Sunday, February 27, 2005
That's What I'm Talkin' About... The CEO flipping blueberry/raspberry pancakes and VP hubby setting the table whilst I drink coffee looking out to the frozen Conway lake. "They're really good Bobby," I say. "Especially with the Vermont maple syrup."
For twenty years these two men have worked together at different start-ups. At present they find themselves at an English-based company -- one I can only hope will enable us all to cash out once and for all. Like an old married couple they bicker the mundane mixed with brother-like competitiveness of who is smarter, savvier, svelter, sexier and the most sagacious. Playing the one off of the other, I tell Bobby he is one point up on the chalkboard of one-up-manship because his pancakes are so good. Brilliant. On our way home hubby stops at the brand spanking new Whole Food Market to buy pancake mix and fresh berries. My Sunday mornings should be wonderful for a while at least until he figures out he has been played. The supermarket parking lot is jammed pack full. Like there is no parking outside. May I just say that I predicted over a year ago that organic would be the market to beat. It's still not too late to invest guys.
For twenty years these two men have worked together at different start-ups. At present they find themselves at an English-based company -- one I can only hope will enable us all to cash out once and for all. Like an old married couple they bicker the mundane mixed with brother-like competitiveness of who is smarter, savvier, svelter, sexier and the most sagacious. Playing the one off of the other, I tell Bobby he is one point up on the chalkboard of one-up-manship because his pancakes are so good. Brilliant. On our way home hubby stops at the brand spanking new Whole Food Market to buy pancake mix and fresh berries. My Sunday mornings should be wonderful for a while at least until he figures out he has been played. The supermarket parking lot is jammed pack full. Like there is no parking outside. May I just say that I predicted over a year ago that organic would be the market to beat. It's still not too late to invest guys.
Friday, February 25, 2005
A Whale of Wallowing. As transplanted Californian, end of February is historically the nadir of my existence here in New England. It is not the cold that pushes my outlook south. There are Sorrels and silk long johns to ameliorate the teeth-chattering temperatures. No the cold seems an almost irrelevant blip to the lack of color and light. At our old house in my town X, there was a little nursery that offered a brief reprieve to the flat, dull light of winter. "Here for your color, Anna?" "Yes thank you Jess," and for ten or fifteen minutes the humus-filled air and vibrant hues soaked down inside to nourish the fading memories of my springs and summers. But the glass house is off my beaten track now -- replaced instead by a subway and city of February sullenness.
The Current Commute. Sidled everyday next to pasty extra pounds spilling onto my lap, I ride to Boston. The guy on my left reaches into his jacket pocket every few minutes to push the button on his walkman that will forward his ears to the next song of his rap line-up. I know it is rap because I can hear each expletive as well as if I had the headphones on myself. I don't really mind rap. It's his jabbing elbow that gets to me. On my right is a woman who seems to have some kind of attention deficit disorder. She is getting extremely agitated that the train has been standing delayed for twenty minutes and begins to look at her watch every few seconds as if by doing so she might stop the unrelenting ticks forward. Her purse, I notice out of the corner of my eye, is filled with papers and receipts of all sorts and she begins to take each one out one at a time, open the paper up, look at it, sigh, fold it back up and put it back into her bag. The Boston-accented train operator feels compelled to repeat herself over and over again that the, "powa' is down at Gov-a-ment Centa' and we are experiencing significant delays."
Immersion in Light. Breathing deeply so as not to have a postal moment, I put away the cross word puzzle I have 95% finished and open up my book called (appropriately) And There Was Light by Jacques Lusseyran -- an extraordinary autobiographical tale of a blind man who was actively involved in the French Resistance during World War II. The man brims with inner light and passion. On this morning of commuter hell, I get through three quarters of the book and am put to shame by my Jammerei (Austrian dialect for whining) over a few dull days in February. Which doesn't stop me from bitching as a walk up the arctic wind tunnel to the State House. But nobody's perfect.
The Current Commute. Sidled everyday next to pasty extra pounds spilling onto my lap, I ride to Boston. The guy on my left reaches into his jacket pocket every few minutes to push the button on his walkman that will forward his ears to the next song of his rap line-up. I know it is rap because I can hear each expletive as well as if I had the headphones on myself. I don't really mind rap. It's his jabbing elbow that gets to me. On my right is a woman who seems to have some kind of attention deficit disorder. She is getting extremely agitated that the train has been standing delayed for twenty minutes and begins to look at her watch every few seconds as if by doing so she might stop the unrelenting ticks forward. Her purse, I notice out of the corner of my eye, is filled with papers and receipts of all sorts and she begins to take each one out one at a time, open the paper up, look at it, sigh, fold it back up and put it back into her bag. The Boston-accented train operator feels compelled to repeat herself over and over again that the, "powa' is down at Gov-a-ment Centa' and we are experiencing significant delays."
Immersion in Light. Breathing deeply so as not to have a postal moment, I put away the cross word puzzle I have 95% finished and open up my book called (appropriately) And There Was Light by Jacques Lusseyran -- an extraordinary autobiographical tale of a blind man who was actively involved in the French Resistance during World War II. The man brims with inner light and passion. On this morning of commuter hell, I get through three quarters of the book and am put to shame by my Jammerei (Austrian dialect for whining) over a few dull days in February. Which doesn't stop me from bitching as a walk up the arctic wind tunnel to the State House. But nobody's perfect.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Master marketer. That is: I, I, I with a capital I! Try this exercise... For weeks your boss kisses the ass of the anointed new Speaker of the House only to get zip-point-nada in the climbing-up-the-elbow-rubbing, ass-licking ladder. The goal of course is to be appointed a paid chair- or vice chairmanship position. This as opposed to un-paid vice-chair positions which are passed out as generously as water so that Representatives can have something to boast about to their constituents. Well needless to say the boss did not get a paid chairmanship position and only maintains his un-paid vice-chairmanship position he shares with seven others on committee X.
As Howie Carr so eloquently put it, "..the talent pool is so shallow it would be difficult to give a flea a foot bath..." Ouch. And this means that the boss, who has been around a number of years now, would seem to be considered so low in the talent pool as to make the others look like Rhodes scholars given that they were picked and he was not. Or, he just doesn't know how to play politics i.e. back-stab and fuck your way up to the top. OK so how to write a positive press release....Thinking, thinking: Lightbulb. She writes it. He sounds like an aria (that wasn't), and I have done my job and am a sullen whore.
As Howie Carr so eloquently put it, "..the talent pool is so shallow it would be difficult to give a flea a foot bath..." Ouch. And this means that the boss, who has been around a number of years now, would seem to be considered so low in the talent pool as to make the others look like Rhodes scholars given that they were picked and he was not. Or, he just doesn't know how to play politics i.e. back-stab and fuck your way up to the top. OK so how to write a positive press release....Thinking, thinking: Lightbulb. She writes it. He sounds like an aria (that wasn't), and I have done my job and am a sullen whore.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Geez... My fight to stave off those extra thirty pounds dropping onto my lap by the person sitting next to me on the subway seems ever more a futile battle... The Great John.
On Howie Carr -- Carr, a scathing political pundit for the Boston Herald whose favorite pastime is roasting legislators on the spit was out for blood this morning. "The Lights Just Got a Whole Lot Dimmer in the House [of Representatives]" was the headline. This in response to the new Speaker of the House, Sal DiMasi's committee appointments. After throwing one Rep after the other onto the coals, he concluded, "Granted, the talent pool in the House is so shallow it would be difficult to give a flea a foot bath but this is a sad collection of non-entities that Sal has put together." Mean spirited? Maybe. But heh he's right. They're dumber than rocks around here.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Anna Bloviation's Award for THE most beautiful woman on the planet (Gurinder Chada). And I was not influenced by the recent 60 Minutes Special on this incredible individual. I've been tracking her for a while....
About Time. Finally Massachusetts is catching up once and for all with the culinary demands already to be found on the West Coast. In 1989 hubby and I were horrified our first super market visit to Stop & Shop. Nothing but a pathetic array of wilted ice-berg lettuce. Now within a four-mile radius is to be found a Trader Joe's (the ecclectic supermarket and why-would-you-ever-bake-a-dessert-when-you-can-buy-a-Trader-Joe's-frozen-dessert?). In the summer is to find an organic 'farmer's market' that sets up on the local Middle School soccer field. February 16th there will now be a Whole Foods Market opening nearby. I've a 10$ gift certificate plus another that was inadvertently delivered to me and I am struggling morally as to whether I should give up the second one to its rightful owner. The struggle stems from the fact that I doubt very much this person would shop at this store...
White Trash Sluts...Today in the city of Boston was the Patriot's Dynasty Parade. At every subway stop on Anna Bloviation's way to work piled more and more middle- and high school-aged students cutting school to go see the parade. I have to tell you that Anna Bloviations was utterly appalled by the girls. Chipped black nail polish, hardened faces, fat seeping out at every opportunity (of which there was plenty given their low-slung slutty jeans and too-short t-shirts). This at a mere fourteen.
You're probably thinking: god when did Anna Bloviations turn into such a prude? Heh I'm not at all. If you've got the stuff, by all means strut it! There is nothing wrong with a risque look as long as it's tasteful and on a good body that is confident wearing it. But these girls you can tell feel so shitty about themselves.... This was demonstrated by the fact that at nine o'clock in the morning they were most of them boozing on the train just to take their minds off of their gone-to-pot-at-fourteen bodies. Pathetic really. And not a pretty sight.
White Trash Sluts...Today in the city of Boston was the Patriot's Dynasty Parade. At every subway stop on Anna Bloviation's way to work piled more and more middle- and high school-aged students cutting school to go see the parade. I have to tell you that Anna Bloviations was utterly appalled by the girls. Chipped black nail polish, hardened faces, fat seeping out at every opportunity (of which there was plenty given their low-slung slutty jeans and too-short t-shirts). This at a mere fourteen.
You're probably thinking: god when did Anna Bloviations turn into such a prude? Heh I'm not at all. If you've got the stuff, by all means strut it! There is nothing wrong with a risque look as long as it's tasteful and on a good body that is confident wearing it. But these girls you can tell feel so shitty about themselves.... This was demonstrated by the fact that at nine o'clock in the morning they were most of them boozing on the train just to take their minds off of their gone-to-pot-at-fourteen bodies. Pathetic really. And not a pretty sight.
Friday, February 04, 2005
America's Funniest Home Video. Well it would have been had someone been around to tape it. You take one driveway on a 25 degree angle and cover it with black ice that looks deceptively like plain old water. Then you take Anna Bloviation's from California and have her go into the garage to take the plastic barrel of trash down to the curb. Then we zoom in as Anna begins sliding down the driveway on her feet along with the plastic barrel she had been pushing. Next the barrel comes to an abrupt halt as it reaches the street and then we see Anna lurch forward and fall head-first into the half-full can. The kind gentleman who stops his SUV to assist her can barely suppress his cracking smile but Anna breaks the ice for him and they burst into squeals of laughter. No damage done really. On the top of the trash was just a cardboard box that had missed its way into the recycling bin.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Truck maker unveils a monster pickup
Navistar's 14,500-pound vehicle gets 7 miles a gallon. Ah, no, this does not justify the 11 miles per gallon you are getting on your Ford Tundra....
Death in Style. Well if you don't know a Doctor X who can provide you with the Pink Pill that will allow you to die in dignity when your time has come, then by all means get yourself a job working for a State Rep so that you may at least die in style. Say for instance you are a 96-year-old woman who just recently suffered a stroke. Say your granddaughter's husband is a State Rep. Say you think you were dying but it turns out you aren't and your immediate family thinks you should be in the hospital because your body is 'limp.' Have no fear, your local Rep with many favors owed is near! He calls the mayor's office and orders up a kid's glove tax-payer-paid-for ambulance to pick up 'Nanna.' He orders up a private room at the hospital. God and if the head honcho of said hospital doesn't send flowers to 96-year-old, I don't know you from a hill of beans old woman.
Cowardness at 96. For god sakes the woman is ninety-six. She has had a stroke. She has ended up in some limbo in-between-life-and-death-state. Hospital? Or do you bite the f**** bullet and say thank you I've lived a full, rich, mildly frustrating life and it's time to go i.e. if you're not going to give me the pink pill may I please have a really rather strong triple-shot gin and tonic please?
Cowardness at 96. For god sakes the woman is ninety-six. She has had a stroke. She has ended up in some limbo in-between-life-and-death-state. Hospital? Or do you bite the f**** bullet and say thank you I've lived a full, rich, mildly frustrating life and it's time to go i.e. if you're not going to give me the pink pill may I please have a really rather strong triple-shot gin and tonic please?
