Find the original image and some incredibly cool mixed-media jewelry in the link above.
Showing posts with label amusing things. Show all posts
Showing posts with label amusing things. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Look what Fanciful Devices made!
So true, Fanci. So true.
Find the original image and some incredibly cool mixed-media jewelry in the link above.
Find the original image and some incredibly cool mixed-media jewelry in the link above.
Monday, October 24, 2011
In praise of procrastination, and Star Wars
"What should you have been taught in the LIB100 class?" queries the bulletin board.
See, I do a lot of work in Clemson University's library, down in the basement next to the Congressional reports from the 1880s and the shelves of appendices to the Iran-Contra investigation, and the entrance on the floor above is dominated by a bulletin board on which students are asked a different question each week, ranging from "Give us a midterm assignment!" to the above. Rainbow sticky notes and markers are provided for answering. I stop and read them every Monday; they're like one of those witty, brilliant Facebook or Twitter conversations in concrete form.
My second-favorite answer was this gem of wisdom: "That procrastination is inevitable ... grab a coffee + embrace it." This is one of those important lessons I learned in college that it's hard to convey. Sometimes, you just work best under pressure. Sometimes a task needs to be completed in one marathon block.
Interestingly enough, the students who best understand this, I've found, are ex-military men. I assist a few in the Writing Center, and generally they're not coming in an hour before the paper is due wanting to be told how to make it an A, but coming in a couple of days before with a polished product waiting for critiques.
In every tutoring position I've had, I've realized that moral support is a massive part of my function. My entering freshmen, smart kids who'd happened to flunk the Writing Placement Exam for one reason or another, had overall much higher GPAs than freshmen who didn't have tutoring; a success for the pilot program I was working for. They often found my editing and chatting about their topics useful. And yet I'm tempted to suspect that a significant part of their grade increase might have been as a result of having someone to ask where they could go to get the free cough drops and stress balls, what recourse they had if they were being taught by an incompetent TA (or a competent TA and a lazy professor) -- someone whose dad was the football captain in '85 at the high school where they graduated in '10, someone who would listen as they talked about their depression over being unable to bridesmaid at their sister's wedding due to an exam -- someone to suggest a mediator for roommate disputes. Someone, in short, to talk to.
I'm less patient these days with students who spend their half-hour appointments telling me how hard everything is ("It's college. College is hard," I want to say. "Did you expect this was easy? Do you think I did it because it was a cake walk?"). Yet I understand that this is part of my job -- not as large a part as some students like to believe, but an important part, like the secretarial work and plagiarism reports that also form part of my week.
And yet -- to circle back toward one of my points -- ex-military students don't tend to need this. The student who recently returned from his tour in Iraq and who comes in with a bleakly and elegantly phrased cause-and-effect paper about how his PTSD has affected his wife doesn't want my sympathy, he wants me to help find comma splices. He wants a good grade, not a shoulder. The man who served for 29 years doing First Aid training is far more interested in whether he wants "quicker" or "more quickly" than he is in telling me how difficult it is to be a returning student of non-traditional age. I'm not saying these issues aren't hard or deserving of support, only that it's nice to be helping people by providing them with my expertise, not by functioning as a listening ear that anyone could be.
It was the above-mentioned First Aid trainer who explained to me why military students don't seem to have a problem with procrastination. "You don't get advance notice," he told me. "You're given a project and you do it now, and if you complain you end up with more work and the same deadline."
"So you don't have the same trouble handling the stress of it?" I asked.
"None at all. This is business as usual. You get the work, you do the work as best you can in the time you have."
Bravo, sir! That's a healthy attitude for all college students to adopt. Procrastination can be treated as scheduling if a student is well-acquainted with his or her working pace and ability to cope with the stress of the fast-approaching deadline. Now that's a real life skill -- one that I'm still developing as I learn how much copywriting I can actually do in a given period.
My favorite note on that board, however, wasn't actually the one about procrastination. It was the green one that asserted that LIB100 should teach students how to "bullseye Whomprats with a T130." A blue one below advised the original sticky-noter to turn off his targeting computer.
The world isn't doomed.
See, I do a lot of work in Clemson University's library, down in the basement next to the Congressional reports from the 1880s and the shelves of appendices to the Iran-Contra investigation, and the entrance on the floor above is dominated by a bulletin board on which students are asked a different question each week, ranging from "Give us a midterm assignment!" to the above. Rainbow sticky notes and markers are provided for answering. I stop and read them every Monday; they're like one of those witty, brilliant Facebook or Twitter conversations in concrete form.
My second-favorite answer was this gem of wisdom: "That procrastination is inevitable ... grab a coffee + embrace it." This is one of those important lessons I learned in college that it's hard to convey. Sometimes, you just work best under pressure. Sometimes a task needs to be completed in one marathon block.
Interestingly enough, the students who best understand this, I've found, are ex-military men. I assist a few in the Writing Center, and generally they're not coming in an hour before the paper is due wanting to be told how to make it an A, but coming in a couple of days before with a polished product waiting for critiques.
In every tutoring position I've had, I've realized that moral support is a massive part of my function. My entering freshmen, smart kids who'd happened to flunk the Writing Placement Exam for one reason or another, had overall much higher GPAs than freshmen who didn't have tutoring; a success for the pilot program I was working for. They often found my editing and chatting about their topics useful. And yet I'm tempted to suspect that a significant part of their grade increase might have been as a result of having someone to ask where they could go to get the free cough drops and stress balls, what recourse they had if they were being taught by an incompetent TA (or a competent TA and a lazy professor) -- someone whose dad was the football captain in '85 at the high school where they graduated in '10, someone who would listen as they talked about their depression over being unable to bridesmaid at their sister's wedding due to an exam -- someone to suggest a mediator for roommate disputes. Someone, in short, to talk to.
I'm less patient these days with students who spend their half-hour appointments telling me how hard everything is ("It's college. College is hard," I want to say. "Did you expect this was easy? Do you think I did it because it was a cake walk?"). Yet I understand that this is part of my job -- not as large a part as some students like to believe, but an important part, like the secretarial work and plagiarism reports that also form part of my week.
And yet -- to circle back toward one of my points -- ex-military students don't tend to need this. The student who recently returned from his tour in Iraq and who comes in with a bleakly and elegantly phrased cause-and-effect paper about how his PTSD has affected his wife doesn't want my sympathy, he wants me to help find comma splices. He wants a good grade, not a shoulder. The man who served for 29 years doing First Aid training is far more interested in whether he wants "quicker" or "more quickly" than he is in telling me how difficult it is to be a returning student of non-traditional age. I'm not saying these issues aren't hard or deserving of support, only that it's nice to be helping people by providing them with my expertise, not by functioning as a listening ear that anyone could be.
It was the above-mentioned First Aid trainer who explained to me why military students don't seem to have a problem with procrastination. "You don't get advance notice," he told me. "You're given a project and you do it now, and if you complain you end up with more work and the same deadline."
"So you don't have the same trouble handling the stress of it?" I asked.
"None at all. This is business as usual. You get the work, you do the work as best you can in the time you have."
Bravo, sir! That's a healthy attitude for all college students to adopt. Procrastination can be treated as scheduling if a student is well-acquainted with his or her working pace and ability to cope with the stress of the fast-approaching deadline. Now that's a real life skill -- one that I'm still developing as I learn how much copywriting I can actually do in a given period.
My favorite note on that board, however, wasn't actually the one about procrastination. It was the green one that asserted that LIB100 should teach students how to "bullseye Whomprats with a T130." A blue one below advised the original sticky-noter to turn off his targeting computer.
The world isn't doomed.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Recent Discoveries: A slice of tofu and a slice of life
Southern Fusion Broiled Tofu
Easy, simple, and tasty. Take a block of tofu and press it in a tofu press, or do what I do and wrap it in a dishtowel and pile a plate and about ten pounds of cookbooks on it, then leave it there for 20 minutes. This will press out some of the moisture, leaving your tofu slightly denser and more able to absorb marinade.
Cut the tofu into quarter-inch-thick slices.
Whip a quick marinade of approximately one part hoisin sauce (or similar dark, thick Asian sauces might work) and three parts commercial sweet tea (use the good stuff; I used Beacon Drive-Inn's signature iced tea). Make just enough to coat your tofu.
Drop your tofu in the marinade in a sealed container, roll it around until the slices are coated, and leave it in the fridge for an hour or two, turning it over every so often.
Lay the slices on a lightly greased cookie sheet and broil them five minutes. Turn over and broil another five minutes. Serve hot, with hoisin sauce for dipping.
The flavor is weird but delicious, sort of piquant and hard to identify, and the texture is a delightful mating of crispy and chewy with soft, and a touch of crunch round the edges. Hey, I wonder if you could cut shapes out of them!
---
Unrelatedly, a thing I found out while I was doing copywriting research: Someone on the internet is trying to get marijuana smokers to report how many zippy bags they use for their stash each week. He (I'm assuming it's a man, but I don't know why) will then work out how many zippy bags are used for this purpose nationwide, and report his findings to Ziploc in hopes of gaining corporate backing for the next push to legalize marijuana. And this is why I love the weird world of the internet.
Easy, simple, and tasty. Take a block of tofu and press it in a tofu press, or do what I do and wrap it in a dishtowel and pile a plate and about ten pounds of cookbooks on it, then leave it there for 20 minutes. This will press out some of the moisture, leaving your tofu slightly denser and more able to absorb marinade.
Cut the tofu into quarter-inch-thick slices.
Whip a quick marinade of approximately one part hoisin sauce (or similar dark, thick Asian sauces might work) and three parts commercial sweet tea (use the good stuff; I used Beacon Drive-Inn's signature iced tea). Make just enough to coat your tofu.
Drop your tofu in the marinade in a sealed container, roll it around until the slices are coated, and leave it in the fridge for an hour or two, turning it over every so often.
Lay the slices on a lightly greased cookie sheet and broil them five minutes. Turn over and broil another five minutes. Serve hot, with hoisin sauce for dipping.
The flavor is weird but delicious, sort of piquant and hard to identify, and the texture is a delightful mating of crispy and chewy with soft, and a touch of crunch round the edges. Hey, I wonder if you could cut shapes out of them!
---
Unrelatedly, a thing I found out while I was doing copywriting research: Someone on the internet is trying to get marijuana smokers to report how many zippy bags they use for their stash each week. He (I'm assuming it's a man, but I don't know why) will then work out how many zippy bags are used for this purpose nationwide, and report his findings to Ziploc in hopes of gaining corporate backing for the next push to legalize marijuana. And this is why I love the weird world of the internet.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
A linklist, which should really be one word
... this spammy blog (is there a term for this?) uses an article I found while trying to discover M's Ratemyprofessor rating, and it is just about the funniest damn thing I've ever seen. M and I did dramatic readings to each other.
Is this a thing now? Seriously someone -- is this a thing?
On a more relevant-to-anything note, here are two of the many cool things I've turned up while doing the copywriting for this lovely site, Keys of Paradise:
This mellifluously written essay on musk is fascinating, informative, and a truly beautiful piece of online writing which is a superb example of structuring lengthy content for the Internet reader.
There is an loa in the Voodoo tradition who protects abused women and lesbians, hopefully not always in combination: Erzulie Dantor.
And everything I ever wanted to know about alchemy can be learned from these sites: Alchemy-Works, which does sell some of its products but is more valuable for its wealth of information, and <"http://www.alchemylab.com/guideto.htm">a page on which I have wasted hours which gives the alchemical properties of hundreds and hundreds of ordinary foodstuffs.
On a vaguely related note, many props to the makers of the Mystery Case Files games, available from Big Fish Games and on disk at many fine department stores. They're a combination of hidden-object with item-adventure games; they capture the essence of the greatest old-style text adventures in their snarky humor, intertextual references, and complex plotlines, but are also absolutely state of the art in graphic rendering and in the incorporation of live-action film with digital art scenes. They have a smoother and more graceful user experience than their imitators as well. And, as I was playing the latest entry, "13th Skull," between pages of my novel-sized list of item descriptions, I realized they also apparently have a really excellent cultural consultant.
"13th Skull" has a few problems in terms of atmosphere, notably the fact that while the previous games, "Return to Ravenhearst" and "Dire Grove," had an engaging and incredibly atmospheric creepiness, this one had sort of a hokey Scooby-Doo ghost feel. I'm quite willing to believe that this was deliberate (M was not so kind about it), but it's a little startling -- perhaps it's the lack of a well-developed and sympathetic victim to save. Or the fact that there are about four actual Southerners voicing the Louisiana residents. Anyway, the point is, despite the oddly built atmosphere, every depiction of voodoo and hoodoo spells is, as far as I can tell in my admittedly amateur experience, perfectly accurate. Right on!
Crap, this post has no subject. Unrelated photo time!
Available here.
Is this a thing now? Seriously someone -- is this a thing?
On a more relevant-to-anything note, here are two of the many cool things I've turned up while doing the copywriting for this lovely site, Keys of Paradise:
This mellifluously written essay on musk is fascinating, informative, and a truly beautiful piece of online writing which is a superb example of structuring lengthy content for the Internet reader.
There is an loa in the Voodoo tradition who protects abused women and lesbians, hopefully not always in combination: Erzulie Dantor.
And everything I ever wanted to know about alchemy can be learned from these sites: Alchemy-Works, which does sell some of its products but is more valuable for its wealth of information, and <"http://www.alchemylab.com/guideto.htm">a page on which I have wasted hours which gives the alchemical properties of hundreds and hundreds of ordinary foodstuffs.
On a vaguely related note, many props to the makers of the Mystery Case Files games, available from Big Fish Games and on disk at many fine department stores. They're a combination of hidden-object with item-adventure games; they capture the essence of the greatest old-style text adventures in their snarky humor, intertextual references, and complex plotlines, but are also absolutely state of the art in graphic rendering and in the incorporation of live-action film with digital art scenes. They have a smoother and more graceful user experience than their imitators as well. And, as I was playing the latest entry, "13th Skull," between pages of my novel-sized list of item descriptions, I realized they also apparently have a really excellent cultural consultant.
"13th Skull" has a few problems in terms of atmosphere, notably the fact that while the previous games, "Return to Ravenhearst" and "Dire Grove," had an engaging and incredibly atmospheric creepiness, this one had sort of a hokey Scooby-Doo ghost feel. I'm quite willing to believe that this was deliberate (M was not so kind about it), but it's a little startling -- perhaps it's the lack of a well-developed and sympathetic victim to save. Or the fact that there are about four actual Southerners voicing the Louisiana residents. Anyway, the point is, despite the oddly built atmosphere, every depiction of voodoo and hoodoo spells is, as far as I can tell in my admittedly amateur experience, perfectly accurate. Right on!
Crap, this post has no subject. Unrelated photo time!
Available here.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Seven Weird Colors and the Sellers Who Love Them
As may have become obvious to everyone, I have a massive thing for color names. Here are some colors from Wikipedia's list with cool names, cool backstories, or both, and the Etsy items that are tagged with them:
The color: International orange, which appears in a number of service organizations' marks and on World Football League balls.
The item: Seven sellers have tagged eight total items as International Orange.
This hand-braided Maharan wool rug by mrsginther, who also has a great profile page, warns your friends of narrow stripes of high-atmosphere conditions.
The color: Fallow, one of the oldest color names in the English language, referring to the sandy soil of a fallowing field.
The item: It took some manual counting due to synonyms and misspellings of "follow," but there about 26 handmade items tagged with this color.
The porcelain Lucitano horse ornament by SandrasShop reminds your equestrian of his equally old and proud tradition.
The color: Mountbatten pink, invented as a naval camouflage color that only worked part of the day.
The item: Only one item tagged with this!
This crocheted poncho by HEraMade lets you blend in with crocheted naval sunsets.
The color: Fulvous, which chiefly describes birds and means "kind of tawny rufous burnt reddish orangish yellowish grayish, kind of."
The item: Seven sellers tag one item apiece with this color.
This print of an original acrylic breastfeeding painting by h0neyburn uses the name to describe the color of the outline of a well-fed toddler. h0neyburn uses a lot of these color names; I keep seeing her stuff pop up as I search.
The color: Isabelline, apocryphally named after Isabella I of Castile, who vowed not to change her underwear until her husband had broken a seige; victory unfortunately took eight months, at which time her small-clothes were understandably no longer snowy white. Isabelline or Isabella palominos, the very pale-colored specimens of cream-gene horses, are named for this tint.
The item: A whopping 39 items are tagged with the color name isabelline.
This plump crocheted heart by Sabahnur looks nice and clean against your hair on a headband, and if you have a cream palomino, you can match!
The color: Falu red, which is after a paint made of starch and very finely divided hematite, and is used to paint traditional Swedish homes -- a bit like haint blue here in the South.
The item: Five sellers use this color to tag a total of 11 items.
This set of twelve organza blossoms brings traditional Old World color to your modern garment.
The color: Urobilin, named for the organic pigment responsible for the color of urine (yum!).
The items: Four sellers win the "I didn't note the Latinate root" award, and perhaps ironically, all four items are so lovely I couldn't pick just one.
The elegant vintage-style glass and dyed jade necklace by thebeadedhound will have part of its proceeds donated to coonhound rescue. The set of 8 shabby chic hairpins by hbs1406 are stunningly photographed and would be gorgeous for a fall wedding.
The color: International orange, which appears in a number of service organizations' marks and on World Football League balls.
The item: Seven sellers have tagged eight total items as International Orange.
This hand-braided Maharan wool rug by mrsginther, who also has a great profile page, warns your friends of narrow stripes of high-atmosphere conditions.
The color: Fallow, one of the oldest color names in the English language, referring to the sandy soil of a fallowing field.
The item: It took some manual counting due to synonyms and misspellings of "follow," but there about 26 handmade items tagged with this color.
The porcelain Lucitano horse ornament by SandrasShop reminds your equestrian of his equally old and proud tradition.
The color: Mountbatten pink, invented as a naval camouflage color that only worked part of the day.
The item: Only one item tagged with this!
This crocheted poncho by HEraMade lets you blend in with crocheted naval sunsets.
The color: Fulvous, which chiefly describes birds and means "kind of tawny rufous burnt reddish orangish yellowish grayish, kind of."
The item: Seven sellers tag one item apiece with this color.
This print of an original acrylic breastfeeding painting by h0neyburn uses the name to describe the color of the outline of a well-fed toddler. h0neyburn uses a lot of these color names; I keep seeing her stuff pop up as I search.
The color: Isabelline, apocryphally named after Isabella I of Castile, who vowed not to change her underwear until her husband had broken a seige; victory unfortunately took eight months, at which time her small-clothes were understandably no longer snowy white. Isabelline or Isabella palominos, the very pale-colored specimens of cream-gene horses, are named for this tint.
The item: A whopping 39 items are tagged with the color name isabelline.
This plump crocheted heart by Sabahnur looks nice and clean against your hair on a headband, and if you have a cream palomino, you can match!
The color: Falu red, which is after a paint made of starch and very finely divided hematite, and is used to paint traditional Swedish homes -- a bit like haint blue here in the South.
The item: Five sellers use this color to tag a total of 11 items.
This set of twelve organza blossoms brings traditional Old World color to your modern garment.
The color: Urobilin, named for the organic pigment responsible for the color of urine (yum!).
The items: Four sellers win the "I didn't note the Latinate root" award, and perhaps ironically, all four items are so lovely I couldn't pick just one.
The elegant vintage-style glass and dyed jade necklace by thebeadedhound will have part of its proceeds donated to coonhound rescue. The set of 8 shabby chic hairpins by hbs1406 are stunningly photographed and would be gorgeous for a fall wedding.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
It's my birthday and I'll talk about buttons if I want to
Yes, in fact it is. My age is a palindrome for the first time in eleven years! And until midnight M and I are only 8 years apart!
The buttons from the necklace I posted last week came from the single best deal I've ever gotten on vintage buttons. Here's another made from buttons from the same lot:
Available here.
It was at a yard sale, and the guy selling them had sorted them into jars by color and clearly knew they were of value, but some jars had a horrifically foul-smelling mold in them, so he gave me a price cut on all of them if I was willing to clean them myself. It turned out that only one jar had the mold, and the smell in the others was merely the natural consequence of putting lots and lots of Lucite in an airtight glass jar for a couple of months (Lucite stinks a little; it contains some kind of acid whose name escapes me at the moment). I scrubbed them all with toothbrushes and buried them all in coffee grounds, and only ended up losing the one jar; the rest smell just fine, and there wasn't a single junk button. All primo vintage stock.
Consequently, I can afford to do a special offer on stuff from that lot. So here it is. Buy two items, at least one containing buttons (look here), and get 20% off on the lower-priced item when you check out with the code "Lucite always kinda smells if you seal it in a glass jar for a month." Spelling doesn't count. Add the code to the Note to Seller when you buy and I'll give you the discount within 24 hours through PayPal. Offer lasts until11:59 PM on September 30.
The buttons from the necklace I posted last week came from the single best deal I've ever gotten on vintage buttons. Here's another made from buttons from the same lot:
Available here.
It was at a yard sale, and the guy selling them had sorted them into jars by color and clearly knew they were of value, but some jars had a horrifically foul-smelling mold in them, so he gave me a price cut on all of them if I was willing to clean them myself. It turned out that only one jar had the mold, and the smell in the others was merely the natural consequence of putting lots and lots of Lucite in an airtight glass jar for a couple of months (Lucite stinks a little; it contains some kind of acid whose name escapes me at the moment). I scrubbed them all with toothbrushes and buried them all in coffee grounds, and only ended up losing the one jar; the rest smell just fine, and there wasn't a single junk button. All primo vintage stock.
Consequently, I can afford to do a special offer on stuff from that lot. So here it is. Buy two items, at least one containing buttons (look here), and get 20% off on the lower-priced item when you check out with the code "Lucite always kinda smells if you seal it in a glass jar for a month." Spelling doesn't count. Add the code to the Note to Seller when you buy and I'll give you the discount within 24 hours through PayPal. Offer lasts until11:59 PM on September 30.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
A Little Grin
In the description for the earrings below, I actually used the one really cool thing I learned from the Etsy writing workshop: Using a quick, unusual story to explain damage to a vintage item.
Sold!
To wit: "The two large pearl beads have slightly different shades and imperfections (I like to imagine it comes of their being worn by a dangerous gang of flapper girls for a famous faux pearl heist), but this is barely visible and what can be seen only enhances the vintage feel of the earrings."
It's always nice when something you wrote makes you smile a little later on. I got this feeling from the descriptions of some of the stick incenses for my current Elance client, too. It's a high, like suddenly realizing that the beads are falling into an additional pattern you didn't even plan but which is perfect. Flipping over a pancake to find you've judged just right and it's wholly fluffy, and melt-in-your-mouth gold. Or perfectly executing a martial arts form.
Sold!
To wit: "The two large pearl beads have slightly different shades and imperfections (I like to imagine it comes of their being worn by a dangerous gang of flapper girls for a famous faux pearl heist), but this is barely visible and what can be seen only enhances the vintage feel of the earrings."
It's always nice when something you wrote makes you smile a little later on. I got this feeling from the descriptions of some of the stick incenses for my current Elance client, too. It's a high, like suddenly realizing that the beads are falling into an additional pattern you didn't even plan but which is perfect. Flipping over a pancake to find you've judged just right and it's wholly fluffy, and melt-in-your-mouth gold. Or perfectly executing a martial arts form.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Things I Am Slightly Chagrined By
- I'm making more in a month of copywriting than I ever made even in Decembers from my jewelry business. Admittedly, most of it's coming from Elance, but I've been at the jewelry for three years (going on four) and the copywriting for three months. There is something slightly frightening about this.
- I'm officially giving up the ghost on frontal toggles. Every time a new Stringing hits the grocery store, there's a new and interesting way to put the clasp in front, to the side, as a pendant base, interchangeable, adjustable, convertible -- just stop. I am going to accept that my jewelry has boring clasp placement, at least for a while. I use too many different toggle designs (because I match them carefully with the piece's look) to put myself through this anymore.
- Teapot earrings -- a billion variations on a single finding -- beat out every other category I can make for top jewelry sales ever. Maybe this is less chagrin and more astonished laughter. But yeah.
Sold!
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Huh?
Two mystifying pieces of feedback we received recently on Ballet Llama recently:
"Item much nicer than expected."
"haven't seen them yet, I know I will like them."
...
So ... um ... vintage beads and findings from Ballet Llama are so nice that you'll be able to tell how high-quality they are before they arrive! ... even when you're ... expecting not to like them at all?
Man, I'm supposed to be the expert and I have no idea how to spin this.
Thanks to the relevant customers for their purchases and their lovely feedback, even though it confused me. <3
"Item much nicer than expected."
"haven't seen them yet, I know I will like them."
...
So ... um ... vintage beads and findings from Ballet Llama are so nice that you'll be able to tell how high-quality they are before they arrive! ... even when you're ... expecting not to like them at all?
Man, I'm supposed to be the expert and I have no idea how to spin this.
Thanks to the relevant customers for their purchases and their lovely feedback, even though it confused me. <3
Monday, July 25, 2011
Starting Monday with a Nastygram
I received this email in June from the business school attached to my undergrad university.
Dear Chelsea,
Our records indicate that you have either recently finished or will soon complete your undergraduate degree at UCR. I am proud of your accomplishments and certain that you will continue to be successful in the future.
While finishing college is an exciting time in the life of any graduate, you may be feeling discouraged in your search for a suitable job. As the Dean of the Anderson Graduate School of Management (AGSM) at UCR, I am keenly aware of the impact of the economic downturn on professional careers available to recent graduates. It is indeed frustrating and disheartening to attempt to enter the job market in the current financial climate.
The good news, however, is that this is an excellent time to consider starting your graduate studies. Our records indicate that we have been in touch with you about our graduate programs in the past. Therefore you may already know that a Master of Business Administration (MBA) is, by far, the most sought after and competitive graduate degree. At AGSM we offer an MBA program that is accredited by AACSB and is focused on developing leaders ...
[further platitudes ensue]
***
Dear Dr. [redacted] (or manager of this inbox),
Thanks for your interest in having me apply to the Anderson School of Business Management. While I have moved across the country and my degree from UCR was in fact in the social sciences, not in business, I am now a freelance copywriter having reasonable independent success despite your concerns about my employability.
Consequently, I have a counter-offer for you. For the relatively competitive price of $25, I will ghost-write the email that you send to candidates like me in such a way that it removes the paternalistic and condescending tone which, sadly, reeks from the first two paragraphs of the email I received from your program dated 16 June, 2011.
If you intended for the air of condescension to be so apparent, then I apologize for the assumption on my part. Thanks in advance for your consideration and I wish you the best in your future endeavors.
Sincerely,
Chelsea Clarey
Copywriter
scribblegoat@gmail.com
elance.com/s/scribblegoat/10180/
scribblegoat.etsy.com
Dear Chelsea,
Our records indicate that you have either recently finished or will soon complete your undergraduate degree at UCR. I am proud of your accomplishments and certain that you will continue to be successful in the future.
While finishing college is an exciting time in the life of any graduate, you may be feeling discouraged in your search for a suitable job. As the Dean of the Anderson Graduate School of Management (AGSM) at UCR, I am keenly aware of the impact of the economic downturn on professional careers available to recent graduates. It is indeed frustrating and disheartening to attempt to enter the job market in the current financial climate.
The good news, however, is that this is an excellent time to consider starting your graduate studies. Our records indicate that we have been in touch with you about our graduate programs in the past. Therefore you may already know that a Master of Business Administration (MBA) is, by far, the most sought after and competitive graduate degree. At AGSM we offer an MBA program that is accredited by AACSB and is focused on developing leaders ...
[further platitudes ensue]
***
Dear Dr. [redacted] (or manager of this inbox),
Thanks for your interest in having me apply to the Anderson School of Business Management. While I have moved across the country and my degree from UCR was in fact in the social sciences, not in business, I am now a freelance copywriter having reasonable independent success despite your concerns about my employability.
Consequently, I have a counter-offer for you. For the relatively competitive price of $25, I will ghost-write the email that you send to candidates like me in such a way that it removes the paternalistic and condescending tone which, sadly, reeks from the first two paragraphs of the email I received from your program dated 16 June, 2011.
If you intended for the air of condescension to be so apparent, then I apologize for the assumption on my part. Thanks in advance for your consideration and I wish you the best in your future endeavors.
Sincerely,
Chelsea Clarey
Copywriter
scribblegoat@gmail.com
elance.com/s/scribblegoat/10180/
scribblegoat.etsy.com
Monday, May 30, 2011
Academically awesome
I think I just fell in love with an NYU professor I've never met.
Why? Because a helpful, respectful, gracefully worded putdown of rude behavior should brighten anyone's day.
For anyone who hasn't seen it since it went viral, for educators everywhere who like some satisfying student humor, for anyone who has ever dealt with an entitled snot of a student at any level:
Sent: Tuesday, February 9, 2010 7:15:11 PM GMT -08:00 US/Canada Pacific
Subject: Brand Strategy Feedback
Prof. Galloway,
I would like to discuss a matter with you that bothered me. Yesterday evening I entered your 6pm Brand Strategy class approximately 1 hour late. As I entered the room, you quickly dismissed me, saying that I would need to leave and come back to the next class. After speaking with several students who are taking your class, they explained that you have a policy stating that students who arrive more than 15 minutes late will not be admitted to class.
As of yesterday evening, I was interested in three different Monday night classes that all occurred simultaneously. In order to decide which class to select, my plan for the evening was to sample all three and see which one I like most. Since I had never taken your class, I was unaware of your class policy. I was disappointed that you dismissed me from class considering (1) there is no way I could have been aware of your policy and (2) considering that it was the first day of evening classes and I arrived 1 hour late (not a few minutes), it was more probable that my tardiness was due to my desire to sample different classes rather than sheer complacency.
I have already registered for another class but I just wanted to be open and provide my opinion on the matter.
Regards,
xxxx
—
xxxx
MBA 2010 Candidate
NYU Stern School of Business
xxxx.nyu.edu
xxx-xxx-xxxx
The Reply:
—— Forwarded Message ——-
From: scott@stern.nyu.edu
To: "xxxx"
Sent: Tuesday, February 9, 2010 9:34:02 PM GMT -08:00 US/Canada Pacific
Subject: Re: Brand Strategy Feedback
xxxx:
Thanks for the feedback. I, too, would like to offer some feedback.
Just so I've got this straight...you started in one class, left 15-20 minutes into it (stood up, walked out mid-lecture), went to another class (walked in 20 minutes late), left that class (again, presumably, in the middle of the lecture), and then came to my class. At that point (walking in an hour late) I asked you to come to the next class which "bothered" you.
Correct?
You state that, having not taken my class, it would be impossible to know our policy of not allowing people to walk in an hour late. Most risk analysis offers that in the face of substantial uncertainty, you opt for the more conservative path or hedge your bet (e.g., do not show up an hour late until you know the professor has an explicit policy for tolerating disrespectful behavior, check with the TA before class, etc.). I hope the lottery winner that is your recently crowned Monday evening Professor is teaching Judgement and Decision Making or Critical Thinking.
In addition, your logic effectively means you cannot be held accountable for any code of conduct before taking a class. For the record, we also have no stated policy against bursting into show tunes in the middle of class, urinating on desks or taking that revolutionary hair removal system for a spin. However, xxxx, there is a baseline level of decorum (i.e., manners) that we expect of grown men and women who the admissions department have deemed tomorrow's business leaders.
xxxx, let me be more serious for a moment. I do not know you, will not know you and have no real affinity or animosity for you. You are an anonymous student who is now regretting the send button on his laptop. It's with this context I hope you register pause...REAL pause xxxx and take to heart what I am about to tell you:
xxxx, get your shit together.
Getting a good job, working long hours, keeping your skills relevant, navigating the politics of an organization, finding a live/work balance...these are all really hard, xxxx. In contrast, respecting institutions, having manners, demonstrating a level of humility...these are all (relatively) easy. Get the easy stuff right xxxx. In and of themselves they will not make you successful. However, not possessing them will hold you back and you will not achieve your potential which, by virtue of you being admitted to Stern, you must have in spades. It's not too late xxxx...
Again, thanks for the feedback.
Professor Galloway
There's a bit more context here, but the writer presenting it refers to Professor Galloway as "kind of a dick," and consequently is clearly not an academic who appreciates what a moment of Robin Hood justice this is.
Why? Because a helpful, respectful, gracefully worded putdown of rude behavior should brighten anyone's day.
For anyone who hasn't seen it since it went viral, for educators everywhere who like some satisfying student humor, for anyone who has ever dealt with an entitled snot of a student at any level:
Sent: Tuesday, February 9, 2010 7:15:11 PM GMT -08:00 US/Canada Pacific
Subject: Brand Strategy Feedback
Prof. Galloway,
I would like to discuss a matter with you that bothered me. Yesterday evening I entered your 6pm Brand Strategy class approximately 1 hour late. As I entered the room, you quickly dismissed me, saying that I would need to leave and come back to the next class. After speaking with several students who are taking your class, they explained that you have a policy stating that students who arrive more than 15 minutes late will not be admitted to class.
As of yesterday evening, I was interested in three different Monday night classes that all occurred simultaneously. In order to decide which class to select, my plan for the evening was to sample all three and see which one I like most. Since I had never taken your class, I was unaware of your class policy. I was disappointed that you dismissed me from class considering (1) there is no way I could have been aware of your policy and (2) considering that it was the first day of evening classes and I arrived 1 hour late (not a few minutes), it was more probable that my tardiness was due to my desire to sample different classes rather than sheer complacency.
I have already registered for another class but I just wanted to be open and provide my opinion on the matter.
Regards,
xxxx
—
xxxx
MBA 2010 Candidate
NYU Stern School of Business
xxxx.nyu.edu
xxx-xxx-xxxx
The Reply:
—— Forwarded Message ——-
From: scott@stern.nyu.edu
To: "xxxx"
Sent: Tuesday, February 9, 2010 9:34:02 PM GMT -08:00 US/Canada Pacific
Subject: Re: Brand Strategy Feedback
xxxx:
Thanks for the feedback. I, too, would like to offer some feedback.
Just so I've got this straight...you started in one class, left 15-20 minutes into it (stood up, walked out mid-lecture), went to another class (walked in 20 minutes late), left that class (again, presumably, in the middle of the lecture), and then came to my class. At that point (walking in an hour late) I asked you to come to the next class which "bothered" you.
Correct?
You state that, having not taken my class, it would be impossible to know our policy of not allowing people to walk in an hour late. Most risk analysis offers that in the face of substantial uncertainty, you opt for the more conservative path or hedge your bet (e.g., do not show up an hour late until you know the professor has an explicit policy for tolerating disrespectful behavior, check with the TA before class, etc.). I hope the lottery winner that is your recently crowned Monday evening Professor is teaching Judgement and Decision Making or Critical Thinking.
In addition, your logic effectively means you cannot be held accountable for any code of conduct before taking a class. For the record, we also have no stated policy against bursting into show tunes in the middle of class, urinating on desks or taking that revolutionary hair removal system for a spin. However, xxxx, there is a baseline level of decorum (i.e., manners) that we expect of grown men and women who the admissions department have deemed tomorrow's business leaders.
xxxx, let me be more serious for a moment. I do not know you, will not know you and have no real affinity or animosity for you. You are an anonymous student who is now regretting the send button on his laptop. It's with this context I hope you register pause...REAL pause xxxx and take to heart what I am about to tell you:
xxxx, get your shit together.
Getting a good job, working long hours, keeping your skills relevant, navigating the politics of an organization, finding a live/work balance...these are all really hard, xxxx. In contrast, respecting institutions, having manners, demonstrating a level of humility...these are all (relatively) easy. Get the easy stuff right xxxx. In and of themselves they will not make you successful. However, not possessing them will hold you back and you will not achieve your potential which, by virtue of you being admitted to Stern, you must have in spades. It's not too late xxxx...
Again, thanks for the feedback.
Professor Galloway
There's a bit more context here, but the writer presenting it refers to Professor Galloway as "kind of a dick," and consequently is clearly not an academic who appreciates what a moment of Robin Hood justice this is.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Steampunk Skills
In my heart, I still really prefer a steampunk that is a lot more "punk" than "steam."
Available here.
I don't think that things need to be dripping in gears (or octopi) to be steampunk. The "purist" view is that it's not steampunk unless it's functional; I'm not sure I ascribe to that either. I like the William Morris standpoint on the technology vs. aesthetic thing: "Have nothing in your homes that you do not know to be useful or feel to be beautiful." To me, it naturally follows that either is good but both is best.
Nor is steampunk just a "look" to me, though there's definitely some level of know-it-when-I-see-it going on here with the clothing and accessories. As an iteration of punk, it's a mindset and an aesthetic.
Primarily, the mindset is characterized by the oft-calligraphied Japanese phrase "onkochishin": "Honor the past to create the new." It's a looking backwards to solve the evils of now and recreate the present; it's looking at the world and saying, "You know? We don't have to break this to remake it. We can have science and responsibility and wonder. They can become the same thing again. We can save the world by changing our ways, not by eschewing them."
(Please allow me a moment to be a Lord of the Rings fanatic: "He who breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of reason," Gandalf advised us. And while Papa Tolkien is no doubt revolving in his grave to have me say it: That applies to the technological lifestyle too. We don't have to destroy either the ways of the past or the ways of now to understand them, nor to improve them.)
The steampunk culture looks to the past and incorporates it in order to celebrate it -- which is almost universal; the only reason it's settled on neo-Victorian is because that's where/when our society's cultural memory says, "This is when science and beauty and romance and heroism and practicality could all be realistic concepts at the same time." It's really not about a particular time period. It's about recreating the useful and the beautiful in one another's image to create a world that both looks and works well.
This isn't to say there isn't harsh, gritty steampunk alongside the elegant gleam. The wisdom of the culture lies not in its settings but in its meanings -- in what it takes as its heroes.
Consequently, while I can't mod my technology and I don't drive a steam-powered hovercraft, these are the things I consider my "steampunk skills":
Available here.
I don't think that things need to be dripping in gears (or octopi) to be steampunk. The "purist" view is that it's not steampunk unless it's functional; I'm not sure I ascribe to that either. I like the William Morris standpoint on the technology vs. aesthetic thing: "Have nothing in your homes that you do not know to be useful or feel to be beautiful." To me, it naturally follows that either is good but both is best.
Nor is steampunk just a "look" to me, though there's definitely some level of know-it-when-I-see-it going on here with the clothing and accessories. As an iteration of punk, it's a mindset and an aesthetic.
Primarily, the mindset is characterized by the oft-calligraphied Japanese phrase "onkochishin": "Honor the past to create the new." It's a looking backwards to solve the evils of now and recreate the present; it's looking at the world and saying, "You know? We don't have to break this to remake it. We can have science and responsibility and wonder. They can become the same thing again. We can save the world by changing our ways, not by eschewing them."
(Please allow me a moment to be a Lord of the Rings fanatic: "He who breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of reason," Gandalf advised us. And while Papa Tolkien is no doubt revolving in his grave to have me say it: That applies to the technological lifestyle too. We don't have to destroy either the ways of the past or the ways of now to understand them, nor to improve them.)
The steampunk culture looks to the past and incorporates it in order to celebrate it -- which is almost universal; the only reason it's settled on neo-Victorian is because that's where/when our society's cultural memory says, "This is when science and beauty and romance and heroism and practicality could all be realistic concepts at the same time." It's really not about a particular time period. It's about recreating the useful and the beautiful in one another's image to create a world that both looks and works well.
This isn't to say there isn't harsh, gritty steampunk alongside the elegant gleam. The wisdom of the culture lies not in its settings but in its meanings -- in what it takes as its heroes.
Consequently, while I can't mod my technology and I don't drive a steam-powered hovercraft, these are the things I consider my "steampunk skills":
Monday, May 9, 2011
Sometimes I think about ...
... how terrible it must have been to be Mary Cassatt.
"Hey, Mary," the other Impressionists might have said to her, "we're off to the Folies-Bergere. All of us. Except you. Enjoy keeping your ankles hidden alone all evening."
I detect much less rage in her work than it feels like there should be ...
I wonder about Christina Rossetti too, as the major female Pre-Raphaelite Brother (a number which, incidentally, also sort of included Emily Dickinson -- and if anyone is interested to read about that I shall make M do a guest post, it's fascinating stuff). Also incidentally, did you know there were four Rossettis? Dante Gabriel, Christina, and then William Michael and Maria Francesca -- William Rossetti was a historian and Maria Francesca was an Anglican nun, translator and literary critic. It kind of sucked to be any member of the Rossetti family except for Dante Gabriel -- their mother was John Polidori's sister but no one knows about that, the two other siblings get almost no attention even on Wikipedia, and then there's Christina. "Have a nice night, Sis; the rest of the Pre-Raphaelites are going carousing after the meeting. Without you. Enjoy minding the wallaby."
At least in her case I can imagine her hand vibrating with fury as she dedicated Goblin Market.
"Hey, Mary," the other Impressionists might have said to her, "we're off to the Folies-Bergere. All of us. Except you. Enjoy keeping your ankles hidden alone all evening."
I detect much less rage in her work than it feels like there should be ...
I wonder about Christina Rossetti too, as the major female Pre-Raphaelite Brother (a number which, incidentally, also sort of included Emily Dickinson -- and if anyone is interested to read about that I shall make M do a guest post, it's fascinating stuff). Also incidentally, did you know there were four Rossettis? Dante Gabriel, Christina, and then William Michael and Maria Francesca -- William Rossetti was a historian and Maria Francesca was an Anglican nun, translator and literary critic. It kind of sucked to be any member of the Rossetti family except for Dante Gabriel -- their mother was John Polidori's sister but no one knows about that, the two other siblings get almost no attention even on Wikipedia, and then there's Christina. "Have a nice night, Sis; the rest of the Pre-Raphaelites are going carousing after the meeting. Without you. Enjoy minding the wallaby."
At least in her case I can imagine her hand vibrating with fury as she dedicated Goblin Market.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Treasury Wednesday: Back to the steampunk oddities again
I've been really entertained by all the different interpretations featured sellers have had of the title of this one. It was actually referring to one of M's new tabletop characters, whose name graces that purple shell bridal set; it's another steampunk game, and the girl is in a relationship of which her guardian would not approve. Hence the title. Other people's interpretations have been rather more interesting, though, I think.
Lots of interesting traditional art:
Time; beauty; quirkiness; corrosion.
Lots of interesting traditional art:
'Don't Tell Grandmother' by tangopig
Time; beauty; quirkiness; corrosion.
 BRASS Sunburst Hair... $10.00 |  Original Mixed Medi... $23.00 |  She Is Mine - Victo... $ |  Dolls, photo postca... $12.00 |
 ON SALE 40% OFF Yos... $58.80 |  In Memory Of $98.00 |  Factory Farmer 8x1... $25.00 |  Vintage Inspired Ta... $6.00 |
 Black Mini Top Hat ... $58.00 |  VICTORIAN ADVENTURE... $89.00 |  NEW Lower Price & B... $7.00 |  Steampunk MAGICAL C... $29.99 |
 REAL CLEARANCE -Vin... $5.00 |  Miss Riga- Long Lux... $38.00 |  SALE Eye SEE YOU EY... $35.00 |  ROTTEN ROW Illustra... $ |
Treasury tool is sponsored by Lazzia.com A/B image testing.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Work jewelry, and one more reason to love curves
I've now been a Writing Center Consultant (read: tutor) at the main campus of our local technical college for some months. I love it here. I love the atmosphere. Everything that could possibly come up has been thought of.
And it makes me so, so happy to be fat.
Readers will have realized that I am Remarkably Curvy. I get a lot of male attention since I've moved, I notice -- whether because I'm dressing up for work or because the South likes their girls plump and breeding-hip'd, I can't say. Other advantages have lately been becoming clear.
The next-youngest WCC got her master's the same time I got my bachelor's, and works with me on Fridays. She tends to dress a little younger than I do, and observes Casual Friday with relish.
This will shortly become significant.
T'other day, a student we see a great deal of (older male, generally quite pleasant to me at any rate, makes several appointments per paper and yet never seems to believe us when,for example, we point out that plot summary and literary analysis are not the same thing) just walked in and scratched out his appointment and told us he was going to only make grammar appointments in the future. He "only" got an 85% on the last paper (horrors!) and the professor was pointing out things we never said. Therefore, he feels that there was some inconsistency and and he and his instructor agree that a grammar-readings-only pattern will be more beneficial to him. He was most pleasant about it, but the content was essentially that he didn't think our seven (7) appointments with four (4) different tutors had been helpful in achieving that 85%.
We can't decide whether to be offended, send the instructor a nice thank-you gift, or both. See, many of the tutors despise this student, because he flatly refuses to make the changes they suggest. At first I thought they meant someone else, because he generally accepts it from me; I think perhaps he finds me and my confident work persona intimidating!
Half an hour later, a generally lovely single-mom student, who I've worked with a time or three before, asked me if I was still in classes here. She explained that I didn't quite look young enough, but since the other tutor on duty looked like she must be a work-study student, she wondered if I was too.
When I told her no, I just finished my degree in December -- but [other tutor] taught classes -- she looked stunned for a moment, then graciously changed the subject.
The student following her was writing a paper reminiscing about receiving a Holly Hobbie doll. "Do you remember those?" she asked me. I told her I did. "Oh no -- showing our age, aren't we?" she laughed. I laughed with her, not having the heart to say it was Mom's.
A couple of hours later, along came another student, who is here to check her email when I open the writing center every morning and who I've always taken to be in her early-to-mid thirties. In her appointment, I asked her when her recalled event happened. As she tried to work this out, she said, "Well, my daughter was born in '79 ..." I would have liked to compliment her, but I couldn't work out how to approach "Wow, I'd never have guessed you could have a daughter ten years older than I am."
Everyone takes me for older than I am, and everyone takes my tutoring counterpart for younger. Why? Actually, if you will forgive professional bias, I think a big part of it is jewelry! Wearing "fine jewelry," or fashion jewelry that imitates its look, with casual clothing is a sign of youth. Delicate crystalline pendants, fine chains, names or initials especially, those read as either precious jewelry for Occasions or young girl's treasured gift pieces. The exceptions are those annoying let's-invent-a-holiday pendants like the Journey Diamond ones and the "open arms" one with the irritating sexist commercials. Unusual art jewelry, however, suggests more mature and quirky taste.
She's also slender, with blonde highlights. And there, I think, is the rub. Being heavier and the top-heavy hourglass shape (I'm actually rounder at the hips, being a true-to-type Sicilian, but I dress drapily so it doesn't look like it) gives me a measure of gravitas.
I'm not the only one to have noticed this; in her column "How to Dress for Battle," Jen Dziura mentions a study where women in a suit jacket were taken by office professionals as higher-ranked -- but women who were over forty, conservatively dressed, or larger seemed to already have a boost in that perception, so the jacket helped less than it did for petite, slender, or young women.
Conclusion: being fat and well-dressed is a really good thing career-wise.
And it makes me so, so happy to be fat.
Readers will have realized that I am Remarkably Curvy. I get a lot of male attention since I've moved, I notice -- whether because I'm dressing up for work or because the South likes their girls plump and breeding-hip'd, I can't say. Other advantages have lately been becoming clear.
The next-youngest WCC got her master's the same time I got my bachelor's, and works with me on Fridays. She tends to dress a little younger than I do, and observes Casual Friday with relish.
This will shortly become significant.
T'other day, a student we see a great deal of (older male, generally quite pleasant to me at any rate, makes several appointments per paper and yet never seems to believe us when,for example, we point out that plot summary and literary analysis are not the same thing) just walked in and scratched out his appointment and told us he was going to only make grammar appointments in the future. He "only" got an 85% on the last paper (horrors!) and the professor was pointing out things we never said. Therefore, he feels that there was some inconsistency and and he and his instructor agree that a grammar-readings-only pattern will be more beneficial to him. He was most pleasant about it, but the content was essentially that he didn't think our seven (7) appointments with four (4) different tutors had been helpful in achieving that 85%.
We can't decide whether to be offended, send the instructor a nice thank-you gift, or both. See, many of the tutors despise this student, because he flatly refuses to make the changes they suggest. At first I thought they meant someone else, because he generally accepts it from me; I think perhaps he finds me and my confident work persona intimidating!
Half an hour later, a generally lovely single-mom student, who I've worked with a time or three before, asked me if I was still in classes here. She explained that I didn't quite look young enough, but since the other tutor on duty looked like she must be a work-study student, she wondered if I was too.
When I told her no, I just finished my degree in December -- but [other tutor] taught classes -- she looked stunned for a moment, then graciously changed the subject.
The student following her was writing a paper reminiscing about receiving a Holly Hobbie doll. "Do you remember those?" she asked me. I told her I did. "Oh no -- showing our age, aren't we?" she laughed. I laughed with her, not having the heart to say it was Mom's.
A couple of hours later, along came another student, who is here to check her email when I open the writing center every morning and who I've always taken to be in her early-to-mid thirties. In her appointment, I asked her when her recalled event happened. As she tried to work this out, she said, "Well, my daughter was born in '79 ..." I would have liked to compliment her, but I couldn't work out how to approach "Wow, I'd never have guessed you could have a daughter ten years older than I am."
Everyone takes me for older than I am, and everyone takes my tutoring counterpart for younger. Why? Actually, if you will forgive professional bias, I think a big part of it is jewelry! Wearing "fine jewelry," or fashion jewelry that imitates its look, with casual clothing is a sign of youth. Delicate crystalline pendants, fine chains, names or initials especially, those read as either precious jewelry for Occasions or young girl's treasured gift pieces. The exceptions are those annoying let's-invent-a-holiday pendants like the Journey Diamond ones and the "open arms" one with the irritating sexist commercials. Unusual art jewelry, however, suggests more mature and quirky taste.
She's also slender, with blonde highlights. And there, I think, is the rub. Being heavier and the top-heavy hourglass shape (I'm actually rounder at the hips, being a true-to-type Sicilian, but I dress drapily so it doesn't look like it) gives me a measure of gravitas.
I'm not the only one to have noticed this; in her column "How to Dress for Battle," Jen Dziura mentions a study where women in a suit jacket were taken by office professionals as higher-ranked -- but women who were over forty, conservatively dressed, or larger seemed to already have a boost in that perception, so the jacket helped less than it did for petite, slender, or young women.
Conclusion: being fat and well-dressed is a really good thing career-wise.
Friday, February 18, 2011
This is how I felt the entirety of last fall
It's funny because it's true, people. It's funny because it's true.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Reflecting on evangelism
Today, someone tried to either pick me up or save my soul, and I'm not entirely sure which. M votes "both."
After I finish work, if I'm not in the mood to truck into Clemson, I walk behind the writing center of the technical college where I tutor and read. Friday, I had forgotten after I showered and didn't have my ring on. This will become significant.
I was sitting alone on a brick wall over a little amphitheatre, rereading The Return of the King (the first authorized American edition, which I sadly can't find a photo of, but it has this incredibly surreal stoneresque cover art that Papa Tolkien haaated) and looking out into the forest behind the school, when a cute curly-haired boy about my age (21) walked over and struck up a conversation which started out as an idle chitchat ("How are you doing? I'm hearing we're supposed to get another snowstorm. Do they have music down there ever?"), and then turned into clear disappointment when I mentioned that I worked there (because it was easier than "please stop hitting on me, I'm sort of engaged -- to a girl"), then we talked about the writing center and he made as if to leave and then remember something --
-- and dug out a flier for the Campus Crusade for Christ.
I have an ethical objection to evangelism. I think it speaks of overweening pride, which last I checked was one of the Seven Deadly Sins, so logically if you believe in sin you really shouldn't be loud about it. However, I realize that everyday missionary efforts (we called it "witnessing" when I was a churchy type) are hard and thankless work; they take a lot of courage and a lot of social navigation; and regardless of how I regard the idea of pressing your beliefs on others because you are so utterly convinced you're right, they are often (not always) undertaken with a view to the betterment of mankind.
Consequently, throughout my undergraduate, I had a personal rule that if I didn't have anywhere to be in a hurry, I'd stop and talk to the political and religious folk who hailed me. I made some friends this way -- our Hare Krishna monk, Avidar, was a really nice guy -- and I learned a little -- I now refuse to eat pate -- and on two occasions I told people very coldly what I thought of them and their cruel, pessimistic form of Christianity and kept going, but much of the time, people were kind and smiling and, most importantly, seemed cheered by having had someone talk to them in a polite, friendly and open manner, or smile and thank them for whatever they were passing out. This made me feel better about myself and often put a better spin on a long day.
Due to this policy, when I moved, I had a shelf containing two Books of Mormon, a Bhagavad-Gita, two PETA pamphlets, a handbook of Buddhist principles, several copies of The Watchtower, and four different colors of the little Psalms-Proverbs-New-Testaments that the Gideon Society hands out. I confess that I paired them up oddly in the hopes they'd get into fights.
So what to make of this encounter? I'm not sure why it troubles me so much, except of course for the little voice in the back of my head that always says You are vain and self-deluded for thinking that he could really have actually been interested, a voice which I struggle against daily and which I am mostly overcoming ... mostly. But then, this is a topic that often bothers me a little too much; I remember being one of those shallow evangelical types who was taught to be supercilious about rejecting everything that did not perfectly align with the worldview of my (less-than-highly-educated and, in some cases, questionably-interested-in-working-with-teens) adult mentors, and, like the former cult member I sort of am, that type of person frightens and disturbs me greatly.
This boy wasn't like that, though, or not that I could see, and it's possible that he genuinely did just come over to talk and then remember he was supposed to pass around fliers. And I wish I could get over this mistrust and just be flattered that this shyish-seeming person considered me worth making a clear effort to come and talk to.
And also, I possibly need to not forget my engagement ring anymore so I'm not sent into an unhealthy level of self-reflection. So it is resolved!
After I finish work, if I'm not in the mood to truck into Clemson, I walk behind the writing center of the technical college where I tutor and read. Friday, I had forgotten after I showered and didn't have my ring on. This will become significant.
I was sitting alone on a brick wall over a little amphitheatre, rereading The Return of the King (the first authorized American edition, which I sadly can't find a photo of, but it has this incredibly surreal stoneresque cover art that Papa Tolkien haaated) and looking out into the forest behind the school, when a cute curly-haired boy about my age (21) walked over and struck up a conversation which started out as an idle chitchat ("How are you doing? I'm hearing we're supposed to get another snowstorm. Do they have music down there ever?"), and then turned into clear disappointment when I mentioned that I worked there (because it was easier than "please stop hitting on me, I'm sort of engaged -- to a girl"), then we talked about the writing center and he made as if to leave and then remember something --
-- and dug out a flier for the Campus Crusade for Christ.
I have an ethical objection to evangelism. I think it speaks of overweening pride, which last I checked was one of the Seven Deadly Sins, so logically if you believe in sin you really shouldn't be loud about it. However, I realize that everyday missionary efforts (we called it "witnessing" when I was a churchy type) are hard and thankless work; they take a lot of courage and a lot of social navigation; and regardless of how I regard the idea of pressing your beliefs on others because you are so utterly convinced you're right, they are often (not always) undertaken with a view to the betterment of mankind.
Consequently, throughout my undergraduate, I had a personal rule that if I didn't have anywhere to be in a hurry, I'd stop and talk to the political and religious folk who hailed me. I made some friends this way -- our Hare Krishna monk, Avidar, was a really nice guy -- and I learned a little -- I now refuse to eat pate -- and on two occasions I told people very coldly what I thought of them and their cruel, pessimistic form of Christianity and kept going, but much of the time, people were kind and smiling and, most importantly, seemed cheered by having had someone talk to them in a polite, friendly and open manner, or smile and thank them for whatever they were passing out. This made me feel better about myself and often put a better spin on a long day.
Due to this policy, when I moved, I had a shelf containing two Books of Mormon, a Bhagavad-Gita, two PETA pamphlets, a handbook of Buddhist principles, several copies of The Watchtower, and four different colors of the little Psalms-Proverbs-New-Testaments that the Gideon Society hands out. I confess that I paired them up oddly in the hopes they'd get into fights.
So what to make of this encounter? I'm not sure why it troubles me so much, except of course for the little voice in the back of my head that always says You are vain and self-deluded for thinking that he could really have actually been interested, a voice which I struggle against daily and which I am mostly overcoming ... mostly. But then, this is a topic that often bothers me a little too much; I remember being one of those shallow evangelical types who was taught to be supercilious about rejecting everything that did not perfectly align with the worldview of my (less-than-highly-educated and, in some cases, questionably-interested-in-working-with-teens) adult mentors, and, like the former cult member I sort of am, that type of person frightens and disturbs me greatly.
This boy wasn't like that, though, or not that I could see, and it's possible that he genuinely did just come over to talk and then remember he was supposed to pass around fliers. And I wish I could get over this mistrust and just be flattered that this shyish-seeming person considered me worth making a clear effort to come and talk to.
And also, I possibly need to not forget my engagement ring anymore so I'm not sent into an unhealthy level of self-reflection. So it is resolved!
Monday, February 14, 2011
I feel vaguely obligated to do a Valentine's day post ...
... but I remember being single and how much Valentine's Day always depressed me, since I inevitably broke up with my boyfriends before it and I was never a particularly sociable teenager, preferring the company of adults and butterflying from one social group to another, which was lonely but relatively drama-free.
Yet Valentine's Day is a big jewelry occasion. So it relates.
Kind of.
Let me see if I have a single picture of jewelry with a heart on it to post ...
Nope! I had something at Christmas, but it's very Christmassy. Well, who cares.
See? That button at the very back is heart-shaped. No, I promise.
I wonder what went so wrong in taking this photo ... I might have tried to take it indoors. That's never good.
Last Valentine's day, Megan and I went to the Living Desert zoo so I could do fieldwork for one of my anthropology papers, "Conservation and the Narrative of Stewardship." Afterward, we lugged our sunburnt selves around Palm Desert for an hour trying to find a place with room not at the bar since I was not yet of drinking age, and not with $30 entrees and mandatory valet parking, and we wound up in a Coco's with all the other gay couples who live in the Palm Springs area, and we ordered a fruit-and-cheese appetizer platter but it was the first day it had been available so they didn't know how to cook it and it took three tries to get the Brie baked properly, so we were in the restaurant for well over two hours grazing on improperly cooked cheeses and talking about the White Man's Burden savior narrative and the conflation of the animal body with the exoticized body.
This is one of my best and most treasured "couple memories," and it involves no chocolates, no jewelry, no expensive tickets, no dressing up nicely, no Valentiney things at all.
Conclusion: I'm obviously really bad at this, and I'm okay with that.
Yet Valentine's Day is a big jewelry occasion. So it relates.
Kind of.
Let me see if I have a single picture of jewelry with a heart on it to post ...
Nope! I had something at Christmas, but it's very Christmassy. Well, who cares.
See? That button at the very back is heart-shaped. No, I promise.
I wonder what went so wrong in taking this photo ... I might have tried to take it indoors. That's never good.
Last Valentine's day, Megan and I went to the Living Desert zoo so I could do fieldwork for one of my anthropology papers, "Conservation and the Narrative of Stewardship." Afterward, we lugged our sunburnt selves around Palm Desert for an hour trying to find a place with room not at the bar since I was not yet of drinking age, and not with $30 entrees and mandatory valet parking, and we wound up in a Coco's with all the other gay couples who live in the Palm Springs area, and we ordered a fruit-and-cheese appetizer platter but it was the first day it had been available so they didn't know how to cook it and it took three tries to get the Brie baked properly, so we were in the restaurant for well over two hours grazing on improperly cooked cheeses and talking about the White Man's Burden savior narrative and the conflation of the animal body with the exoticized body.
This is one of my best and most treasured "couple memories," and it involves no chocolates, no jewelry, no expensive tickets, no dressing up nicely, no Valentiney things at all.
Conclusion: I'm obviously really bad at this, and I'm okay with that.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Adventures in housewifery
"I'm setting your cell phone alarm," M said to me this morning. "While I'm gone, please scrub the colander of the remains of that evil-smelling turkey soup failure from Monday night, since you have been neglecting it, and also vaccuum up the popcorn remnants. I'll set the alarm for a quarter to nine, because you are uselessly asleep at the moment, but remember, our stylish and put-together apartment manager and the polite, oddly diminutive bug guy will be coming to judge you and your inability to hold a bowl of popcorn without spilling it everywhere while we watch Masterpiece Theatre."
Muzzily, I told her, "Okay. You look pretty," and went back to snoring.
Actually, that's not what she said. What she said was, "I'm setting the alarm for 8:45 because pest control's coming, okay? And try to get the dishwasher unloaded. I'll be back around three. I love you."
And indeed, I told her, "Okay. You look pretty," and rolled over and went back to sleep.
I am not good at being a housewife, but I'm learning. And screw Betty Friedan. This shit is hard. Which side of the sink should the dishes soak in? Do they need to soak? Which T-shirts from our shared wardrobe are M sufficiently unattached to that I can wear them while using Clorox? How fast will I die if I Windex the floor and then wear tabi socks? Can normal people do housework without having the iPod on so they can do frenetic swivel-hipped gyrating dances with the spatulas? Questions arise. No answers fulfill them.
See, learning how to do things like this:
Available here.
... doesn't leave a lot of mental space for learning how to do things like this:
Clipartguide.com.
Actually, the first time I was here in September, I sent my mother a long email detailing these questions and others. She was kind enough to reply with her wisdom. I expect that my mother, who is one of those brave third-wave feminists who said "Wait. Wasn't the point here that I had a choice?" and decided that she had the right to prioritize a beautiful home and a relaxed family life over the High-Powered Career that she was told to want in college, was probably pleased to have me throw myself on her mercy and recognize what hard work all of this is.
Mom also reads this on occasion. Maybe I should stop saying "shit" on my blog. Maybe I should stop swearing on my blog anyway.
I could never be like Mom. She has the patience and the task-breakdown abilities to keep a comfortable home and an incredibly gorgeous garden, and she would have brought them to bear in a day job if she'd chosen to remain in that path. Mom is an educator without being dependent on a fragile education wage. She actually would be much better than she thinks she would be at a High-Powered Career -- and she taught me that I don't have to have one to be happy, but I don't have to sacrifice that chance to be happy, either. That there's no single way to be a woman.
Despite this important truth, it turns out that I have the attention span of a gnat, no ability to compartmentalize whatsoever, and am both intellectually bent and really frickin' weird, so there is no place for me but academia. Hence the chagrin with which I regard my kitchen.
My family seems to be aware of this. Among my Christmas presents were a second frilly apron and a number of cookbooks. Here is a picture of me at Christmas:
While I look wholesome and competent in that photo, I assure you this is not the case.
Some of the cookbooks I'm holding there were from the 1950s. This is awesome, because I am a Gallery of Regrettable Food addict, and also very touching, because a close look at the dates of them reveals that they're M's grandma's wedding cookbooks.
One of them is called "Dishes Men Like" and was printed by Lea & Perrin's. It earnestly informs me that there is no better way to please my man (I'm quoting) than to get in the habit of keeping a bottle of Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce -- his familiar favorite from the country club -- on the dining table as well as in the kitchen. This will also save me extra trips.
After I absorbed this well-meaning advice, I informed M, "You're fetching your own damn ketchup." She seemed okay with this.
And then while I return to the breach of housewifery (not, I hasten to assure the world, in my apron and pearls) I find myself thinking, "Since we're always just over dishwasher capacity but not sufficiently to justify a second load, maybe I should prioritize items with more than one utility," and then I realize I just need to do the world a favor and stop using words, and then I go write a blog post which doesn't help with that goal while the white Formica countertops marinate in Comet, and here we are.
Being a housewife is hard.
Muzzily, I told her, "Okay. You look pretty," and went back to snoring.
Actually, that's not what she said. What she said was, "I'm setting the alarm for 8:45 because pest control's coming, okay? And try to get the dishwasher unloaded. I'll be back around three. I love you."
And indeed, I told her, "Okay. You look pretty," and rolled over and went back to sleep.
I am not good at being a housewife, but I'm learning. And screw Betty Friedan. This shit is hard. Which side of the sink should the dishes soak in? Do they need to soak? Which T-shirts from our shared wardrobe are M sufficiently unattached to that I can wear them while using Clorox? How fast will I die if I Windex the floor and then wear tabi socks? Can normal people do housework without having the iPod on so they can do frenetic swivel-hipped gyrating dances with the spatulas? Questions arise. No answers fulfill them.
See, learning how to do things like this:
Available here.
... doesn't leave a lot of mental space for learning how to do things like this:
Clipartguide.com.
Actually, the first time I was here in September, I sent my mother a long email detailing these questions and others. She was kind enough to reply with her wisdom. I expect that my mother, who is one of those brave third-wave feminists who said "Wait. Wasn't the point here that I had a choice?" and decided that she had the right to prioritize a beautiful home and a relaxed family life over the High-Powered Career that she was told to want in college, was probably pleased to have me throw myself on her mercy and recognize what hard work all of this is.
Mom also reads this on occasion. Maybe I should stop saying "shit" on my blog. Maybe I should stop swearing on my blog anyway.
I could never be like Mom. She has the patience and the task-breakdown abilities to keep a comfortable home and an incredibly gorgeous garden, and she would have brought them to bear in a day job if she'd chosen to remain in that path. Mom is an educator without being dependent on a fragile education wage. She actually would be much better than she thinks she would be at a High-Powered Career -- and she taught me that I don't have to have one to be happy, but I don't have to sacrifice that chance to be happy, either. That there's no single way to be a woman.
Despite this important truth, it turns out that I have the attention span of a gnat, no ability to compartmentalize whatsoever, and am both intellectually bent and really frickin' weird, so there is no place for me but academia. Hence the chagrin with which I regard my kitchen.
My family seems to be aware of this. Among my Christmas presents were a second frilly apron and a number of cookbooks. Here is a picture of me at Christmas:
While I look wholesome and competent in that photo, I assure you this is not the case.
Some of the cookbooks I'm holding there were from the 1950s. This is awesome, because I am a Gallery of Regrettable Food addict, and also very touching, because a close look at the dates of them reveals that they're M's grandma's wedding cookbooks.
One of them is called "Dishes Men Like" and was printed by Lea & Perrin's. It earnestly informs me that there is no better way to please my man (I'm quoting) than to get in the habit of keeping a bottle of Lea & Perrin's Worcestershire Sauce -- his familiar favorite from the country club -- on the dining table as well as in the kitchen. This will also save me extra trips.
After I absorbed this well-meaning advice, I informed M, "You're fetching your own damn ketchup." She seemed okay with this.
And then while I return to the breach of housewifery (not, I hasten to assure the world, in my apron and pearls) I find myself thinking, "Since we're always just over dishwasher capacity but not sufficiently to justify a second load, maybe I should prioritize items with more than one utility," and then I realize I just need to do the world a favor and stop using words, and then I go write a blog post which doesn't help with that goal while the white Formica countertops marinate in Comet, and here we are.
Being a housewife is hard.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Pack. Pack. Packpackpack.
I have packed little but supplies so far. I am sitting here staring at eight (8) paper boxes which are full of beads and jewelry bits.
My car is a PT Cruiser.
It don't work.
Apparently we can get someone to ship some of it, which is good. Very good. We'll probably ship everything that isn't beads or clothes at this point.
Yeah, pictures of materials are going to have to wait until we get home. I have a bunch of fun ideas, though, from the stuff I've located that I didn't know I had. For a long time I was keeping pendants and focals in labeled workshop drawers, but this really doesn't work for me -- I do better having vaguely-themed containers to sort through. I don't know what I would do without M, who has labeled all my bead boxes and sorted them by color so I can select matching shades to go with my drops and charms and found objects. Unfortunately this also means 54 divider boxes to pack.
Other than that, it's a pick-through-and-see-if-I-want-it thing. I'd like to have my Egyptian perfume bottles, and I'll bring the flower press. Not the construction paper, but yes on my pad of glitter cardstock. Not the childhood fiction notebooks, but the more recent ones, and where does that cutoff fall? Tedious work, and arguably work I could have done before, but there's also a lot of stuff that was M's pre-me. It's a nightmare, sorting other people's things. Hopefully what with moving in together (we've lived together for two years, we've just never moved together, if that makes sense) it'll all become communal property.
Also ironing out finances and such. Closing bank accounts. Trying to remember all the thousands of places I have to change my registered address.
Amusing: One of the things I've found? When I was about thirteen my church did this thingy where the girls were supposed to start journals to present to our future husbands as a wedding gift. I kept mine for about two weeks. The first entry is all about why I'm doing this, and also I apologize for my handwriting and explain why I chose the journal I did (answer: it had seashells on, and looked grown-uppish and reminded me of pirates, an excellent combo). The second entry gets into me trying to imagine what Future Husband, Esquire will be like. I don't seem to have come up with anything concrete, which maybe should have indicated something to me. The third entry is me trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to talk about, because I've run out of ideas for what a man I'd be interested in might want to read about.
Judging by how it turned out, I should have been writing about things I did in art class, my growing uneasiness about my tendency to get into abusive relationships with Scorpios, and incidents in my career as an amateur pornographer, including the time my parents found my Star Wars slashfic. (Don't ask if you value your innocence.) M might not have appreciated the prescribed "To my Dear Husband" salutation, though.
Here the journal ends, which is a little disappointing.
Ooh, so remember how I gushed about the Orleans Hotel-Casino in Las Vegas? Guess where M and I will be making a stop, as my graduation present. I've wanted to see New Orleans since my mother gave me Interview with a Vampire for my birthday when I was eleven. I'll also, for the first time, see the Mississippi. Which is cool. BUT NEW ORLEANS OMG. The French Quarter. Two nights. GUSH.
Also, remember how I had a nice three-day-a-week blog schedule going? I'm allowing this to be utterly murdered until mid-January. I think I can be pretty proud of myself, though: I kept it faithfully while taking five classes and holding down a job, so I think I deserve to award myself a mental Certificate of Excellence.
Yay.
My car is a PT Cruiser.
It don't work.
Apparently we can get someone to ship some of it, which is good. Very good. We'll probably ship everything that isn't beads or clothes at this point.
Yeah, pictures of materials are going to have to wait until we get home. I have a bunch of fun ideas, though, from the stuff I've located that I didn't know I had. For a long time I was keeping pendants and focals in labeled workshop drawers, but this really doesn't work for me -- I do better having vaguely-themed containers to sort through. I don't know what I would do without M, who has labeled all my bead boxes and sorted them by color so I can select matching shades to go with my drops and charms and found objects. Unfortunately this also means 54 divider boxes to pack.
Other than that, it's a pick-through-and-see-if-I-want-it thing. I'd like to have my Egyptian perfume bottles, and I'll bring the flower press. Not the construction paper, but yes on my pad of glitter cardstock. Not the childhood fiction notebooks, but the more recent ones, and where does that cutoff fall? Tedious work, and arguably work I could have done before, but there's also a lot of stuff that was M's pre-me. It's a nightmare, sorting other people's things. Hopefully what with moving in together (we've lived together for two years, we've just never moved together, if that makes sense) it'll all become communal property.
Also ironing out finances and such. Closing bank accounts. Trying to remember all the thousands of places I have to change my registered address.
Amusing: One of the things I've found? When I was about thirteen my church did this thingy where the girls were supposed to start journals to present to our future husbands as a wedding gift. I kept mine for about two weeks. The first entry is all about why I'm doing this, and also I apologize for my handwriting and explain why I chose the journal I did (answer: it had seashells on, and looked grown-uppish and reminded me of pirates, an excellent combo). The second entry gets into me trying to imagine what Future Husband, Esquire will be like. I don't seem to have come up with anything concrete, which maybe should have indicated something to me. The third entry is me trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to talk about, because I've run out of ideas for what a man I'd be interested in might want to read about.
Judging by how it turned out, I should have been writing about things I did in art class, my growing uneasiness about my tendency to get into abusive relationships with Scorpios, and incidents in my career as an amateur pornographer, including the time my parents found my Star Wars slashfic. (Don't ask if you value your innocence.) M might not have appreciated the prescribed "To my Dear Husband" salutation, though.
Here the journal ends, which is a little disappointing.
Ooh, so remember how I gushed about the Orleans Hotel-Casino in Las Vegas? Guess where M and I will be making a stop, as my graduation present. I've wanted to see New Orleans since my mother gave me Interview with a Vampire for my birthday when I was eleven. I'll also, for the first time, see the Mississippi. Which is cool. BUT NEW ORLEANS OMG. The French Quarter. Two nights. GUSH.
Also, remember how I had a nice three-day-a-week blog schedule going? I'm allowing this to be utterly murdered until mid-January. I think I can be pretty proud of myself, though: I kept it faithfully while taking five classes and holding down a job, so I think I deserve to award myself a mental Certificate of Excellence.
Yay.
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