielbasa truck to your RV when next I see it. What’s your address again? I don’t seem to recall any RV lots within biking distance of Sociology…
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
an open apology to nina
In a comment to my last post, Nina asked:
I mean, if you believe that there really is no difference between Kerry and Bush, despite the various incisive arguments that can be made to the contrary, then, fine, vote for Nader. If you believe that the next four years wouldn't be different/better under Kerry than under Bush, then, fine, vote for Nader. If you believe your vote doesn't actually matter, then, fine, vote for Nader (or, more rationally perhaps, stay home). But don't freaking tell me that you recognize that Kerry would make a better President than Bush, but that Your Precious Conscience won't let you vote for Kerry and so you voted for Nader. Don't try to enlist me in your stupid little Delusion of Nobility. I mean, really, who the hell do you think you are? Who do you think you are, that the ephemeral ease of Your Precious Conscience is more important than the fates of those people who you believe would be directly affected by the different policies of the potential Kerry vs. Bush administrations?
Here at JFW, we are not fans of selfishness generally, but the most infuriating selfishness is the kind that tries to pass itself off as being The Honorable Thing For Those Who Care About Others. I'm sorry that you gotten yourself in the psychological bind where you will feel a little bit worse if you vote for Kerry than you would if you voted for Nader. Three words: Suck It Up.
Ugh. Now I'm stomping around the RV all agitated. Thanks a lot, Nina.
I want you to quash a third reason offered [for voting for Nader]: they often say American politics are all about voting your conscience, that this is what democracy is all about, not this succumbing to political manipulations. [C]oming from Poland, I am more familiar with succumbing to political manipulations than democratic ideals, so please knock the s*** out of this argument too. Thanks.Sorry, Nina, I can't. I can't type a post arguing against the vote-your-conscience argument for voting for Nader. I can't not because it is a good argument, but because, of all the various arguments out there for voting for Nader, it is the one I hate so passionately as it completely robs me of my capacity to respond reasonably to it. Seriously and literally, it enrages me. Not because of its irrationality, which is plenty and relatively easily demonstrated, but because the argument is so unbelievably freaking selfish. Yes, I want to shout, democracy really is all about giving you a smug pious self-satisfied warm glow when you leave the voting booth.
I mean, if you believe that there really is no difference between Kerry and Bush, despite the various incisive arguments that can be made to the contrary, then, fine, vote for Nader. If you believe that the next four years wouldn't be different/better under Kerry than under Bush, then, fine, vote for Nader. If you believe your vote doesn't actually matter, then, fine, vote for Nader (or, more rationally perhaps, stay home). But don't freaking tell me that you recognize that Kerry would make a better President than Bush, but that Your Precious Conscience won't let you vote for Kerry and so you voted for Nader. Don't try to enlist me in your stupid little Delusion of Nobility. I mean, really, who the hell do you think you are? Who do you think you are, that the ephemeral ease of Your Precious Conscience is more important than the fates of those people who you believe would be directly affected by the different policies of the potential Kerry vs. Bush administrations?
Here at JFW, we are not fans of selfishness generally, but the most infuriating selfishness is the kind that tries to pass itself off as being The Honorable Thing For Those Who Care About Others. I'm sorry that you gotten yourself in the psychological bind where you will feel a little bit worse if you vote for Kerry than you would if you voted for Nader. Three words: Suck It Up.
Ugh. Now I'm stomping around the RV all agitated. Thanks a lot, Nina.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
this blog is on
6:40: I'm here, at the central headquarters of NinaNet, awaiting the next Blogger dinner. The plan is to not just eat this evening, but also to simulblog the entire affair. Other expected guests have their blogs here (A) and here (B).
6:50: Nina is squeezing some doughy stuff out of a bag. It's for what's she's claiming was her signature dish at L'Etoile. Whatever it is, it starts with a "Gr" sound and is French. She refuses to spell it for the purposes of our audience. BTW, I forgot my digital camera, and so if anyone is going to be uploading photos of all the delicious stuff Nina is making, it won't be me.
6:53: Nina has already gone into her spiel about what an atrocity it is that I don't cook. "Who was that guy who said in your comments that he didn't want to be some quintessential male who only made macaroni & cheese...?" "He's a graduate student in sociology somewhere." "I read that and I thought, right on, whoever you are." As I type this, she is wandering around her kitchen, doing this mocking high-pitched imitation of me (frankly, Nina's imitation doesn't sound anything like me, but instead sounds a little like a screeching marmot).
6:57: Nina now believes she is dictating something for me to post and that I am posting it dutifully. Seriously, she's reciting it to me like a 50's style boss doing dictation to his secretary. Punctuation included. (I'm not actually typing it in, of course.)
7:00: Nina has gotten sufficiently carried away in her little verbal games that something is now on fire. Punctuate that!
7:05: Ann has arrived. Nina handed me the first bottle of whatever to open. She didn't mention it was some kind of bubbly thing that would foam up and get on everything upon being opened. My laptop was missed by inches.
7:10: We have all removed our shoes. Nina claims this is "a Polish custom that [she] hasn't been able to shake." Ann is taking pictures. In backing away and trying to get a good angle of Nina cooking and me blogging, Ann inadvertently comes within four inches of tumbling down the Camic basement stairs. Oh, and now something else in the kitchen is in flames. Two blazes in ten minutes. Ann got a picture of it.
7:14: The topic of conversation has turned to foods that taste good burned. Top of the list: marshmallows!
7:20: Tonya has arrived, karaoke machine in tow. Nina is unveiling what will be the fish entree of the evening. "Fish is hard," she says, "because you know, people say they like fish but then they don't like fishy fish..." "Like catfish," Ann says. "Like walleye," I say. Nina turns and pointedly: "What if it was walleye?" "What if it was catfish?" I do not add. It's neither, which isn't surprising, given that they are fishy fish: it's skate.
7:31: Tonya has her computer out now. She has a PowerBook with what looks a 25-inch screen. Seriously, this is the largest contemporary laptop I've seen; it looks like a titanium dormitory-dining-hall serving tray.
7:33: Nina's first threat to throw me out of the house!
7:40: Tonya is the one to point out the obvious: that it is something over 90-degrees here in the Kitchen Camic. Nothing can be done: Nina says this is "a Polish custom that [she] hasn't been able to let go of."
7:46: Nina's second threat to throw me out. Tonya and Ann are playing competing songs on their Powerbooks. Given that Tonya has the most giant Powerbook I have ever seen, it's not surprising that I can only hear hers. The song: "Ants Marching," Dave Matthews Band.
7:49: Nina gives the five minute warning to first course.
7:54: Right on time, Nina is serving up the risotto and demanding a suspension of blogging.
7:59: First reference to Melville! We do work in The Ivory Tower, after all.
8:11: First course is off the table. After I had started eating, Tonya says "We use the small fork," right? To which I have to hold up the fork I'm using and the one I'm not and compare. "Yes!!!" Meanwhile, Tonya has some hip-hop song going that begins with a chant "Go! [beat] Go! [beat] Go! [beat] Go!" "Hey, they're singing about goats!" says Nina.
8:13: The risotto, incidentally, is fantastic.
8:21: The air conditioning is on. "Those Americans," sighs Nina, with a kind of resigned intonation and said as though we aren't here, "those Americans have no tolerance for anything that is not just so. There is no air conditioning in all of Poland, as far as I know."
8:29: I surreptitiously check my e-mail. I am such an addict. "What are you blogging?" Tonya asks. "Nothing," I reply, honestly.
9:07: The television is out, and we're watching the GWB convention film. Tonya (a New Yorker) begins to talk about "How I hate the way he uses..." and I think she is going to finish with "9/11" but instead she says "the Yankees."
9:47: I lost my last two time entries, somehow! You missed a whole long conversation about who would be the Democratic nominee if every voter followed the "hottie" strategy used by some. There is one enthusiast for Bill Clinton. I do point out the constitutional exclusion against a third term. "He could serve a third term with me," says someone.
You also missed my post about how wonderful was the dessert that Nina made. Indeed, it was so good that Nina licked her plate completely clean. Then she pulled the plate off her face, and she and Ann began arguing about the Middle East. As a public sociologist, I should be joining in the debate, but instead I secretly checked my e-mail again. Bad, bad public sociologist!
9:52: Nina has her computer out, so we are all four online now. Tonya is disappointed that no one else is itching to do karaoke. I had to break it to her earlier that, while I enjoy karaoke, I can't actually sing.
9:59: Tonya is crawling on the ground in the other room. I'm not sure what has happened. Whatever it is, there is apparently a photo which Nina does NOT have permission to post.
10:01: GWB is on the TV saying "there have always been doubters." As if on cue, Tonya brings the karaoke machine out and is setting it up on the karaoke table. She will not be denied. Dear God, Tonya has a LOT of karaoke CDs. Note to fellow UW sociologists: we should raid and copy her stash.
10:06: Bush is still going. Tonya is singing Dave Matthews Band's "Too Much" into the karaoke machine. Ann notes that it is difficult to blog through it all.
10:12: Bush just finished, as Nina began to press Tonya on whether, given that it's just us all sitting around the kitchen table, she really needs to be using the microphone on her karaoke set. Sometimes Nina doesn't understand karaoke at all.
10:14: After mostly ignoring the TV, we all turn in confusion when the announcer, describing the convention floor, says "For those of you who are watching on black and white TVs, the balloons are red, white, and blue." "Who has a black and white TV?" Nina exclaims. ("Except in Poland," I expect her to add, but she doesn't.)
10:20: Ann checks her sitemeter and she's had over a thousand people check out her site in the last hour. Anyone disappointed by her paucity of posts this evening should recognize that she been working while have dinner and drinks and while having the person to her left doing an extended Dave Matthews Band karaoke medley. (STOP THE PRESSES: Tonya has just stopped the DMB run, cranking up the microphone in order to do Santana's "Smooth.")
10:36: As Tonya does "Band of Gold," she makes an instrumental break reference to Isaac Hayes, which causes Nina to shout "Issac Hayes! Did you read in the paper how he was in New Haven the same time I was?" (Strangely, the rest of us all missed this story.) Now, Tonya has ceded the microphone to Nina, who is doing a good version of "My Girl," with this running commentary that makes it almost seem like The Official Annotated My Girl. At an instrument part near the end, she shouts "MORE WORDS! I can't believe there are more words. Shut up already! Okay... month of May..."
[soon afterward, I closed my laptop... I didn't get home, though, until after 11:30. If the preceding does not emphasize enough what an amazing-amazing cook Nina is--not to mention a fantastic and indulgent all-around host--please mentally amend accordingly.]
6:50: Nina is squeezing some doughy stuff out of a bag. It's for what's she's claiming was her signature dish at L'Etoile. Whatever it is, it starts with a "Gr" sound and is French. She refuses to spell it for the purposes of our audience. BTW, I forgot my digital camera, and so if anyone is going to be uploading photos of all the delicious stuff Nina is making, it won't be me.
6:53: Nina has already gone into her spiel about what an atrocity it is that I don't cook. "Who was that guy who said in your comments that he didn't want to be some quintessential male who only made macaroni & cheese...?" "He's a graduate student in sociology somewhere." "I read that and I thought, right on, whoever you are." As I type this, she is wandering around her kitchen, doing this mocking high-pitched imitation of me (frankly, Nina's imitation doesn't sound anything like me, but instead sounds a little like a screeching marmot).
6:57: Nina now believes she is dictating something for me to post and that I am posting it dutifully. Seriously, she's reciting it to me like a 50's style boss doing dictation to his secretary. Punctuation included. (I'm not actually typing it in, of course.)
7:00: Nina has gotten sufficiently carried away in her little verbal games that something is now on fire. Punctuate that!
7:05: Ann has arrived. Nina handed me the first bottle of whatever to open. She didn't mention it was some kind of bubbly thing that would foam up and get on everything upon being opened. My laptop was missed by inches.
7:10: We have all removed our shoes. Nina claims this is "a Polish custom that [she] hasn't been able to shake." Ann is taking pictures. In backing away and trying to get a good angle of Nina cooking and me blogging, Ann inadvertently comes within four inches of tumbling down the Camic basement stairs. Oh, and now something else in the kitchen is in flames. Two blazes in ten minutes. Ann got a picture of it.
7:14: The topic of conversation has turned to foods that taste good burned. Top of the list: marshmallows!
7:20: Tonya has arrived, karaoke machine in tow. Nina is unveiling what will be the fish entree of the evening. "Fish is hard," she says, "because you know, people say they like fish but then they don't like fishy fish..." "Like catfish," Ann says. "Like walleye," I say. Nina turns and pointedly: "What if it was walleye?" "What if it was catfish?" I do not add. It's neither, which isn't surprising, given that they are fishy fish: it's skate.
7:31: Tonya has her computer out now. She has a PowerBook with what looks a 25-inch screen. Seriously, this is the largest contemporary laptop I've seen; it looks like a titanium dormitory-dining-hall serving tray.
7:33: Nina's first threat to throw me out of the house!
7:40: Tonya is the one to point out the obvious: that it is something over 90-degrees here in the Kitchen Camic. Nothing can be done: Nina says this is "a Polish custom that [she] hasn't been able to let go of."
7:46: Nina's second threat to throw me out. Tonya and Ann are playing competing songs on their Powerbooks. Given that Tonya has the most giant Powerbook I have ever seen, it's not surprising that I can only hear hers. The song: "Ants Marching," Dave Matthews Band.
7:49: Nina gives the five minute warning to first course.
7:54: Right on time, Nina is serving up the risotto and demanding a suspension of blogging.
7:59: First reference to Melville! We do work in The Ivory Tower, after all.
8:11: First course is off the table. After I had started eating, Tonya says "We use the small fork," right? To which I have to hold up the fork I'm using and the one I'm not and compare. "Yes!!!" Meanwhile, Tonya has some hip-hop song going that begins with a chant "Go! [beat] Go! [beat] Go! [beat] Go!" "Hey, they're singing about goats!" says Nina.
8:13: The risotto, incidentally, is fantastic.
8:21: The air conditioning is on. "Those Americans," sighs Nina, with a kind of resigned intonation and said as though we aren't here, "those Americans have no tolerance for anything that is not just so. There is no air conditioning in all of Poland, as far as I know."
8:29: I surreptitiously check my e-mail. I am such an addict. "What are you blogging?" Tonya asks. "Nothing," I reply, honestly.
9:07: The television is out, and we're watching the GWB convention film. Tonya (a New Yorker) begins to talk about "How I hate the way he uses..." and I think she is going to finish with "9/11" but instead she says "the Yankees."
9:47: I lost my last two time entries, somehow! You missed a whole long conversation about who would be the Democratic nominee if every voter followed the "hottie" strategy used by some. There is one enthusiast for Bill Clinton. I do point out the constitutional exclusion against a third term. "He could serve a third term with me," says someone.
You also missed my post about how wonderful was the dessert that Nina made. Indeed, it was so good that Nina licked her plate completely clean. Then she pulled the plate off her face, and she and Ann began arguing about the Middle East. As a public sociologist, I should be joining in the debate, but instead I secretly checked my e-mail again. Bad, bad public sociologist!
9:52: Nina has her computer out, so we are all four online now. Tonya is disappointed that no one else is itching to do karaoke. I had to break it to her earlier that, while I enjoy karaoke, I can't actually sing.
9:59: Tonya is crawling on the ground in the other room. I'm not sure what has happened. Whatever it is, there is apparently a photo which Nina does NOT have permission to post.
10:01: GWB is on the TV saying "there have always been doubters." As if on cue, Tonya brings the karaoke machine out and is setting it up on the karaoke table. She will not be denied. Dear God, Tonya has a LOT of karaoke CDs. Note to fellow UW sociologists: we should raid and copy her stash.
10:06: Bush is still going. Tonya is singing Dave Matthews Band's "Too Much" into the karaoke machine. Ann notes that it is difficult to blog through it all.
10:12: Bush just finished, as Nina began to press Tonya on whether, given that it's just us all sitting around the kitchen table, she really needs to be using the microphone on her karaoke set. Sometimes Nina doesn't understand karaoke at all.
10:14: After mostly ignoring the TV, we all turn in confusion when the announcer, describing the convention floor, says "For those of you who are watching on black and white TVs, the balloons are red, white, and blue." "Who has a black and white TV?" Nina exclaims. ("Except in Poland," I expect her to add, but she doesn't.)
10:20: Ann checks her sitemeter and she's had over a thousand people check out her site in the last hour. Anyone disappointed by her paucity of posts this evening should recognize that she been working while have dinner and drinks and while having the person to her left doing an extended Dave Matthews Band karaoke medley. (STOP THE PRESSES: Tonya has just stopped the DMB run, cranking up the microphone in order to do Santana's "Smooth.")
10:36: As Tonya does "Band of Gold," she makes an instrumental break reference to Isaac Hayes, which causes Nina to shout "Issac Hayes! Did you read in the paper how he was in New Haven the same time I was?" (Strangely, the rest of us all missed this story.) Now, Tonya has ceded the microphone to Nina, who is doing a good version of "My Girl," with this running commentary that makes it almost seem like The Official Annotated My Girl. At an instrument part near the end, she shouts "MORE WORDS! I can't believe there are more words. Shut up already! Okay... month of May..."
[soon afterward, I closed my laptop... I didn't get home, though, until after 11:30. If the preceding does not emphasize enough what an amazing-amazing cook Nina is--not to mention a fantastic and indulgent all-around host--please mentally amend accordingly.]
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