|Chapter 37: In which I unload all sorts of bits and pieces.
||[Jun. 21st, 2012|03:19 pm]
This post is the written equivalent of cleaning out the vegetable drawer. With less rotting organic matter. |
I left my phone home again today. I left it home yesterday, too. Yesterday I wanted to drive a fair distance over lunch to run an errand, but I put it off, because I thought that no phone and 100 degrees would GUARANTEE car trouble on the Beltway. Today I really needed to call/text two people whose phone numbers I don’t have memorized and who wouldn’t be checking their e-mail. I wonder what tomorrow’s PITA related to forgetting my phone will be? Because you know I’m totally going to forget it again. Three time’s the….
But it's all okay, because this weekend I'm going to watch Killer Shrews! One of the worst movies of all time, yet still entertaining in its awfulness, PLUS it is designed to be a drinking game. (Have I posted this already? Maybe. THAT'S how jazzed I am, people. Big fake shrew puppet heads, greyhounds running around with mops attached to them to look like running shrews (no one apparently noticed the screaming difference between the puppet head in closeups and the mop-adorned dogs in jungle shots...which makes it even AWESOMER) plus the only tropical research station with a cocktail bar in the corner of every damn room! "Hmm, it looks like the shrews have managed to chew their way through the perimeter fence. Can anyone else use a drink?" And then he makes a COCKTAIL. Kid you not.
Temple Grandin, who I admire greatly for marrying animal welfare and pragmatism, in talking about gestation crates (keeping a sow in a flat stall so that she can’t turn around or walk around for the entire length of gestation, which is four months…and since they go from that into a farrowing crate to nurse and then are immediately impregnated, then back into the gestation crate they go…let’s just say their entire lives) which are thankfully being phased out, albeit at a snail’s pace, and how one of the biggest arguments in favor of the crates is to reduce fighting amongst the sows: “Lean breeding resulted in nasty pigs that fight…Now they are going to have to breed pigs that get along better.” Thank you, Temple, for making me feel better about carrying a little extra baggage. Because no one needs me to get meaner.
I get really tired of people my age, and even younger, who bash teenagers because of their music, their dress, their slang, how they communicate, how they spend their free time…and I really get cheesed with the bemoaning that by gum, these kids don’t even know the state capitals, anymore!
Here, you memory-deficient geezers who clearly don’t remember that you are saying the exact damn thing that oldsters said about YOU when YOU were a teenager. Suck it, thusly:
Plus, helium to fight kudzu. Awesome.
This is some interesting fodder in this article. It gets more interesting, in my opinion, as the article progresses. There seems to be a movement encouraging more collaboration between human doctors and veterinarians – about damn time. After all, what’s a physician, except a veterinarian who’s only qualified to treat a single species?
Yesterday I got to lob what may be the best reply ever to “I’m not trying to be difficult, but…”
“No, apparently being difficult is effortless for you.”
An article on snacks designed to be eaten at certain points of a movie, right there in the theater:
Interesting concept, but seriously, I become unglued over someone unwrapping a hard candy while I’m trying to watch a movie in a theater, having nearly killed some poor man with a bag of Werther’s. Can you imagine my reaction to a whole theatre of people fumbling through numbered boxes, opening their cell phones for light because they can’t read the damn number…and you KNOW there will be that group of people who will need to TALK their companion through it. Admittedly, I can’t go see a movie on opening weekend because there will probably be too many people BREATHING in the theater. On the other hand, if they were to create these snack boxes and let me order them to arrive at my house and go along with a movie I’m going to watch? THAT would be brilliant. Because I’m pretty sure I know some dorky foodies who would be all OVER this. File under: this is why I have Netflix.
You could have a community garden plot without ever having to trowel a piece of dirt – pick the veggies to fit in your space, they’ll plant them, grow them, and then bring them to your doorstep:
This would be a little bit more up my alley. Although I guess it would depend on the variety they offered. Because choosing neato, keeno varieties are what’s fun. Otherwise, I can skip the whole deal and just buy it at the farmer’s market. Plus, I dunno, this whole thing might tap my WASP ethic…you pick it, you pay for it, it shows up, and someone else does every shred of work? Heh, my last phone conversation with my mother included a replay of the town’s spring garden tour, and let me tell you how sniffy we both got over some of the gardens where as my mother said “Well, of COURSE it’s gorgeous, they have a live-in gardener. You can’t take credit for it if all you do is PAY for it. That would be like me taking credit for your brother’s degree in fine arts, when all I did was pay for it.” File under: my family can insult perfect strangers and their own blood in two sentences or less. (If you don’t speak WASP, you may have missed the implication there that the money spent on the degree was a bit of a waste. It’s not an easy language…inflection is EVERYTHING.)
Science and consultants join together to attack the whole “gloves are an important part of food safety” myth:
For DECADES I’ve been railing that the use of gloves in foodservice was actually causing more food safety concerns than it was solving and that judicious use in certain circumstances, added to some serious handwashing education, was the way to go. And, man, it has been lone wolf crying in the wilderness. But finally, finally, people are speaking up. File under: Wash your damn hands, people.