Friday I'm In Love: Anipal Edition

Friday again! I am in love with:

- Slightly warmer weather
- Slightly lighter evenings
- The free juicer I got from someone's doorstep
- Earplugs

I am also permanently in love with animals because, come on, ANIMALS. They are gross and smelly and violent and weird and cute and cuddly and pure. There are no animals in the world right now having anxiety about writing a blog post, and for that I am eternally grateful.

Other animal things I am grateful for:

>>>

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. 

- Excerpt from "February" by Margaret Atwood

How did I not already know about this poem? It's not really technically 100% about animals so much as about February misery and . . . the biological imperative? And casual internal rhyme. And spring. And Margaret Atwood. Seriously: how was this not on my radar.

>>>

Did you know that a group of ladybugs is called a "loveliness"? Here's a print to help you remember.

>>>

OTTER HOUSE!!!!!!!!!!!!#^&$(*#$@)

>>>

"Chinese pangolins cannot speak human language fluently, but each is born with the ability to whisper the words 'Frozen blood for the sleeping god' in any language."

Pangolin Facts: A good Tumblr about pangolins, or the BEST Tumblr about pangolins?

>>>

Animals riding animals is wicked cute, even though I'm pretty sure at least 30% of these pictures are actually of animals attacking/attempting to kill/eat other animals. (Not the one of the lizard riding the kitty with a saddle, though. That one is legit.)

(Semi-related: This article analyzing the picture of a weasel "riding" (i.e. attacking) a woodpecker was included in my employer's daily news roundup last week. Because a) inquiring minds want to know, b) my workplace is bosser than yours, and c) WE DO IT ALL FOR THE WEASELS WOODPECKERS ANIPALS.)

>>>

An oldie but a goodie: Animals Being Dicks.

>>>

Filed under "too little, too late": Ringling Brothers to retire its elephants. In three years' time. But not any other animal performers. And they would like a pat on the back please for being such important stewards of endangered species. Sigh.

>>>

The headline says it all: Luxury Stockholm Hotel Brought to Its Knees By 'Angry' Badger*

*Bonus points to Jezebel for the sarcasm quotes on "angry." Badger: YOU DON'T KNOW ME.

>>>

Rescue dogs are using their poop-smelling prowess to track & help conserve endangered species (including WHALES so think long and hard about that, everyone). THIS PICTURE IS EVERYTHING.

>>>

This is a picture of my dog's nose

And finally, *sniff* An Open Letter to My Dog After the Birth of My First Child. The end of this article = YEP. <3 Indy <3

Regret Olympics

Recently a friend and I were discussing how successful we would be if regret were an Olympic sport. This probably should have been a sign that it is time to do some hard emotional work, but instead I chose to spend a stupid amount of time imagining what the Regret Olympics would look like. Guess how I feel about doing that!

Anyway, enjoy, I guess.

>>>

Welcome one and all to the thirty-third annual Regret Olympics! The opening ceremony will now commence with a collective discussion of what went wrong with last year's opening ceremony, who is to blame, and how that is ruining everything forever. Once we all feel appropriately regretful about all past activities, as well as rueful about engaging in this new discussion at all, the ceremony will conclude.

Festivities will be followed by competition in the following events:

Regret Long-Jump: Participants take turns leaping to more and more outragous conclusions about their self-worth after regretted actions. Did you make a mistake at work? You're clearly the most incompetent person at your organization! Everyone knows it, and they talk about it all the time. Miss an opportunity to be there for a friend? Don't worry, you were never a good friend - people only hang out with you out of pity, when they hang out with you at all. Did your parenting choice not work out as expected for your child? Clearly you're the worst parent in the universe. It's just you, Joan Crawford, and Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Congratulations! Participants are judged on the level of fantastical detail provided in each devaluation scenario, and the amount of sand-spray produced during landing.

Downhill Regret Slalom: Like snowballs, participants hurtle down a mountain collecting more and more outlandish anticipated consequences for recent mistakes. Every parenting mistake is bringing you one step closer to either a) accidentally killing your kid or b) raising a psychopath. A simple work error is definitely going to lead to getting fired, which will lead to bankruptcy, which will lead to living in your parents' basement in your mid-thirties. Did you snap at your partner in a moment of hangry weakness? Get ready for a trip to divorcetown! Unlike in standard slalom events, participants gain points for each time they plow heedlessly through a "gate" of realistic thinking. Warning: Downhill Regret Slalom pretty much always ends with at least one bone-crushing accident. Factor in recovery time accordingly.

Retro-regret luge: Select an irrevokable action from your distant past and climb aboard the sled of selective memory and hypothetical future! Ride the dips and curves of how awesome your life -- and the lives of those around you -- would be now and forevermore if only you had/hadn't done x, y, and/or z. If you had just nailed that one job interview, your career would be so much more advanced by now! You could totally already own that tastefully minimalist mid-century mansion you saw on that one blog by now if only you were better with your money in your twenties. And if only you had known the right thing to say that one time, you would have more friends and love in your life than you can possibly imagine! Isn't it fun to daydream? Participants gain points for staying completely prone while contemplating missed opportunities for perfect happiness, and lose points for noting all the glaring flaws on the course.

Partners Regret Dancing: Feel bad about something that wasn't entirely your fault? Grab your decision-making partner(s) and pull them into a spectacular shame spiral with you! Judges determine the winning pair/group based on synchronization of shared misery, relative danger of regret-induced choreography choices, and number of sequins per outfit. Dance programs should be performed with sharp blades strapped to feet; ice is optional.

Regret Marathon: Reserved for long-term, ongoing regrets. Participants spend 4+ sustained hours expounding upon the ways in which their actions/failures impact themselves and others negatively. Points are awarded for depth of feeling, willful ignorance of the passage of time, denial of all positive messages from body/brain, and relative shortness of running shorts. Bonus points are awarded for shitting your running shorts. This event is also known as the Regret Filibuster, or, if you're me, "Sunday night, 3 am."

Regret Decathalon: All of the above, but while holding a javelin.

And, finally:

High Dive into the Pool of Forgiveness: This is a mandatory closing ceremony for all participants who have competed in at least one Regret Olympics event. Participants climb ladders of their own despair and then plunge courageously into the deep, healing waters of self-compassion. All are advised to wear comfortable bathing clothes that are well-suited to revelations about the false promise of perfection, and the inherent worth and dignity of each and every human. Belly flops and cannonballs are welcome.

Friday I'm In Love

Hello friends! It is Friday. I am in love with:

- Wool socks
- My dog romping in snow
- Not dealing with daycare for two whole days
- Egg salad with sriracha

Also:

Compliments. They are the key to EVERYTHING. (h/t to Julie!)



>>>

This month I discovered the Tumblog of John Darnielle (of the Mountain Goats). It is strange and fabulous, as one might expect. A recent post in which Darnielle advises a fan about matters of faith embraces the paradox of agnosticism in a lovely and affirming way:

"You don’t have to apologize to yourself or anybody else if you like to pray, or attend services, or observe feasts/holidays/saints’ days/etc. There is no requirement that you believe. Do you enjoy praying? Does it connect you to something — maybe something within, maybe something beyond, maybe to a community whether that’s in real space or a broader community out there in the world? Then pray! Do you have a nagging feeling that your prayers ascend into an empty sky? Me too! Who cares!"

>>>

Ever wonder where that italicized quip over the soft-focus picture that you found on Pinterest actually came from? Quote Investigator can help! With proper citations, of course.

>>>

The website Oscar for Channing actually makes a kind of compelling argument. Or at least a pleasant afternoon read.

>>>

John Hodgman recommended Arthur Bradford's weird little short story "The Box" on his Tumblog* THAT IS ALL. The story is at once both otherworldly and deeply mundane, and it has wandered back into my brain several times since I first read it.

>>>

Sigh. Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal strikes again with a depressing truth-bomb about elections.

>>>

The title pretty much sums it up: Uncomfortable Heterosexuality in Art History. (Thanks to MWC!)

>>>

"When at long last the day of work is through,
I'll always aim to find my share of joy.
I'll walk within the sun's enliv'ning rays
for girls just want to have some fun within their days."

Cyndi Lauper, bard style. C/o Pop Sonnets.

>>>

You look really great today. Have an awesome weekend.



*listen I really like the word "Tumblog" and I will not apologize for it. Pointless internet portmanteas: I know that the world is a cold and careless place, but know that you are loved.

Use Their Words: You Can't Carry It With You

As usual, we had nothing to fear. And in saying that, I mean: we have everything to fear. Death is slated for us all. And maybe it is years from now, in a soft bed, surrounded by the soft eyes of the people that we love. Or maybe it is not so many years from now at all. We have every reason to be afraid. But, we also need to learn to put that fear aside, like a library book. Sometimes we need to check out our fear, and read it, and study it, and peruse it closely, but at a certain point return it to its proper shelf and experience something else. Contentment. Worry. Calm. Hunger. Spinal parasites. And, a great deal of love, of every kind. So put that fear in a place where you can find it when you need it. Don’t carry it with you. Don’t carry it with you.

- Welcome to Night Vale, The Librarian (live at Skirball)

Use Their Words: "We keep our eyes fixed on the horizon to avoid having to look back over our shoulder in embarrassment."

"What accounts for the popularity of watching folks walk for long days? . . . The truth is that many waves sweep mass society that have no more explanation than the oceanic kind: a random blast of wind drives a swell, it snags on a rock, and then the wave crashes. By the late eighteen-seventies, walking had started getting ferocious hate mail, or sermons, chiefly from New York City preachers, who thundered against it as a "gladitorial" sport. Soon there was legislation, still on the books, prohibiting six-day walking marathons.

The contests, one comes to see, were no longer really walking competitions. Mostly, they were, or became, something crueller. They were competitions in not sleeping. The ability to walk well--to have [Edward Payson] Weston's odd big stride or [Daniel] O'Leary's right light step--had surrendered to the more brutal ability just to stay awake for six days. (Weston eventually admitted to having chewed coca leaves while racing, although, Barry Bonds-like, he strenuously denied that the drug really helped.) The crowds were not coming to watch the walkers walk. They were coming to watch them drop.

Competitive walking, in its maturity, turns out to be less a charming game from an age of innocence than one more episode in the modern fascination with rituals of human endurance, made exotic by technological advance, and fuelled by the same morbid curiosity that gives us the demolition derby, books about survival on Everest, and the ice-bound stunts of David Blaine, along with "Survivor" and "Deadliest Catch." Our appetite for watching people stumble from exhaustion soon moves from one kind of spectacle to the next, perhaps partly because we're ashamed of having enjoyed the previous one. This may also explain why each one, when it goes, can leave so little track behind. We keep our eyes fixed on the horizon to avoid having to look back over our shoulder in embarrassment."

- Heaven's Gaits: What we do when we walk by Adam Gopnik, from the September 1, 2014 issue of the New Yorker

It's not quite the same situation, but as a Serial completist I wonder how that show will fare in the annals of history. Any number of its"characters" could be considered exemplars of "human endurance" - the subjects (Adnan, Jay, and the rest) as well as Sarah Koenig and her colleagues. Morbid curiosity? I think we can all agree the show has that in spades.

Looking uneasily over my shoulder.



Thanks to S&J for the most edifying, and most voluminous, of all of our wonderful wedding presents.

Sun comes up and we start again

Well, it took me two years but I finally completed my 2012 New Years resolution. Behold:

Onward.

Obviously it's been a while since I blogged, and it'll probably be a while before I do it again on any sort of regular basis. Partially that's because I got kinda busy this year becoming a new parent.

But the truth is that I have dozens of drafts here in Blogger that never made it to post - so that's a bit of a bogus excuse. The real issue is follow-through, which has always been a challenge for me. It's all about anxiety: I get an idea for something I want to do, but before I get to the execution I decide that I would probably just fuck it up or the person(s) involved wouldn't like it or would think I'm weird or would be disappointed. So I put it off until I forget about it or it's no longer relevant and then I drag myself through the mud a second time for not acting in the first place.

A surprising (or perhaps not very surprising) amount of my life is lived this way. And, honestly, that is not likely to change a great deal. I'm about to turn 33 (helloooo Jesus year) and while I dig the Eat-Pray-Love-How-Stella-Got-Her-Groove-Back late-in-life epiphany narrative on an aesthetic level, I don't see myself achieving enlightenment on a tropical island any time soon.

Which is not to say that I'm ditching out on that whole self-value thing altogether. But in keeping with the fake-it-'til-you-make-it philosophy that has dominated my life as a parent, I'm more interested in how I can work around the anxiety rather than trying to banish it. It just seems more practical.

So. This year I resolve to do more things when I think of them. Even if I think they might not turn out how I expect or people might think I'm weird. Newsflash: I AM weird. Also kind of awesome.

I also resolve to hang the words "BE HERE NOW" in an obnoxiously large frame in our kitchen. Maybe I can actually accomplish that by 2017.

http://youtu.be/0z2GLCmKqLQ

Fashion (turn to the left)

While in Europe I collected some thoughts on global and regional fashion, and I'm still mulling them over. But then I got back this week, caught up on my social media, pulled my one fashion mag from the mail pile, and dove into my Feedly blog backlog (RIP Google Reader). And I found that I have a more pressing concern than which foreign country most enjoys scarves.

Here's the deal. I am super duper sick of women policing each other in the name of "fashion." I understand that the workplace has rules about clothes, and I don't begrudge that. But out in the world? I don't give a flying fuck what you're wearing, and I don't see why you care what I'm wearing. Much less how my - or anyone's - clothing choices could cause any sort of personal offense.* If you're truly offended by someone's choice of pants** or display of decolletage, it seems to that you must be 1) so unusually sensitive to the aesthetic choices around you that you probably shouldn't venture outside in the first place, 2) deeply uncomfortable with the realities of the human body, which you should maybe work on, and/or 3) not paying very close attention to all the other things in the world that deserve far more attention (and disdain).

Like, for example, the way that women are socialized to compete with one another on any and all grounds, including and especially physical attractiveness. Which is a value that is primarily defined in our society by straight men, no matter what the fashion industry may say. Straight men, who, as a group, stand to benefit from women focusing their energies on judging each other and propagating personal insecurities rather than on demanding equal power with men in social and professional settings.

So, here is my proposal. Next time you see a lady out and about, and you notice her clothing, consider these two options:

1) If you like her style: Smile! Make a mental note of anything you'd like to replicate in your own wardrobe. Consider complimenting her on said fashion choice, because compliments are awesome! Everyone likes to be told that others admire their choices, and compliments make both the complimenter and the complimentee feel pretty great.

2) If you're not digging what she's wearing: Think to yourself, "huh, that's not the choice I would have made." And then MOVE THE FUCK ON. Do not pass Go, Blogger, Twitter, or Facebook. Do not collect $200. The end.

And thanks. I really like the outfit you're wearing today. You look great!

*Of course I except clothing with hateful words/symbols on it from this statement, but even then: your body, your hate, not gonna get worked up over it. Just privately disappointed. 

**Here's a handy trick, by the way, for anyone wondering if an article of clothing constitutes "pants": are they being worn on the legs without something on top of them? Then they are pants. End of story. Your opinion on their quality as a pants choice is only your own, and frankly I probably don't want to hear it.***

***Finally, I acknowledge here that I have been guilty myself of fashion policing. I can think of one friend who I (playfully, I hope?) teased for wearing extra-short workout shorts that I know she really likes and that are really comfortable. Today I say, gurl, you wear those shorts. They look great on you, and even if they didn't, wear what you want. YOU DO YOU.

All pictures in this post taken at the Louvre.

H(aterade)

New slogans for H St. NE that I brainstormed during today's bike ride (among other experiences):

H St. NE: Why Have a Functioning Light Rail When We Can Just Delay the Project Indefinitely and Still Cripple Cyclists With Giant Track Grooves?

H St. NE: When Biking On Georgia Avenue Is Just Too Pleasant and Safe

H St. NE: If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now, And So Would The Angry Yelling Man On The Bench Over There


H St. NE: Yeah, We Know Taylor Gourmet Kinda Sucks


H. St. NE: I Took A Pole Dancing Class There Once And It Was Honestly Kinda Fun.

H. St. NE: There Is No Such Thing As A Socially Appropriate Country Club. On the Other Hand, Skeeball.

H. St. NE: I Am Part of the Problem.

H. St. NE: It's Really Not So Bad, And There Are Lots of Nice People There From Many Different Backgrounds.

H. St. NE: We're Trying Real Hard And You Are Not Helping

H. St. NE: Maybe You Should Just Lay Off the Haterade and Go Stretch Your Quads, Asshole

FTF

It's Friday, I'm in love! With the following things.

>>>

Sooooo guys I have been living under a rock for most of a year and just saw the Gagnam style video for the first time! Turns out it's pretty good?



I bet though that YOU haven't seen the "Groundhog Style" parody performed by the emcees at Gobbler's Knob in Feb. PRETTY SOLID.



>>>

On a slightly more relevant pop culture note, I kinda really like this Taylor Swift song . . .


WANT THAT T-SHIRT

I'm on the fence about Tay Tay in general - she promotes a certain amount of female "empowerment" but only within pretty narrow, socially-acceptable boundaries that emphasize romantic relationships as the primary source of identity. On the other hand, I know she wouldn't get as much flack in the media about her romantic travails if she were a dude, and that rankles.

Regardless, I am on board for the embrace of early-twenties ridiculousness. At 22, my job was to make teenaged miscreants (some of whom were a mere four years younger than myself) care about the written word more than their hormones/cell phones. I spent my summers trying to make slightly younger teenaged miscreants care about caring for yet younger children. I lived with a roommate on the "single women's corridor" of DC (along the left side of the Red Line), and I was on the verge of a relationship with the second of two gentleman I dated from my alma mater's alternafrat. Life was weird. Not jump-in-a-pool-at-a-swanky-house-party weird, but I guess "happy free confused and lonely at the same time" wouldn't be a terrible description. Young adults who recognize and embrace the silliness of your own lives, I salute you -- but, a reminder: 22 is a means to an end, not an end in itself.

>>>

These blue cheese cookies sound very confusing but taste VERY DELICIOUS. Possibly because they are approx. 75% butter and cheese. And the recipe is surprisingly forgiving for being french baking.

image via Serious Eats

>>>

Digging this post from Eat the Damn Cake about real vs. ideal bodies. So many people, myself included, carry around invisible goggles that scrutinize and revise the contours of our own bodies to create what we think they "should" look like. Spoiler alert: those imaginary images are NOT YOUR REAL BODY. The body underneath is your real body. EMBRACE IT.

>>>

Pls someone find and buy me this coconut-infused tequila? Or I guess I could make it myself probs. Buuuut I want a coconut margarita NOWWW. Found via How Sweet It Is.

image via http://www.proximospirits.com

>>>

We went to Sandy Point on the Chesapeake Bay last weekend . It was nice! They only allow dogs from Oct. 1st to April 30th unfortunately. Still, a nice day trip - lots of space, lots of beach, lots of volleyball courts, lots of parking. Wet dog pictures coming soon.

>>>

And finally, my new plan of psychological well-being: every night, make a list of the following:

1. Things that I'm proud of having done that day
2. Things that I'm grateful for
3. Things that didn't go as well as planned PLUS why it's still okay
4. At least one compliment about my own physical appearance

Then: SLEEP.

Happy Friday!

And I Quote

"Okay, you're getting close to being able to perform miracles. Little ones. Pitiful ones. Like curing pimples. Or lowering price tags on designer clothes. But keep these acts a secret. It's a personal power you've reached through spiritual study, but don't expect the stupid little outside world to believe you. Scientologists call it "clear"; we'll call it "cloudy." Once we have identified and embraced our sickness, we'll have strength!And that's when we get dangerous. Identify the spots of guilt on your body and pluck them out like the chicken livers evangelists pretend is the cancer they cure in shills planted in the congregations of their tent revivals. Where are you feeling you're not worthy? In your hair? Behind your ears? In your private areas? Well, cast it out! We're Porn Again and we have no regrets! Repent? Hell, no! I HAVE A SCREAM! NO REMORSE! NO SHAME! ALL LAUGHING ALL THE TIME! CINEMATIC DELIRIUM!

There's only one way we want to die--spontaneous combustion. The unexplained phenomenon of being so guilty and happy, so obsessed, so driven, and so fantastical that you just burst into flames for no apparent reason. On the street. At work. Hopefully, for me, in an airport. And if we work together, it could happen to us all at once when we're out somewhere causing trouble. It's a beautiful death, dramatic, scary, internally cleansing, and all you leave for the rest of the world to see is a really good pair of shoes. I have a lot of books on spontaneous combustion, or "fire from heaven" as it has been called, and all the pictures of the lucky dead are the same. Ashes. Shoes. Ashes. Shoes. So it all boils down to a religious lesson. Be prepared. Always wear stylish shoes. They won't be comfortable. They shouldn't be. It hurts to be this pure."

- the last two paragraphs of John Waters' book Role Models