(The Dia de los Muertos looks like it's about to eat the cherries. Awkward!)
Monday, July 14, 2008
A handful of new bags....
Here's a glimpse behind the scenes at one of my etsy photo sessions: the bags, just hanging out, waiting for their turn in front of the camera. I'm posting five bags that are either entirely new or redesigns of some favorites in my shop today and tomorrow. But you, dear blog reader, get a sneak preview.
(The Dia de los Muertos looks like it's about to eat the cherries. Awkward!)
(The Dia de los Muertos looks like it's about to eat the cherries. Awkward!)
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Veggies. Veggies. Veggies.
Pete (aka Butros, aka Petros, aka my brother, aka my loyal reader) asked for more pictures from the garden. So here they are. First up are the tomatoes. I wish I had a scented blog so you could share. (Sorry, Pete, with your deviated septum I'm not sure how well you could smell them even if I did have a scented blog.) We've got about four different varieties, but here are three:
The squash is totally dominating. It's completely shading the okra from all afternoon sunlight. Sorry, Okra, Patty Pan Squash is winning. A ridiculously easy, ridiculously delicious Patty Pan (a great source of magnesium and niacin) recipe coming later on once they're harvested:
Sweet sweet sugar snap peas. Sweet. Sweetness. We had some with dinner tonight. Raw. Crispy and sweet.
The squash is totally dominating. It's completely shading the okra from all afternoon sunlight. Sorry, Okra, Patty Pan Squash is winning. A ridiculously easy, ridiculously delicious Patty Pan (a great source of magnesium and niacin) recipe coming later on once they're harvested:
Sweet sweet sugar snap peas. Sweet. Sweetness. We had some with dinner tonight. Raw. Crispy and sweet.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Armando's Chimichurri
Business Corporation has a new video up on You Tube. Not quite as hilarious as the first one (sorry, guys, it has to be said), but still made me chuckle and not just because my brother is one third of the team that makes up Business Corporation. Check it out and if you haven't seen their "Bowl Noodle" video and if you're a fan of The Wire, check that out too.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Two Shout Outs
Lars and Addie got a feature on the Etsy Artists of Color blog. (I'm going to have to work on my canned answers if I want to do more features!) Also got in another treasury.
Thanks, Xenotees! Now I have to get to creating more bags for the shop so that there's actually something there when people come to visit!
Thanks, Xenotees! Now I have to get to creating more bags for the shop so that there's actually something there when people come to visit!
Monday, July 7, 2008
Sly Stallone is my hero.
Our goal for this weekend was to celebrate the founding of our country in the best way we know: watching a Rambo flick.
Unfortunately, Netflix (and possibly the Burmese government) was working very hard to thwart our long Happy Birthday, America weekend plans. The DVD we'd received in the magical red envelope would not play. We were disappointed, but decided that perhaps Netflix would send us a new one. We dropped it in the mail, reported a problem, and waited.
Now, there was an actual reason why we wanted to watch Rambo 2008 other than the freakshow attraction of a 61 year old man on a steady diet of steroids. (Here's an illustration of what happens. The first one is from 1983).
_2.jpg)
For part of our honeymoon in February of this year, we returned to Mae Hong Son, Thailand, where I lived and taught in a refugee camp for two years. The refugees I was working with were Karenni and were fleeing from a conflict with the Burmese army in their homeland, Karenni State. On our honeymoon, we spent some time with British Scott and American Sarah, friends of mine who had also taught in the refugee camps, who had met each other there and had fallen in love and gotten married.
In any case, the new Rambo movie came up in conversation and Scott and Sarah recommended watching it. It turns out that before making this movie, Stallone contacted the two smartest people he knows, the UN and Soldier of Fortune Magazine, and asked them which conflict in the world was the most brutal. Both answered Burma.
I'd like to think that Stallone made the decision to make his next movie about Burma because he wanted to bring attention to a conflict that is under-reported and not because brutal conflict = brutal movie with lots of gratuitous violence.
Scott and Sarah said we should watch it because it was interesting to see how the latest Hollywood blockbuster about Burma (and specifically about the conflict in Karen State -- the state just to the south of Karenni State) would portray the conflict. This is not to say that there are many Hollywood blockbusters about Burma (how many have actually seen Beyond Rangoon?)
Our second copy of Rambo 2008, arrived and, again, it would not play. Eric guessed that the Burmese military government had gotten their hands on all the copies of the DVD and somehow stripped the data so that no one could find out what was going on in Burma. They did not count on the technological know-how of the average American household -- or the amount of resources we pour into home entertainment. We ponied up the $5 and ordered it "on demand."
Watching this movie I felt a little bit like I was eating at a restaurant that has only a mediocre chocolate cake on the dessert menu. Yeah, the chocolate cake is good because I really wanted dessert, but, really, in this day and age, can't we have more options? Or if you're only going to have one thing on the dessert menu, can't it be really, really good and decadent? Why did you hire Sly Stallone as your pastry chef?
Written and directed by Stallone himself, the 91 minutes (which according to my calculations amounts to about 3 pages of witty dialog) tested the movie-maker's very limits.
We pick up with our anti-hero on the Thai-Burma border where he working as a snake catcher. A group of American missionaries arrive, asking for his help getting across the border and into Karen State where they hope to bring some relief in the form of bibles and medical care to the suffering Christan ethnic minorities. So far, the premise is pretty good. Missionaries venture across the border with some regularity.
But then things starts to fall apart. (All right, the thing fell apart long before it ever even started, but here's where I started to get nitpicky.)
"You know this river better than anyone," one of the missionaries begs. Missionaries usually have Karen contacts and groups that help them across the border. But Rambo is not Karen and you cannot have a Rambo movie without Rambo, so I'll play along.
John Rambo and the missionary butt heads from their first meeting. It is man of God versus man o' war. Rambo thinks that venturing over the border sans weapons is a suicide mission. The conversation opens the door to a classic Rambo one-liner:
Missionary Michael Burnett: It’s thinking like that that keeps the world from changing.
Rambo: F#$& the world.
Lured by some persuasive words about life and meaning and doing the right thing from obligatory blond, Sarah, Rambo eventually agrees to take them up the river.
When they are attacked by river pirates, it becomes apparent that Christian Sarah's chastity is going to be both the carrot and the stick in this plot. In fact, it's the ogling eyes of the pirates that makes Rambo explode, executing all of the bad guys in one fell swoop.
When the missionaries respond with shock, Rambo explains himself in yet another great one-line: “When you’re pushed, killing's as easy as breathing.”
Michael says, "I'm going to have to report you." Which, of course, made us wonder who exactly he was going to report Rambo to for killing a boatfull of river pirates. The Thai authorities? The Burmese? When killing's as easy as breathing, missionaries are such downers.
Arriving safely at an idyllic Karen village, the missionaries leave Rambo's boat and he returns to his snake hunting. As they are helping with dental care, handing out bibles and dressing amputees, the village is attacked in the first of several very graphic scenes. Babies and children are thrown into fires, women are raped, homes are burnt, and villagers are shot, beaten, dismembered and decapitating. Finally, the missionaries are captured. Here is where the Burmese military is portrayed as being inaccurately stupid.
The Burmese military junta has been in power for nearly 60 years. They have been killing ethnic minorities in their country for decades. The international community has allowed them to get away with this because the Burmese army is smart. They do not capture white missionaries. The know that this would create an international incident. The consequences for white people illegally entering the country tend to be possibly arrest and likely deportation for the white person and utter devastation for every Burmese and ethnic minority that they came in contact with. But Rambo needed white people to save and the plot had to move forward, so I was willing to play along.
Of course, having been won over by the blond, Rambo feels compelled to get involved in the rescue. He agrees to ferry a group of mercenaries sent to save the Christians to the spot where he dropped them off. The mercenary leader doesn't take too kindly to the "boat man" and puts Rambo in his place when he tries to join them on their mission.
Rambo follows them anyway and takes out a group of Burmese soldiers as they force a group of Karen villagers to run through a mine covered paddy field for entertainment. Joining the group gives Rambo another opening for another great line: "There’s not one of us that’s doesn’t want to be someplace else. Live for nothing or die for something. Your call."
The next violent climax is the rescue mission. The team of mercenaries move through the dark rainy night, taking out Burmese soldiers, and freeing a few Karen and the missionaries, except for the one who was already fed to the pigs. As this scene unfolds, the Burmese soldiers are all seated in a large hall being entertained by scantily-clad women (are they supposed to be Karen? Burmese?) reluctantly doing a traditional dance. As the killing outside continues, the soldiers inside work themselves into a methamphetamine and alcohol fueled frenzy. Outside, one of the officers walks towards Sarah's cell, clearly intending to have his way with her. Inside, the soldiers begin to taunt, mock, and pour liquor over the dancers. They start to tear at their clothes. Rambo moves towards Sarah's cell. Of course, just when before an article of her clothing can be torn from her, he kills Sarah's would-be attacker. The women inside the hall are, in the meantime, being gang-raped.
Ironically, this scene pretty much sums up part of what is going on on the international level. In the movie, it is the white woman's chastity that is held sacred. The Karen women are being raped, as they are in real life, but that is not a concern for the international community. The genocide in Burma continues, but because the world's superpowers have little interest in Burma or because China looms ever-present in the background of Burmese politics and economics, few other countries are willing to get involved.
The Burmese government is going to have to mess up big time for foreign governments to start to get involved beyond the most basic sanctions. And the Burmese government is not going to mess up because they know that John Rambo will roll in if they do.
Back in the movie, the group is found out by the Burmese army who sets out after them. Rambo takes out a good number of them with just his wits and a claymore, but they seem to come in never ending waves. There is a final, violent showdown in which the bad guys are blown apart (literally) by some absurd armor piercing bullets that Rambo is firing. The Karen rebels show up after Rambo has taken care of most of the heavy lifting, but, still, they do make an appearance.
Like, I said before, the movie was mediocre chocolate cake. At least there is a movie out there at all and Stallone even made an effort to sprinkle some dialog about the situation in Burma in the early parts of the movie (although the Karen National Union army is rather obliquely referred to as the generic "Karen Freedom Fighters) and to use Karen, Thai, and Burmese actors and extras and to speak a little Burmese himself. Sure this movie didn't and isn't going to have any real lasting effect on the situation in Burma, but I can't help but quietly applaud Stallone for at least trying. At least someone is.
Unfortunately, Netflix (and possibly the Burmese government) was working very hard to thwart our long Happy Birthday, America weekend plans. The DVD we'd received in the magical red envelope would not play. We were disappointed, but decided that perhaps Netflix would send us a new one. We dropped it in the mail, reported a problem, and waited.
Now, there was an actual reason why we wanted to watch Rambo 2008 other than the freakshow attraction of a 61 year old man on a steady diet of steroids. (Here's an illustration of what happens. The first one is from 1983).
_2.jpg)
For part of our honeymoon in February of this year, we returned to Mae Hong Son, Thailand, where I lived and taught in a refugee camp for two years. The refugees I was working with were Karenni and were fleeing from a conflict with the Burmese army in their homeland, Karenni State. On our honeymoon, we spent some time with British Scott and American Sarah, friends of mine who had also taught in the refugee camps, who had met each other there and had fallen in love and gotten married.In any case, the new Rambo movie came up in conversation and Scott and Sarah recommended watching it. It turns out that before making this movie, Stallone contacted the two smartest people he knows, the UN and Soldier of Fortune Magazine, and asked them which conflict in the world was the most brutal. Both answered Burma.
I'd like to think that Stallone made the decision to make his next movie about Burma because he wanted to bring attention to a conflict that is under-reported and not because brutal conflict = brutal movie with lots of gratuitous violence.
Scott and Sarah said we should watch it because it was interesting to see how the latest Hollywood blockbuster about Burma (and specifically about the conflict in Karen State -- the state just to the south of Karenni State) would portray the conflict. This is not to say that there are many Hollywood blockbusters about Burma (how many have actually seen Beyond Rangoon?)
Our second copy of Rambo 2008, arrived and, again, it would not play. Eric guessed that the Burmese military government had gotten their hands on all the copies of the DVD and somehow stripped the data so that no one could find out what was going on in Burma. They did not count on the technological know-how of the average American household -- or the amount of resources we pour into home entertainment. We ponied up the $5 and ordered it "on demand."
Watching this movie I felt a little bit like I was eating at a restaurant that has only a mediocre chocolate cake on the dessert menu. Yeah, the chocolate cake is good because I really wanted dessert, but, really, in this day and age, can't we have more options? Or if you're only going to have one thing on the dessert menu, can't it be really, really good and decadent? Why did you hire Sly Stallone as your pastry chef?
Written and directed by Stallone himself, the 91 minutes (which according to my calculations amounts to about 3 pages of witty dialog) tested the movie-maker's very limits.
We pick up with our anti-hero on the Thai-Burma border where he working as a snake catcher. A group of American missionaries arrive, asking for his help getting across the border and into Karen State where they hope to bring some relief in the form of bibles and medical care to the suffering Christan ethnic minorities. So far, the premise is pretty good. Missionaries venture across the border with some regularity.
But then things starts to fall apart. (All right, the thing fell apart long before it ever even started, but here's where I started to get nitpicky.)
"You know this river better than anyone," one of the missionaries begs. Missionaries usually have Karen contacts and groups that help them across the border. But Rambo is not Karen and you cannot have a Rambo movie without Rambo, so I'll play along.
John Rambo and the missionary butt heads from their first meeting. It is man of God versus man o' war. Rambo thinks that venturing over the border sans weapons is a suicide mission. The conversation opens the door to a classic Rambo one-liner:
Missionary Michael Burnett: It’s thinking like that that keeps the world from changing.
Rambo: F#$& the world.
Lured by some persuasive words about life and meaning and doing the right thing from obligatory blond, Sarah, Rambo eventually agrees to take them up the river.
When they are attacked by river pirates, it becomes apparent that Christian Sarah's chastity is going to be both the carrot and the stick in this plot. In fact, it's the ogling eyes of the pirates that makes Rambo explode, executing all of the bad guys in one fell swoop.
When the missionaries respond with shock, Rambo explains himself in yet another great one-line: “When you’re pushed, killing's as easy as breathing.”
Michael says, "I'm going to have to report you." Which, of course, made us wonder who exactly he was going to report Rambo to for killing a boatfull of river pirates. The Thai authorities? The Burmese? When killing's as easy as breathing, missionaries are such downers.
Arriving safely at an idyllic Karen village, the missionaries leave Rambo's boat and he returns to his snake hunting. As they are helping with dental care, handing out bibles and dressing amputees, the village is attacked in the first of several very graphic scenes. Babies and children are thrown into fires, women are raped, homes are burnt, and villagers are shot, beaten, dismembered and decapitating. Finally, the missionaries are captured. Here is where the Burmese military is portrayed as being inaccurately stupid.
The Burmese military junta has been in power for nearly 60 years. They have been killing ethnic minorities in their country for decades. The international community has allowed them to get away with this because the Burmese army is smart. They do not capture white missionaries. The know that this would create an international incident. The consequences for white people illegally entering the country tend to be possibly arrest and likely deportation for the white person and utter devastation for every Burmese and ethnic minority that they came in contact with. But Rambo needed white people to save and the plot had to move forward, so I was willing to play along.
Of course, having been won over by the blond, Rambo feels compelled to get involved in the rescue. He agrees to ferry a group of mercenaries sent to save the Christians to the spot where he dropped them off. The mercenary leader doesn't take too kindly to the "boat man" and puts Rambo in his place when he tries to join them on their mission.
Rambo follows them anyway and takes out a group of Burmese soldiers as they force a group of Karen villagers to run through a mine covered paddy field for entertainment. Joining the group gives Rambo another opening for another great line: "There’s not one of us that’s doesn’t want to be someplace else. Live for nothing or die for something. Your call."
The next violent climax is the rescue mission. The team of mercenaries move through the dark rainy night, taking out Burmese soldiers, and freeing a few Karen and the missionaries, except for the one who was already fed to the pigs. As this scene unfolds, the Burmese soldiers are all seated in a large hall being entertained by scantily-clad women (are they supposed to be Karen? Burmese?) reluctantly doing a traditional dance. As the killing outside continues, the soldiers inside work themselves into a methamphetamine and alcohol fueled frenzy. Outside, one of the officers walks towards Sarah's cell, clearly intending to have his way with her. Inside, the soldiers begin to taunt, mock, and pour liquor over the dancers. They start to tear at their clothes. Rambo moves towards Sarah's cell. Of course, just when before an article of her clothing can be torn from her, he kills Sarah's would-be attacker. The women inside the hall are, in the meantime, being gang-raped.
Ironically, this scene pretty much sums up part of what is going on on the international level. In the movie, it is the white woman's chastity that is held sacred. The Karen women are being raped, as they are in real life, but that is not a concern for the international community. The genocide in Burma continues, but because the world's superpowers have little interest in Burma or because China looms ever-present in the background of Burmese politics and economics, few other countries are willing to get involved.
The Burmese government is going to have to mess up big time for foreign governments to start to get involved beyond the most basic sanctions. And the Burmese government is not going to mess up because they know that John Rambo will roll in if they do.
Back in the movie, the group is found out by the Burmese army who sets out after them. Rambo takes out a good number of them with just his wits and a claymore, but they seem to come in never ending waves. There is a final, violent showdown in which the bad guys are blown apart (literally) by some absurd armor piercing bullets that Rambo is firing. The Karen rebels show up after Rambo has taken care of most of the heavy lifting, but, still, they do make an appearance.
Like, I said before, the movie was mediocre chocolate cake. At least there is a movie out there at all and Stallone even made an effort to sprinkle some dialog about the situation in Burma in the early parts of the movie (although the Karen National Union army is rather obliquely referred to as the generic "Karen Freedom Fighters) and to use Karen, Thai, and Burmese actors and extras and to speak a little Burmese himself. Sure this movie didn't and isn't going to have any real lasting effect on the situation in Burma, but I can't help but quietly applaud Stallone for at least trying. At least someone is.
All grown up.
The bag that I posted last week is all grown up and ready to leave the nest. Here are the before and after shots. More items coming to the shop this week!
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Is it really possible for two such awesome things to happen in one day?
First, I was driving home yesterday afternoon and I had to stop to get some cash. I pulled over at a little bodega that I have never been to near our house. Standing at the cash machine, I glanced over at the malt liquor area and noticed this sitting on the shelf.
I thought they had discontinued this stuff! The date on the can does say 2006. Apparently either some places have been hoarding it or it doesn't fly off the shelves the way the real stuff does.
The Daily Show did a little piece on this energy drink when it first came out. They got two kids to drink some of it and they ran around going crazy for a while. At the end of the clip, one of the kids gets right up close to the camera, his hair all wild, and screams, "I'm high on cocaine!" I can't find the clip, but it's awesome.
Now there is a trio of cable guys at my house installing our cable and it is taking every fiber of my being to keep myself from getting up and asking them, "Would you like some water or some Cocaine or anything?"
Finding Cocaine was enough to make my day... no, my week, and then this happened.
My buddy Jeff (web editor over at City Pages) won a silent auction item that gave him the honor of leading the crowd in "Take Me Out to the Ballpark" during the seventh inning stretch of a St. Paul Saints game. (The local AA league team.) A bunch of his friends gathered at the field in St. Paul to cheer him on and enjoy the kitsch of these events (which are an illustration in what I wrote about in my last entry about the greatness of local community and culture along the lines of the "St. Paul Sieve" -- a guys who dresses as a hockey goalie and tries to defend his goal during a between inning fan involvement game -- and the verging-on-racist-or-at least-very-awkward-between-inning karaoke performance by a Japanese guy in a Dunn Brother Coffee emblazoned white tuxedo jacket with tails) .
Before the game, Eric and I were sitting out by the field enjoying a beer next to a concession stand. The Saints' mascot is a pig so the name of the concession stand was "Pigtop" and it was emblazoned in big letters across the top of the stand, which also happened to be the wall next to the bleachers above the stand. In between sips of beer, I looked up and saw this.
Yes. That is actually a cop. And yes, he is actually standing above a sign that says Pigtop. Plus, it was Irony Awareness Night at the game. You cannot make this stuff up. I only wish I'd had my real camera and not just the one on my phone. It was an amazing day.
I thought they had discontinued this stuff! The date on the can does say 2006. Apparently either some places have been hoarding it or it doesn't fly off the shelves the way the real stuff does.
The Daily Show did a little piece on this energy drink when it first came out. They got two kids to drink some of it and they ran around going crazy for a while. At the end of the clip, one of the kids gets right up close to the camera, his hair all wild, and screams, "I'm high on cocaine!" I can't find the clip, but it's awesome.
Now there is a trio of cable guys at my house installing our cable and it is taking every fiber of my being to keep myself from getting up and asking them, "Would you like some water or some Cocaine or anything?"
Finding Cocaine was enough to make my day... no, my week, and then this happened.
My buddy Jeff (web editor over at City Pages) won a silent auction item that gave him the honor of leading the crowd in "Take Me Out to the Ballpark" during the seventh inning stretch of a St. Paul Saints game. (The local AA league team.) A bunch of his friends gathered at the field in St. Paul to cheer him on and enjoy the kitsch of these events (which are an illustration in what I wrote about in my last entry about the greatness of local community and culture along the lines of the "St. Paul Sieve" -- a guys who dresses as a hockey goalie and tries to defend his goal during a between inning fan involvement game -- and the verging-on-racist-or-at least-very-awkward-between-inning karaoke performance by a Japanese guy in a Dunn Brother Coffee emblazoned white tuxedo jacket with tails) .
Before the game, Eric and I were sitting out by the field enjoying a beer next to a concession stand. The Saints' mascot is a pig so the name of the concession stand was "Pigtop" and it was emblazoned in big letters across the top of the stand, which also happened to be the wall next to the bleachers above the stand. In between sips of beer, I looked up and saw this.
Yes. That is actually a cop. And yes, he is actually standing above a sign that says Pigtop. Plus, it was Irony Awareness Night at the game. You cannot make this stuff up. I only wish I'd had my real camera and not just the one on my phone. It was an amazing day.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
A Jucy Lucy is so much more than just a burger.
According to a report on NPR this morning, some newspapers, including our local Minneapolis Star Tribune, have been outsourcing advertising design and copy writing to India and may also begin outsourcing news writing. New giant McClatchy will be cutting 10% of its workforce and some of it will be sent to India.
The Strib is amongst those newspapers that use Express KCS for outsourcing. According to KCS CEO Robert Berkeley, the employees in India admittedly have no journalism background and have likely never set foot in the town where the newspaper they are writing for is located. On NPR, Berkeley insisted that "It's about the training." They spend "four to six months training our staff in the local and cultural norms." Berkely said that the training covers such topics as what a leprechaun is and what colors are used on Valentine's Day.
I'm a little conflicted about this news. Like outsourcing in general, it seems a little insidious. First we'll outsource our ad copy and then our news and then our editorials and then our wedding vows.
According to a friend of mine who used to write ad copy, on the spectrum of writing (with Philip Roth, Joan Didion, and Joseph Mitchell on the good, virginal end), writing ad copy is on the brothel end of the spectrum. So part of me is thinking "who cares" about who writes ad copy and whether they eat chapitis at every meal?
But at the same time, I love local culture. I love community. I love all of the little quirks about a certain specific town or city or neighborhood that make it unique. Sure, they can teach writers in other countries that a leprechaun has to take you to his pot of gold when you nab them, but will they know that a sure sign that a Metro rider in Washington DC is a tourist is that they're standing on the left side of the escalator? Will they know that "Scanner Dan" Madison, WI got his scanner from a kind fireman who knew about Dan's obsession with tracking local fires? Will they know that Matt's, not the 5-8 Club has the original Jucy Lucy (and that that's the correct spelling?) Or that... well, to tell you the truth, I don't know that much about Minneapolis yet. I've only lived here for a year and a half.
But that's sort of the point... it takes living and being a part of a community for years to know it.
You know those "Mentoes" commercials where the guy or gal has some little problem, so they eat a Mento and then "ting!" a lightbulb goes off and he/she finds some clever way to solve his/her problem? Even though there's no speaking, those commercials are obviously European and all Americans know it. Watching them, it's like, "Oh, look at those silly Europeans popping their collars and trying to sling their minty treats over here in the US. They're so.... so... clearly not American." And then do you go out and buy Mentoes? No. No you don't because it's like if someone parks their car too close to mine, I might try to get a bunch of construction workers over to pick up and move my car, but I'm also to kick that guy's headlights in.
I like local. I like that local writers can maintain and enrich a local culture even if it is just as a means to sell me something. Because if local community is about anything, it's about slinging schlonk* to other locals.
*This word is courtesy of my sister's mother-in-law, who is the an amazing wordcrafter and created it to describe, well, schlonk.
The Strib is amongst those newspapers that use Express KCS for outsourcing. According to KCS CEO Robert Berkeley, the employees in India admittedly have no journalism background and have likely never set foot in the town where the newspaper they are writing for is located. On NPR, Berkeley insisted that "It's about the training." They spend "four to six months training our staff in the local and cultural norms." Berkely said that the training covers such topics as what a leprechaun is and what colors are used on Valentine's Day.
I'm a little conflicted about this news. Like outsourcing in general, it seems a little insidious. First we'll outsource our ad copy and then our news and then our editorials and then our wedding vows.
According to a friend of mine who used to write ad copy, on the spectrum of writing (with Philip Roth, Joan Didion, and Joseph Mitchell on the good, virginal end), writing ad copy is on the brothel end of the spectrum. So part of me is thinking "who cares" about who writes ad copy and whether they eat chapitis at every meal?
But at the same time, I love local culture. I love community. I love all of the little quirks about a certain specific town or city or neighborhood that make it unique. Sure, they can teach writers in other countries that a leprechaun has to take you to his pot of gold when you nab them, but will they know that a sure sign that a Metro rider in Washington DC is a tourist is that they're standing on the left side of the escalator? Will they know that "Scanner Dan" Madison, WI got his scanner from a kind fireman who knew about Dan's obsession with tracking local fires? Will they know that Matt's, not the 5-8 Club has the original Jucy Lucy (and that that's the correct spelling?) Or that... well, to tell you the truth, I don't know that much about Minneapolis yet. I've only lived here for a year and a half.
But that's sort of the point... it takes living and being a part of a community for years to know it.
You know those "Mentoes" commercials where the guy or gal has some little problem, so they eat a Mento and then "ting!" a lightbulb goes off and he/she finds some clever way to solve his/her problem? Even though there's no speaking, those commercials are obviously European and all Americans know it. Watching them, it's like, "Oh, look at those silly Europeans popping their collars and trying to sling their minty treats over here in the US. They're so.... so... clearly not American." And then do you go out and buy Mentoes? No. No you don't because it's like if someone parks their car too close to mine, I might try to get a bunch of construction workers over to pick up and move my car, but I'm also to kick that guy's headlights in.
I like local. I like that local writers can maintain and enrich a local culture even if it is just as a means to sell me something. Because if local community is about anything, it's about slinging schlonk* to other locals.
*This word is courtesy of my sister's mother-in-law, who is the an amazing wordcrafter and created it to describe, well, schlonk.
Best Etsy Sale Ever.
What with the house and the upcoming construction on our second floor, the old man and I have found ourselves in communication with and in the offices of various loan/ mortgage type people. I had been e-mailing back and forth for a while with one women who worked in an office that we were hoping would give us some money. Or at least loan us some money.
Finally, after much paperwork passed through the intertubes between us, we were prepared to close. The Friday before the closing, the woman in the office e-mailed me and asked if the cupcake bag in my etsy shop had sold yet. Turns out, she'd clicked on the link that's in my signature and spied the bag.
I brought it with us to our loan closing where she told me she'd bought it for her cousin who was about to graduate from culinary school and was going to become a pastry chef. The bag was a perfect match for her cupcake tattoo. It's so freakin' cool when you know that your handycrafts are going to end up in a nice home.
Know the power of the e-mail signature.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
How Do You Like Me Now?
Sorry for the aggressive sounding title of this entry, but I'm just really stoked that Lars and Addie got featured on , Indie Fixx, a really cool blog about indie crafts and handmade goods maintained by Jen Wallace. So if you found your way here from Indie Fixx, high fives all around. If you haven't visited Indie Fixx yet, get going.
Unfortunately, with the house move and totally unanticipated sales at the etsy shop, my stock is somewhat depleted. Fortunately, many new bags are already in the works and will be available next week! Here, lucky blog readers, is a rare glimpse at some of the fabrics that are featured in and inspire the new bags.
Rare glimpse indeed. Yes. There are skulls rattling around.I'm also working on some new felted projects. Here's the body of a felted bag that's going to be similar to the Green Poppy Bag pictured above -- only machine and needle felted. That's right. Felted. Yes. Felted.
This picture also show us what our bags do when we're not home: stare out the window longingly.Visit the shop next week for some entirely new bags with new design updates as well as some reworks of some old favorites!
Thursday, June 26, 2008
An Open Letter to Real Estate Agents
Dear Real Estate Agents (Sir or Madam),
My husband and I recently bought a home. We looked at a dozen or so homes before making our decision. During the course of our search, I learned what it means to "stage a house" when trying to sell it. I had a range of reactions to different staged houses from "Oh, these people have a wine rack and drink Merlot. Would I drink Merlot if I lived in this house? I hope not. Red wine makes me sleepy" to "These people have no pictures on the walls and only two blue suits in the closet. This is really creepy. Would I only wear blue suits if I lived in this house?"
In fact, the house we ended up buying was entirely empty save the foam pillow-type-thing on one of the built in beds, a few random unused (as far as we know) lightbulbs, and this pin.
The second floor of the house was bought was only partially finished. When I say partially finished I mean there was some carpet thrown over two layers of linoleum, some drywall slopshoddily put up and painted what can only be described as the color a lilac bush might vomit if it vomited in technicolor, and a mass of electrical wires left to form a nest in the crawlspace. This is not to mention the built-in beds (of which there were two).
Needless to say, the decision to buy this house required the use of a very vivid and confident imagination. My husband and I had to imagine away all of the unwanted walls, the gross carpet, the tangle of wires. We had to imagine our way through months of blood, sweat, tears, and depleted bank accounts. We had to imagine a beautiful master suite and cozy second floor sitting area where my husband can study and I can write.
In fact, you, Mr or Ms Real Estate Agent, you were counting on a buyer like us to come along and imagine ourselves into this house. You, Mr or Ms Real Estate Agent, often count on having a buyer come along who's willing to see past the flaws and shortcomings and is willing and even hoping to buy a home where they can put their own elbow grease and vision.
Why on earth then, Sir or Madam, do you, when getting the house ready for sale, suggest to your client that all their house needs to see is just a "fresh coat of paint?"
Sure, you also advised them to pull up the carpet on the first floor and have the floors redone and we appreciate that. We might not have bought the house had we not known what condition the wood floors were in and re-doing floors is a serious investment of time and money.
The problem is that when you suggested that the owners just throw on a fresh coat of paint, that's exactly what they did. They went out and bought the cheapest thing they could find: giant barrels of white-out. They painted before they pulled up the carpet, meaning that all along the trim there are little flecks of carpet fuzz stuck in the paint. They painted high traffic friction areas like kitchen cabinets with the same cheap stuff so that now it peels off in giant swaths. They did such a haphazard job that now portions of our beautiful wood trim have drops of paint or even entire paintbrush marks on them. They did not sand. They did not strip. I do not think they even primed. They did not paint a second coat.
We're getting rid of or painting over most of it.
All the while, when we're picking carpet lint out of paint, when we're sanding off old cheap painting, when we're painstakingly removing the paint drips, we're cursing you, Mr or Ms Real Estate Agent. We're imagining all the things we hope go horribly wrong with your next home purchase. We're imagining you being attacked my a nest of hornets or, better yet, a nest of electrical wires. We're imagining you getting a technicolor stomach virus that makes you vomit lilac.
And we have pretty good imaginations.
Warmly,
Rhena
PS Thank you for leaving these scenic vistas. They bring Glacier National Park right into our basement and allow us to give our overactive imaginations a break.
My husband and I recently bought a home. We looked at a dozen or so homes before making our decision. During the course of our search, I learned what it means to "stage a house" when trying to sell it. I had a range of reactions to different staged houses from "Oh, these people have a wine rack and drink Merlot. Would I drink Merlot if I lived in this house? I hope not. Red wine makes me sleepy" to "These people have no pictures on the walls and only two blue suits in the closet. This is really creepy. Would I only wear blue suits if I lived in this house?"
In fact, the house we ended up buying was entirely empty save the foam pillow-type-thing on one of the built in beds, a few random unused (as far as we know) lightbulbs, and this pin.
The second floor of the house was bought was only partially finished. When I say partially finished I mean there was some carpet thrown over two layers of linoleum, some drywall slopshoddily put up and painted what can only be described as the color a lilac bush might vomit if it vomited in technicolor, and a mass of electrical wires left to form a nest in the crawlspace. This is not to mention the built-in beds (of which there were two).
Needless to say, the decision to buy this house required the use of a very vivid and confident imagination. My husband and I had to imagine away all of the unwanted walls, the gross carpet, the tangle of wires. We had to imagine our way through months of blood, sweat, tears, and depleted bank accounts. We had to imagine a beautiful master suite and cozy second floor sitting area where my husband can study and I can write.
In fact, you, Mr or Ms Real Estate Agent, you were counting on a buyer like us to come along and imagine ourselves into this house. You, Mr or Ms Real Estate Agent, often count on having a buyer come along who's willing to see past the flaws and shortcomings and is willing and even hoping to buy a home where they can put their own elbow grease and vision.
Why on earth then, Sir or Madam, do you, when getting the house ready for sale, suggest to your client that all their house needs to see is just a "fresh coat of paint?"
Sure, you also advised them to pull up the carpet on the first floor and have the floors redone and we appreciate that. We might not have bought the house had we not known what condition the wood floors were in and re-doing floors is a serious investment of time and money.
The problem is that when you suggested that the owners just throw on a fresh coat of paint, that's exactly what they did. They went out and bought the cheapest thing they could find: giant barrels of white-out. They painted before they pulled up the carpet, meaning that all along the trim there are little flecks of carpet fuzz stuck in the paint. They painted high traffic friction areas like kitchen cabinets with the same cheap stuff so that now it peels off in giant swaths. They did such a haphazard job that now portions of our beautiful wood trim have drops of paint or even entire paintbrush marks on them. They did not sand. They did not strip. I do not think they even primed. They did not paint a second coat.
We're getting rid of or painting over most of it.
All the while, when we're picking carpet lint out of paint, when we're sanding off old cheap painting, when we're painstakingly removing the paint drips, we're cursing you, Mr or Ms Real Estate Agent. We're imagining all the things we hope go horribly wrong with your next home purchase. We're imagining you being attacked my a nest of hornets or, better yet, a nest of electrical wires. We're imagining you getting a technicolor stomach virus that makes you vomit lilac.
And we have pretty good imaginations.
Warmly,
Rhena
PS Thank you for leaving these scenic vistas. They bring Glacier National Park right into our basement and allow us to give our overactive imaginations a break.
A Open Letter to Barack Obama
Dear Mr. Barack Obama,
Please return my husband's Swiss Army knife. I'm not sure what you wanted with such a tiny little knife (I don't think it even has a bottle opener on it), but one of your security thugs confiscated it on our way into your recent Xcel Energy Center event. Even the TSA does not confiscate it because they know that even tubes of toothpaste more than 3 oz do much more damage on an airplane. (Fresh breath means more mile high club action.) Mr. Obama, we have already willingly donated to your campaign and my husband has had many hangnails to cut and packages to open. Please contact me for an address where you can send said Swiss Army knife.
Sincerely,
Rhena
Please return my husband's Swiss Army knife. I'm not sure what you wanted with such a tiny little knife (I don't think it even has a bottle opener on it), but one of your security thugs confiscated it on our way into your recent Xcel Energy Center event. Even the TSA does not confiscate it because they know that even tubes of toothpaste more than 3 oz do much more damage on an airplane. (Fresh breath means more mile high club action.) Mr. Obama, we have already willingly donated to your campaign and my husband has had many hangnails to cut and packages to open. Please contact me for an address where you can send said Swiss Army knife.
Sincerely,
Rhena
Monday, June 23, 2008
An Open Letter to The Current
Dear The Current,
Initially I thought that our differences could be resolved in a private manner. I sent you a personal note via your "web form", but as I have yet to receive a response and you clearly have not changed your ways, I have no option but to bring this out onto the "playground." By playground, I mean this blog where, I have no doubt, both of my readers will support me.
For some time now I have been listening, somewhat sporadically, to The Current. More recently, my husband and I have been working on our house and we've repeatedly turned to you, The Current, for entertainment and distraction during our drudgery. Because we have not yet set up an appropriate sound system, my circa 1994 boombox has been pulled out, dusted off, and digitally locked on 98.3. We have been grateful, The Current, for the beats, rhythms, and rhymes that you have provided while we work. Where else can you reasonably find The Police, Public Enemy, Gomez, and Mazzy Star all assembled in the same set? Where else can you find new artists next to the classics that inspired them? We have been even started to consider the possibility of one day maybe (possibly) donating to this listener sponsored radio station.
In the recent weeks, The Current, you have disappointed us. Time and again, when we turn you on in the evenings, we consistently hear two songs, often one right after the other, that makes us want to grab the closest screwdriver and plunge it in our our ears, puncturing our eardrums and freeing us from the auditory tyranny of these songs, which you have clearly decided ought to be the anthems for summer '08. I wish I were talking about Atmosphere's "Guarantees," but your three week period of incessantly playing that song has passed. I speak, of course, of two songs that might as well be by the same artists (and my husband and I were shocked to find that they weren't): The Cure's "The Only One" and The Black Kids "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend to Dance Like Me." Sure The Cure was fun when we were in middle school and high school and even into college when we were young and emotional and hormonal, but there are few songs that one can listen to day after day and "The Only One" is not one. "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend to Dance Like Me" even less so.
When these two songs come on, my husband and I look at each other and considering puking in our mouths just a little bit before we remember that puking a little bit in your mouth is totally '02. We also consider changing the station but our hands are often covered in paint or plaster. We debate just kicking in the speakers, but my radio was a 16th birthday gift, which means that it has both sentimental and potential ebay resale value.
Please, The Current, for the love of God and all that is musical, please resist the urge to play these two songs evening after evening. My eardrums, and vintage boombox, will be better for it.
Your sometimes loyal listener,
Rhena
Initially I thought that our differences could be resolved in a private manner. I sent you a personal note via your "web form", but as I have yet to receive a response and you clearly have not changed your ways, I have no option but to bring this out onto the "playground." By playground, I mean this blog where, I have no doubt, both of my readers will support me.
For some time now I have been listening, somewhat sporadically, to The Current. More recently, my husband and I have been working on our house and we've repeatedly turned to you, The Current, for entertainment and distraction during our drudgery. Because we have not yet set up an appropriate sound system, my circa 1994 boombox has been pulled out, dusted off, and digitally locked on 98.3. We have been grateful, The Current, for the beats, rhythms, and rhymes that you have provided while we work. Where else can you reasonably find The Police, Public Enemy, Gomez, and Mazzy Star all assembled in the same set? Where else can you find new artists next to the classics that inspired them? We have been even started to consider the possibility of one day maybe (possibly) donating to this listener sponsored radio station.
In the recent weeks, The Current, you have disappointed us. Time and again, when we turn you on in the evenings, we consistently hear two songs, often one right after the other, that makes us want to grab the closest screwdriver and plunge it in our our ears, puncturing our eardrums and freeing us from the auditory tyranny of these songs, which you have clearly decided ought to be the anthems for summer '08. I wish I were talking about Atmosphere's "Guarantees," but your three week period of incessantly playing that song has passed. I speak, of course, of two songs that might as well be by the same artists (and my husband and I were shocked to find that they weren't): The Cure's "The Only One" and The Black Kids "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend to Dance Like Me." Sure The Cure was fun when we were in middle school and high school and even into college when we were young and emotional and hormonal, but there are few songs that one can listen to day after day and "The Only One" is not one. "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend to Dance Like Me" even less so.
When these two songs come on, my husband and I look at each other and considering puking in our mouths just a little bit before we remember that puking a little bit in your mouth is totally '02. We also consider changing the station but our hands are often covered in paint or plaster. We debate just kicking in the speakers, but my radio was a 16th birthday gift, which means that it has both sentimental and potential ebay resale value.
Please, The Current, for the love of God and all that is musical, please resist the urge to play these two songs evening after evening. My eardrums, and vintage boombox, will be better for it.
Your sometimes loyal listener,
Rhena
Friday, June 13, 2008
How to get angry like a lady.
Painting the walls in our house without music, conversation, or some other form of entertainment is about as fun as, well, painting walls. We keep The Current cranked on, but even they start to get a little repetitive and there's only so much Portishead, The Cure, and, yes, even Gnarls Barkley a person can take before it's time to crank up the podcasts. I've pretty much listened to almost every "This American Life" episode, so I've increasingly turned to WNYC's "Radio Lab" to entertain me while painting and to provide me with conversation points at later social events. For those who have never listened to "Radio Lab" -- it's a really great show where they explore one topic (like in This American Life -- although often more abstract at the same time as being more scientific or research-based.) The sound editing is amazing -- it's fast and musical and imaginative. It takes a few episodes to get used to, but it's great once you are.
A recent "Radio Lab" I was listening to was about the mind-body connection. In addition to a fascinating story about this guy who lacks proprioception (basically his brain can tell his body what to do, but his body doesn't communicate back to the brain; there are about six or seven people in the world who lack this sense), there was a story about how men and women argue differently. Basically, when we get upset at someone for, say, leaving the toilet seat up (and argument that fortunately, never happens in our house -- seriously), our body starts to tense up and our heart beats faster before our brains even process what we're upset about. Meaning that anger is a physical experience before it is a mental one. When anger passes, our bodies relax, our heart slows back down, and then our brains say, "it's OK" and we apologize. The thing is that this calming down process happens faster in men than it does in women. Ergo, women will sometimes keep an argument going for longer than a man will. Women will sometimes linger on an issue that the man feels is settled. Her body is still telling her that she's angry while the man's body tells him the moment has passed.
This show made me think of two things. First, sorry, Eric, for all the times I've dragged out an argument when you've clearly moved on -- like that one time that I sat through an entire, funny movie (The Darjeeling Limited) not laughing because I was still mad at you for some infraction that I can't even remember now. It was not my fault. It was my autonomic nervous system.
Second, "Radio Lab" seemed to have missed part of the bigger discussion about how men and women get angry and argue. They seemed happy to leave it at "this explains the stereotype of why women dwell on and revisit old arguments." If we just wait it out, the story seemed to suggest, our anger would pass and we'd all be on our way. But certainly even if anger is a physical response before it's a mental one (and therefore seemingly void of logic), doesn't it have some (evolutionary or otherwise) purpose? Like, for example, maybe anger is a motivation to change the world around us -- or at least the thing that triggered the anger in the first place? Is anger just a way to point out to our minds, "Hey, something here isn't working as well or as efficiently or productively as it could. Do something about it. Make him put the toilet seat down." (All right, I'm playing into the stereotype with that last sentence.) Doesn't that mean that women are more effective agents of change? I'm joking... but not really.
Radio Lab, I'm a little bugged with you and I will likely stay that way for a few days even though you are clearly over it.
A recent "Radio Lab" I was listening to was about the mind-body connection. In addition to a fascinating story about this guy who lacks proprioception (basically his brain can tell his body what to do, but his body doesn't communicate back to the brain; there are about six or seven people in the world who lack this sense), there was a story about how men and women argue differently. Basically, when we get upset at someone for, say, leaving the toilet seat up (and argument that fortunately, never happens in our house -- seriously), our body starts to tense up and our heart beats faster before our brains even process what we're upset about. Meaning that anger is a physical experience before it is a mental one. When anger passes, our bodies relax, our heart slows back down, and then our brains say, "it's OK" and we apologize. The thing is that this calming down process happens faster in men than it does in women. Ergo, women will sometimes keep an argument going for longer than a man will. Women will sometimes linger on an issue that the man feels is settled. Her body is still telling her that she's angry while the man's body tells him the moment has passed.
This show made me think of two things. First, sorry, Eric, for all the times I've dragged out an argument when you've clearly moved on -- like that one time that I sat through an entire, funny movie (The Darjeeling Limited) not laughing because I was still mad at you for some infraction that I can't even remember now. It was not my fault. It was my autonomic nervous system.
Second, "Radio Lab" seemed to have missed part of the bigger discussion about how men and women get angry and argue. They seemed happy to leave it at "this explains the stereotype of why women dwell on and revisit old arguments." If we just wait it out, the story seemed to suggest, our anger would pass and we'd all be on our way. But certainly even if anger is a physical response before it's a mental one (and therefore seemingly void of logic), doesn't it have some (evolutionary or otherwise) purpose? Like, for example, maybe anger is a motivation to change the world around us -- or at least the thing that triggered the anger in the first place? Is anger just a way to point out to our minds, "Hey, something here isn't working as well or as efficiently or productively as it could. Do something about it. Make him put the toilet seat down." (All right, I'm playing into the stereotype with that last sentence.) Doesn't that mean that women are more effective agents of change? I'm joking... but not really.
Radio Lab, I'm a little bugged with you and I will likely stay that way for a few days even though you are clearly over it.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Also, one more treasury
My small bag with cherries was featured in a treasury! Shout out to Two Left Hands for including it.
Brioche Craving Sated!
Every so often, especially on the weekends, I crave a light, delicious, buttery brioche. Time and again I have tried to find me a bakery nearby that has flaky brioche in single servings. Time and again, my craving has gone unsated.
At last, at long, long last, a purveyor of the French manna has opened shop. Michelle Gayer of Franklin Street Bakery fame (and Charlie Trotters in Chicago, which apparently means something BIG to some people), has opened The Salty Tart, her own bakery in the Midtown Global Market. We were dropping by to grab some lunch and had to stop by the new place. She had a kick-ass array of sweets and savories, including the beloved brioche. I tried a savory one with some olives, a little tomato, and some hard cheese on top (asiago, perhaps?). I almost cried when one of the large slivers of cheese fell on the floor when I pulled it out of the bag. Still, it was a lovely, airy, flaky brioche.
I can't wait to try more of her treats. I will weigh 300 pounds by the end of the month. It will not be pretty, but I will sate my brioche craving.
At last, at long, long last, a purveyor of the French manna has opened shop. Michelle Gayer of Franklin Street Bakery fame (and Charlie Trotters in Chicago, which apparently means something BIG to some people), has opened The Salty Tart, her own bakery in the Midtown Global Market. We were dropping by to grab some lunch and had to stop by the new place. She had a kick-ass array of sweets and savories, including the beloved brioche. I tried a savory one with some olives, a little tomato, and some hard cheese on top (asiago, perhaps?). I almost cried when one of the large slivers of cheese fell on the floor when I pulled it out of the bag. Still, it was a lovely, airy, flaky brioche.
I can't wait to try more of her treats. I will weigh 300 pounds by the end of the month. It will not be pretty, but I will sate my brioche craving.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Don't Lick the Walls: Lead Paint Freak Out
A few posts back, Eric and I were sort of paralyzed by the realisation that our house might have quite a bit of lead paint. We knew it would have some -- as most homes built before 1973 do -- but we were afraid that the lead paint in our house stood between us and completing the painting and other projects that we want to do in the next few weeks before the contractors get in there.
After furiously searching the internets (which was predictably full of half-truths and misinformation), we found a program that Hennepin County offers to help with lead abatement. We started to get the gears in motion to apply for the program and tried to figure out what we were going to do about our projects in the meantime. We decided that our wallpaper removal could continue because we were doing it wet, which would keep any lead dust down and because it was the wallpaper, not the paint, that we were disturbing. We took precautions -- covered our vents, changed and washed our clothes and showered immediately after doing the work, and cleaned up using trisodium phosphate (lab nerd Eric was ALL over that) and a shop vac with a HEPA filter.
The first phase of the lead program was some initial dust testing. Two women from the Sustainable Resources Center did the testing and advised us on how to clean around the windows, the likely source of most of the lead paint in our house. Then we waited for the results.
A week later a phone call and a letter indicated that our window sills and wells were off the charts. There was some (although not as high) lead on the floors of the entryway and the hallway where my sister and I had just removed wallpaper. Ugh. Using a home stick test, Eric and I tested the front hallway wall where we had just removed wallpaper. Pink to red means positive to varying degrees. The stick and testing fluid were so instantly red, it was like our walls were bleeding. Bleeding with lead. If we were paralyzed before, we were turned to stone now.
I called the Department of Health and explained our timing predicament. The lead lady there (and the reason I will never bad-mouth Hennepin County and the Health Department) tried to get our process speeded up. When that didn't work out, she dropped by herself with this crazy gun-like lead tester. She spot tested the walls we were worried about. Praise God and the Department of Health, the walls we wanted to work on were mostly negative. Our positive dust readings are likely from the trim, the windows, the front hall and half of the bathroom wall (the half we don't need to touch).
Finally, we're able to charge forward with our plans to remove adhesive and paint this weekend. Sweet, sweet relief.
This isn't to say we're entirely out of the woods. We're going to do our best to contain the few walls that have some lead in them, but our windows still need some serious work to get our house to be healthy. The county is going to help us out with a lot of that. It's going to take some time, but it will be worth it when our lead readings go down after that.
Eric and I were really nervous when we realised that we might have a lead problem. We tried to inform ourselves as much as possible, but there seemed to be a lot of inconsistent information out there. The best thing that has happened during this whole process? Getting tested and getting our concerns answered. We're so much better prepared to deal with this problem now that we know what in our house is of concern and what is not. Before that, I practically didn't want to touch anything in the house and definitely didn't want my sister's kids over there. Now at least we know which walls they can and cannot be licking. I highly recommend getting tested if there's any concern about lead in your house -- testing alone won't solve your problem, but at least it will help you figure out what to do next.
In the meantime, the work in our kitchen has continued. There's probably lead paint on the window, but for now we're not touching that. We ripped off some wainscoting and mudded the tile adhesive covered areas underneath. We've done a few coats now and should be able to paint the kitchen this weekend. Here's Eric, feeling good about the mud and good about the lead situation:
Eric's family will be down again and we even have a little project for the kids to work on (my sister's kids, not Eric's brothers).
The garden is doing great. The tomatoes are getting huge. The radishes, beans, peas, and carrots are abundant. We're a little worried about the edamame (soy), okra, and squash (did the birds steal some seeds or did we get a bunch of duds??), but the melon looks good. This picture is from a week ago and things are already much greener this week. I'll try to post more current pictures soon.
After furiously searching the internets (which was predictably full of half-truths and misinformation), we found a program that Hennepin County offers to help with lead abatement. We started to get the gears in motion to apply for the program and tried to figure out what we were going to do about our projects in the meantime. We decided that our wallpaper removal could continue because we were doing it wet, which would keep any lead dust down and because it was the wallpaper, not the paint, that we were disturbing. We took precautions -- covered our vents, changed and washed our clothes and showered immediately after doing the work, and cleaned up using trisodium phosphate (lab nerd Eric was ALL over that) and a shop vac with a HEPA filter.
The first phase of the lead program was some initial dust testing. Two women from the Sustainable Resources Center did the testing and advised us on how to clean around the windows, the likely source of most of the lead paint in our house. Then we waited for the results.
A week later a phone call and a letter indicated that our window sills and wells were off the charts. There was some (although not as high) lead on the floors of the entryway and the hallway where my sister and I had just removed wallpaper. Ugh. Using a home stick test, Eric and I tested the front hallway wall where we had just removed wallpaper. Pink to red means positive to varying degrees. The stick and testing fluid were so instantly red, it was like our walls were bleeding. Bleeding with lead. If we were paralyzed before, we were turned to stone now.
I called the Department of Health and explained our timing predicament. The lead lady there (and the reason I will never bad-mouth Hennepin County and the Health Department) tried to get our process speeded up. When that didn't work out, she dropped by herself with this crazy gun-like lead tester. She spot tested the walls we were worried about. Praise God and the Department of Health, the walls we wanted to work on were mostly negative. Our positive dust readings are likely from the trim, the windows, the front hall and half of the bathroom wall (the half we don't need to touch).
Finally, we're able to charge forward with our plans to remove adhesive and paint this weekend. Sweet, sweet relief.
This isn't to say we're entirely out of the woods. We're going to do our best to contain the few walls that have some lead in them, but our windows still need some serious work to get our house to be healthy. The county is going to help us out with a lot of that. It's going to take some time, but it will be worth it when our lead readings go down after that.
Eric and I were really nervous when we realised that we might have a lead problem. We tried to inform ourselves as much as possible, but there seemed to be a lot of inconsistent information out there. The best thing that has happened during this whole process? Getting tested and getting our concerns answered. We're so much better prepared to deal with this problem now that we know what in our house is of concern and what is not. Before that, I practically didn't want to touch anything in the house and definitely didn't want my sister's kids over there. Now at least we know which walls they can and cannot be licking. I highly recommend getting tested if there's any concern about lead in your house -- testing alone won't solve your problem, but at least it will help you figure out what to do next.
In the meantime, the work in our kitchen has continued. There's probably lead paint on the window, but for now we're not touching that. We ripped off some wainscoting and mudded the tile adhesive covered areas underneath. We've done a few coats now and should be able to paint the kitchen this weekend. Here's Eric, feeling good about the mud and good about the lead situation:
Eric's family will be down again and we even have a little project for the kids to work on (my sister's kids, not Eric's brothers).The garden is doing great. The tomatoes are getting huge. The radishes, beans, peas, and carrots are abundant. We're a little worried about the edamame (soy), okra, and squash (did the birds steal some seeds or did we get a bunch of duds??), but the melon looks good. This picture is from a week ago and things are already much greener this week. I'll try to post more current pictures soon.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Obama Baracks St Paul
On the drive along 94 to St Paul last night to go to the Obama speech at the Xcel Center, we passed under a pedestrian bridge where someone had hung a giant sign that read, "Nobody for President." We both agreed that it was a sentence. Sort of. At least it would probably be an improvement over our current situation.We had the brilliant idea of going to the rally because we decided that we'd be happy we went later on because it was "history in the making." Turns out, more than 20,000 other people think in similar platitudes. The line wound through one and a half miles of downtown St Paul city blocks and the wait to get inside and then for the man himself was long.
It was sort of interesting, and yet not too surprising, to watch the crew get set-up for the evening. There was one guy in a blue buttoned down shirt whose job seemed to make sure that most of the people in the crowd who would be on camera had some sort of sign or an American flag to wave around. Those handmade signs that say things like "Women 4 Obama" and "MN [hearts] Obama" and "Barack the Vote?" They're made by volunteers and other behind-the-scenesters and then handed out to the crowd. No signs and banners of your own allowed.
While we were waiting, they played some of McCain's speech on the jumbotron and then the camera panned back and forth across the crowd. Attendees cheered when they saw themselves and stood up and waved their hands and signs. People like to be on a TV screen, even if it's just closed circuit. Eric compared it to looking in a giant mirror.
They didn't play any of Clinton's speech, although we could see when she was on in the little TVs in the luxury boxes. I would have liked to have known what she said and to see how that matched up with Obama's speech. Eric conjectured that they couldn't play Clinton on the jumbotron because they didn't want people to boo her. That would divide the party.
The speech, as everyone has read or heard by now, was amazing. No number of cliches can capture what a great speaker Obama is so I won't even try. I was grateful that his speech was on the jumbotron with closed captioning. Otherwise the cheers in the crowd were drowning him out.
It's true, though, what a lot of the talking heads are saying. I think Obama is great and I think that his ability to inspire people is just what this country needs right now, but at some point he's going to have to talk actual policy otherwise it's just a lot of people cheering every time he says, "universal health care." (And, believe me, I was one of those people cheering.) Fingers crossed that it doesn't turn into that Family Guy episode where Lois runs for mayor and everyone loves her because she says the words "9/11" over and over in one of the debates. I'm all for inspiration, but I'm going to need to know what I'm being inspired to do, even if it is just to pay more taxes to support more government programs. For this moment, though, it was exciting and invigorating to have been there, even if, sitting behind and to the left of the podium, this is mostly what we saw:
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Two etsy sellers donating to Burma
A few weeks ago, Lesley of Banana Pants Clothes, got in touch with me because she was compiling a list of etsy sellers donating to Burma. I've only found one other since then, but thought I'd go ahead and post them both here: Banana Pants Clothes and Mingus Designs. They both have super cute designs. Banana Pants are no longer donating (sorry, I forgot to post earlier!), but she was able to make a big donation in spite of having a massive textbook bill.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Good Thai Food Comes to the Twin Cities!
My husband and I have been on a quest for good, cheap, fresh, tasty Thai food ever since I arrived in the Twin Cities a year and a half ago. After months and months of being referred by websites, reviews, friends, and foes to Thai outlets that end up being overpriced, oversweetened, and overstale, at last, our quest has come to an end.
My friend Wai Linn moved to St Paul from Thailand a few months before I arrived here. (In the interest of full disclosure, my father was born and raised in Thailand and I lived there for three years as an adult. This, of course, gives me automatic and undeniable credibility. My credibility will not be denied.) A few weeks ago, we met up for a meal at Mai Village, the Vietnamese joint on University. "We should go and eat there," he said, pointing out the window and down the street to an unassuming white building with a strange smokestack-like pillar jutting out from its roof. "It's a new Thai restaurant," he explained. "It's real Thai food."
Indeed, this weekend, when my husband stopped by the new Thai restaurant on a whim after Grand Old Day, the sign above the entrance read, "real Thai food." At first, the "Bangkok Thai Deli" appears to be just another Asian grocery store. Past the rows of ramen noodles, lemongrass-filled produce aisle, and varieties of pickled vegetables, to the right of the checkout counters, there is a small cafe with a few booths and a few slightly unsteady-looking tables covered in red tablecloths under the dingy light of a few florescent lights. There's a sort of deli counter at the back and entering the cafe, my husband and I had one of those brief, awkward moments of "Do we order at the counter? Do we seat ourselves?" I got my Thai legs back under me and chose us a table. Awkward moments, cheesy Thai karaoke and soap operas on the TV, florescent lighting, tables full of SE Asians, totally dinky, completely ineffectual paper napkins on the table: all signs pointed to a tasty meal ahead of us.
We ordered a few standards, the dishes that we order so test whether a new Thai restaurant knows what it's doing or has adapted the dishes to suit what the owners perceive as American palates. The food was served on ordinary plastic dishes with a fork and a spoon, just the way it is in Thailand. The Tod Man (fish patty, as it's called in the menu), were small and freshly fried. They were served with no dipping sauce, but they didn't need to be; they were loaded with just the right amount of lemongrass. The fishcakes were chewy without being gummy. We were off to a good start.
We also shared the rad naa (stir-fried flat noodle with gravy) with beef. The gravy was thick (not gloopy) and well seasoned. The Chinese broccoli was just barely steamed, still crunchy and clean. The pad krapraw (stir-fried meat with basil) was served as it is at roadside stands in Thailand: with an egg fried in a wok in vegetable oil, just what's needed to balance the sweetness of Thai basil. The pad krapaw was spicy without overpowering the other flavors or making diners feel the need to brag about their spice tolerance. (Yes, sweaty tough guy, we know you can eat spicy.) Just enough heat to kick in a few endorphins and to make me suck a little air through my teeth and over my tongue a few times.
The total bill? Just under twenty bucks. Maybe not the cheapest of eats, but a great deal when compared to some of the other Thai restaurant options in the Twin Cities. Granted, they don't have a liquor license (they only opened seven months ago), but, frankly, who needs another Chiang Mai Thai?
We'll definitely be returning. More updates to follow.
Bangkok Thai Deli
315 University Ave W
St. Paul, MN 55103
651.224.4300 (take-out available)
My friend Wai Linn moved to St Paul from Thailand a few months before I arrived here. (In the interest of full disclosure, my father was born and raised in Thailand and I lived there for three years as an adult. This, of course, gives me automatic and undeniable credibility. My credibility will not be denied.) A few weeks ago, we met up for a meal at Mai Village, the Vietnamese joint on University. "We should go and eat there," he said, pointing out the window and down the street to an unassuming white building with a strange smokestack-like pillar jutting out from its roof. "It's a new Thai restaurant," he explained. "It's real Thai food."
Indeed, this weekend, when my husband stopped by the new Thai restaurant on a whim after Grand Old Day, the sign above the entrance read, "real Thai food." At first, the "Bangkok Thai Deli" appears to be just another Asian grocery store. Past the rows of ramen noodles, lemongrass-filled produce aisle, and varieties of pickled vegetables, to the right of the checkout counters, there is a small cafe with a few booths and a few slightly unsteady-looking tables covered in red tablecloths under the dingy light of a few florescent lights. There's a sort of deli counter at the back and entering the cafe, my husband and I had one of those brief, awkward moments of "Do we order at the counter? Do we seat ourselves?" I got my Thai legs back under me and chose us a table. Awkward moments, cheesy Thai karaoke and soap operas on the TV, florescent lighting, tables full of SE Asians, totally dinky, completely ineffectual paper napkins on the table: all signs pointed to a tasty meal ahead of us.
We ordered a few standards, the dishes that we order so test whether a new Thai restaurant knows what it's doing or has adapted the dishes to suit what the owners perceive as American palates. The food was served on ordinary plastic dishes with a fork and a spoon, just the way it is in Thailand. The Tod Man (fish patty, as it's called in the menu), were small and freshly fried. They were served with no dipping sauce, but they didn't need to be; they were loaded with just the right amount of lemongrass. The fishcakes were chewy without being gummy. We were off to a good start.
We also shared the rad naa (stir-fried flat noodle with gravy) with beef. The gravy was thick (not gloopy) and well seasoned. The Chinese broccoli was just barely steamed, still crunchy and clean. The pad krapraw (stir-fried meat with basil) was served as it is at roadside stands in Thailand: with an egg fried in a wok in vegetable oil, just what's needed to balance the sweetness of Thai basil. The pad krapaw was spicy without overpowering the other flavors or making diners feel the need to brag about their spice tolerance. (Yes, sweaty tough guy, we know you can eat spicy.) Just enough heat to kick in a few endorphins and to make me suck a little air through my teeth and over my tongue a few times.
The total bill? Just under twenty bucks. Maybe not the cheapest of eats, but a great deal when compared to some of the other Thai restaurant options in the Twin Cities. Granted, they don't have a liquor license (they only opened seven months ago), but, frankly, who needs another Chiang Mai Thai?
We'll definitely be returning. More updates to follow.
Bangkok Thai Deli
315 University Ave W
St. Paul, MN 55103
651.224.4300 (take-out available)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
