Much has been said about a recent study (.pdf) that shows that womens’ happiness is actually trending downward,
I think Mrs. Marge Sutton, Ideal Housewife, makes a great illustration for this post. Via the Google LIFE archive.
rather than upward as time, and presumably society, progresses. To conservatives, it’s proof that feminism and liberation are contrary to nature and naturally lead to unhappiness. To progressives, it’s proof that feminism hasn’t gone far enough. To environmentalists, it’s proof that consumerism just makes us less happy.
I’ve been wondering about a different angle. I’ve mentioned that we recently got rid of cable, and are now relying on the internet and Netflix (both DVDs via mail and streaming via our Xbox 360) for our televised entertainment. And while I’m not generally one to blame problems on the ominous “The Media,” I “can’t help but wonder” (to pull a Carrie Bradshaw) if maybe it isn’t all our media connectedness that is making us unhappy. Continue reading “what if “what women want” isn’t what we want?”
Yesterday in a conference with a patient’s family, all the caregivers were going around and introducing themselves, each saying what their role was in the care of the patient. It got around to Jon and he was like, I’m Jon, I’m [Patient’s] doctor. That’s when Patient’s grandmother interrupted:
“ALSO KNOWN TO ALL THE WOMEN IN OUR FAMILY AS DR. MCDREAMY!”
That’s right. I’m married to Dr. McDreamy. He’ll have you know he won’t be performing brain surgeries in elevators or anything.
The face of malnutrition is becoming what I see more and more when I have a bite of meat. Photo by John Stanmeyer via National Geographic.
I have a feeling I’m on a slow slide to vegetarianism. It almost feels inevitable to me as a bleeding-heart liberal who weeps for global poverty and worries about the environment. The more I read, the more I feel that maybe, though I love it, meat is incompatible with many of my most deeply held beliefs.
Now, before anyone flips out, I’m not a PETA obsessive. I do care about the cruelty involved in meat production, and would prefer that all meat come from animals who are raised without cruelty, with basic dignity, who are fed the kinds of things they were born to eat, and who are killed in as respectful a manner as possible. I’m not morally opposed to eating meat based on ideas of animal rights. Though I love animals, I do believe that we’re omnivores, that some animals are made for eating, though I support anyone’s choices and reasons for becoming a vegetarian. I buy organic, free-range, cage-free, local eggs at $5 a carton, and as much as possible I try to do the same with the meat I eat, though I can’t always afford free-range chicken and grass-fed beef. I’m just beginning to feel that I’m still not doing enough.
Today’s musings are fueled by a piece I read in my latest issue of National Geographic Magazine, to which my parents give me a subscription each year for Christmas, as I’ve loved flipping through it for as long as I can remember. The piece, called “The End of Plenty” by Joel K. Bourne, Jr., is about the global food crisis. Basically, even before the current economic crisis, we (the world) were consuming more food than farmers had been producing, and we’ve been doing that for over a decade. This has caused massive increases in global food prices, the price of rice doubling in the past two years, for example. This spike in prices hits the world’s poorest of the poor hardest, as they typically spend 50-70% of their incomes just on food alone. Continue reading “we are what we eat: thoughts on eating and believing”
My Pops, Joe, must’ve been a fun guy to know in college. He had his own big band, Joe Sweatt and his Collegiates. He
This could have been my Pops-- a medic in a medical tent at Anzio. Photo taken 1944 by Margaret Bourke-White, via the LIFE photo archive @ Google.
was known for pulling pranks on a rival college. He worked on the school newspaper. And he dated one of the feistiest girls on campus, later to become my grandmother, who was known around campus as “Cutie” by one and all (I’ve seen the inscriptions in her yearbook that prove it!), who once broke up with him and left school for a few months just because he didn’t take her to the school dance (in truth, he couldn’t afford the tickets and couldn’t bear to admit it– I told you she was a handful!). My grandmother has remembered fondly a secluded campus bench they liked to visit in the moonlight, if you know what I mean! And then, one semester shy of graduating, my Pops was drafted into the army.
He served in the 1st Infantry Division, a real GI Joe. While in the “staging area” in North Africa, he caught the disease that probably saved his life– malaria. Weakened by the malaria, and with a nearly-finished college degree setting him apart from many of his fellow soldiers, the army made my Pops a medic and pharmacist. So, as his unit traveled into Anzio, up through Italy, and through Europe into Germany, my Pops wasn’t on the front lines. I guess I should thank a mosquito!
Pops always had a great sense of humor, so most of the stories I heard from him were sort of funny– like the time, getting off the duckboats at Anzio, he, being a rather short man, immediately sank over his head into the water under the weight of his pack. Some taller soldier next to him grabbed him by the pack, pulled him up, and dragged him to where his feet could touch the ground. He also joked about how his height made him work doubly hard as a litter-bearer, carrying wounded men on stretchers back to the medical tent– if his partner was much taller than he, he’d have to hold the litter up very very high to keep it level! And, though I knew him when he was a grandfather sneaking Little Debbies, my Pops always had a sweet tooth. He was actually at Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest when it was captured, and while he describes other men cutting priceless paintings out of their frames and sticking other valuables into their packs, my Pops was stuffing his pockets and pack with a stash of chocolate he had found! That’s where his priorities were! He did make it out with a beautiful green blown glass vase– I have no idea how he got it home intact, but it sits in the china cabinet in my Memaw’s house, amid all her carnival glass and Kewpie dolls. His one other prized piece of plunder was a discus from Mussolini’s personal athletic complex.
My Pops even used his sense of humor to entertain the other soldiers. Perhaps because he had a taste for show business, his younger brother Albert having acted in films like “Angels with Dirty Faces” and “Boys Town,” or maybe because of his big band experience, Pops and a friend routinely perfomed skits, Pops playing GI Joe, of course, for the other soldiers. He later got back into character to perform one of those skits at his 50th high school reunion!
I guess, more than anything, the fact that what I know of Pops’ service in the army, which must have been very difficult at times, is the funny stories says a lot about him. He wanted to make me smile. He didn’t want to burden me with the horrors he surely saw as a litter bearer and medic. He was just an optimistic kind of guy, whistling everywhere he went, and it wasn’t in his nature to dwell on unhappy things. I hope I take after him in that respect.
My Pops died almost three years ago, and I miss him all the time. I wish he had been there for my wedding, a month later, but I know he was there, even if I couldn’t see him and hug his neck. And on this Memorial Day, I’m missing him like always, thinking of him, and thankful for the service he and so many men have given to our country.
THIS is what my husband ordered and received in the mail yesterday. Photo via uddercovers.com
I have a feeling that this is ALSO the product of being married to a pediatrics resident: Yesterday my husband got a package from a company called “Udder Covers.”
Me: Um, I’m a little curious about this package you got? From “Udder Covers?” What the heck?
Him: It’s a thing you wear to cover up while nursing! They’re supposed to be awesome. And they’re usually like $30 but I found it for $4! It was a great deal!
Me: Oh. Why’d you get this light blue one, they come in lots of cute colors and stuff. Oh, nevermind I’m sure you’re all BUT IT WAS $4!!
Him: Exactly! $4!
Me: Is this a gift for someone? Or are you planning to save it until we’re ready to have kids? OH MY GOSH IS THIS SOME SORT OF HINT?
Him: It’s not a hint. I’m going to save it. I’m ready to have kids whenever you are.
I mean, I know we need to have kids pretty soon so he’ll know what the heck he’s talking about with parents at work every day…But at the rate I was planning, he’s going to be saving this “udder cover” for the next year at the earliest! Though I guess I should never underestimate this man’s susceptibility to a “really good deal!” A man after my own heart!
Those readers who know me are probably already confused. But Ernie Bufflo, you only have two dogs, you’re already saying. Ah yes, physically I have two dogs, but psychologically, you see, I have three. I guess I should start at the beginning…
Our Bessie girl at the beach.
One of the things I was most excited about when we moved and bought a house with a yard was the chance to get a dog. After all, for a year of studio living, I had been dreaming of the day I’d have a dog of my own. I always had a dog or two growing up, and I just love having a dog in my life. As soon as we could, we went to a local shelter to find the newest member of our family. We took many dogs out into a little yard to play and get a sense of each other, but we ultimately settled on our gal Bessie, a catahoula/lab mix who was around 3 months old at the time. Bessie came to us already potty trained, and, for the most part, was a great dog from the get-go. She had a bit of a puppy chewing phase, with a particular taste for electronics– Xbox cords, remote controls, cell phones. She also hated throw pillows with a fiery passion and loved nothing more than to rip their guts out, leaving pillow-innards strewn about the living room like a blizzard’s aftermath. Still, she quickly grew out of all of that.
Two years later, Bessie is the perfet loyal labrador. Sure, she has her quirks, as I’ve blogged before, but for the most part, she’s a mellow, sweet girl. She just wants to lie at our feet, catch a few tennis balls, and will eagerly let us know when mealtime is approaching. So, having had such a great experience with our first dog, I began dreaming about a second. Ok, Ok, more like obsessively checking The Daily Puppy and Craigslist and begging Jon to get another puppy.
When we went home for Christmas, we had the perfect opportunity– a stray pup was staying with my parents in search of a permanent home or a place in a rescue. She had been found so starved in the woods that the friends who found her thought she was dead. They nursed her back to health but couldn’t keep her because they had a new baby on the way. My parents thought she’d make a good companion for my grandmother, but the poor dog was scared to death of Memaw, who was, I must admit, a little harsh with the dog. So, by the time we met her, the poor little black pup was on at least her third home and looking for a fourth (my parents had their hands full with Roxanne the airdale and my littlest sister who has autism). The dog played very well with Bessie, and after watching them romp and wrestle for a week, we had fallen in love and agreed to bring her back home with us.
Pretty Olive.
And so she became Olive, a member of our family. At home with us, Olive is a great dog. Bessie had never been to fond of my snuggling and cuddling schemes, but Olive will savor and enjoy every bit of affection we give. She’s a true snuggle pup, and she couldn’t be sweeter. She is also heartbreakingly cute, and a tiny bit mischievious. Ok, a lot a bit mischievious. For a while there, she escaped from our yard every. single. day. Jon did a LOT of work on our fence, and between his Olive-thwarting and her finally feeling comfortable enough with us to decide to stick around, she’s finally decided she likes it here enough not to try to run off every single day. Continue reading “a tale of three puppies”
For the first time since 2002, we are providing the necessary resources and strategic direction to take the fight to the extremists who attacked us on 9/11 in Afghanistan and Pakistan.
is a dig at the previous administration’s decision to get bogged down in a war in Iraq, which did not attack us on 9/11 nor have connections to those who did until after we invaded their country, distracting that administration from the necessary conflicts in Afghanistan-spilling-into-Pakistan.
This:
We are building new partnerships around the world to disrupt, dismantle, and defeat al Qaeda and its affiliates. And we have renewed American diplomacy so that we once again have the strength and standing to truly lead the world.
is also a nod to the previous 8 years whose diplomacy manual seemed to be “How to Lose Friends and Alienate People.” Despite all the handwringing that talking or shaking hands with people with whom we disagree is making us less safe, diplomacy is a smart and essential national security strategy, and it makes us safer.
But this:
I have studied the Constitution as a student; I have taught it as a teacher; I have been bound by it as a lawyer and legislator. I took an oath to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution as Commander-in-Chief, and as a citizen, I know that we must never – ever – turn our back on its enduring principles for expedience sake.
is where we get to the good stuff. Cheney recently misquoted his own Oath of Office saying he swore to protect and defend the American people, rather than the Constitution of the United States. This, I believe, belies a fundamental misunderstanding on Cheney’s part about our democracy and our leaders’ role in it: their job is not first and foremost to protect us from outside threats, but to protect our system from threats, both from within, by those seeking to compromise our laws and freedoms for the sake of safety, and from without, by those seeking to compromise our safety perhaps because of how they feel about our laws and freedoms. You can’t compromise the system in order to keep it safe. Continue reading “Obama’s National Security Speech”
Speech). He summarizes most of the Bush years and then says:
So we’re left to draw one of two conclusions – and here is the great dividing line in our current debate over national security. You can look at the facts and conclude that the comprehensive strategy has worked, and therefore needs to be continued as vigilantly as ever. Or you can look at the same set of facts and conclude that 9/11 was a one-off event – coordinated, devastating, but also unique and not sufficient to justify a sustained wartime effort.
ONLY those two conclusions are possible? Must we think the Bush administration EITHER did everything right or everything wrong? Or can we not look and see that in some areas, they were right, such as centralizing intelligence gathering and going to war in Afghanistan, but wrong in deciding to get sidetracked in Iraq, lie to the American public and the UN, spy on Americans, and torture detainees? I mean, I minored in history, and the way we tend to judge history is to look at successes as well as failures in the life or administration of a figure. For example, FDR is known for many successes, but Japanese Internment was a definite FAIL. Continue reading “Dick Cheney said about what I expected”
So, not having TV, and not particularly caring, I missed the newest offering from the dudes who brought us “Dick in a
You got your flippy floppies? I want to SLAPPY SLAPPY. Or maybe STABBY STABBY.
Box” and “Jizz in my Pants.” Apparently it’s called “I’m on a Boat.” Apparently their song titles only ever have four words? Anyway, I just watched it, and I have new reason to hate it after this morning. First, watch the video here (they’re jerks and won’t let me embed it directly into my post, also, language warnings for readers prone to the vapors).
They sing:
I got my swim trunks, and my flippy-floppies, you at Kinkos straight flippin’ copies.
Only for me it’s more like:
You got your swim trunks, and your flippy-floppies? I’m on tha bus, straight flippin’ you off.
One of the problems of living in a coastal tourist town is that I have to cross a river to get to work. And that river is connected to the ocean. And that river is full of marinas where rich folks keep their yachts. And on some mornings, those rich folks make hundreds of people late to work because the bridge has to be opened up for them to take their boats out to sea. That’s what happened this morning.
First, I missed my usual bus. No big deal, I’ll only be about 15 minutes late if I take the next one, and no one at the office really cares if I don’t arrive straight up at 9. That was until some m*****f***** on a boat, as the song goes, some Andy Samberg wannabe, decided it was time to be “straight flowin on a boat on the deep blue sea.” We had no choice but to look at the m******f****** boat, because all traffic came to a complete standstill in the middle of RUSH HOUR.
This wouldn’t have been so bad had the bridge not gotten stuck in the open position. So by the time the JERKS on the BOAT were “bustin 5 knots” we were decidedly NOT moving. We sat there, on the bus, for 45 minutes. Just sitting, probably all getting infected with Swine Flu thanks to the three folks sneezing their heads off (gee thanks, Joe Biden, for making me paranoid about riding the bus!). By the time we finally got moving again, I ended up an hour late to work.
Seems like they shouldn’t be allowed to open the bridge except between 10 and 3, and after 6. Then, no one would be late going or coming from work just so T-Pain can f*** a mermaid.
For a college advanced comp course, I once wrote a pretty scathing essay about people who are addicted to their ipods. I believe I created an extended metaphor about ipods as invaders from another planet, slipping their tentacles into people’s ears and slowly sucking out their brains, turning them into pod people. I may have even suggested that ipods are a health hazard, as more than once I nearly gave a roommate a heart attack by “sneaking” into our room before she saw or heard me, thanks to the music blaring in her ears, causing her to shriek upon suddenly seeing me. It was a pretty funny essay and it even got published in my college town’s paper. Ever since, I’ve tried to avoid becoming a pod person. Yes, I have and love a few-generations-old red ipod nano. But it mostly only saw use in my car and on long plane trips, as I dreaded becoming one of those people addicted to my own personal soundtrack, shutting out the world as I walk down the street or sit on the bus. I’d rather use my bus time to chat with people sitting around me, and walking down the street, I tend to get a little tree-hugger, listening to birds and stopping to inhale deeply any time I pass a jasmine vine.
Things changed today.
She's clearly become captive to the pod people. By Martin Krzywinski @ Flickr.
As I boarded my bus, I could already hear a man pontificating. I have no idea what compels the crazies to sit at the front of the bus and regale the poor drivers with their thoughts on life and politics and child rearing, but there’s always at least one, oblivious to the effect they are having on everyone else’s commute, conducting a running monologue all the way to wherever it is they’re going. This morning, it was a white-haired older man, who seemed to be speaking in fragments about how white men just don’t want to work hard (um, did he know what color HE was?), how dumb it is that people keep coming downtown and robbing college students because they don’t have any money (um, I WORK at the college, and let me tell you, plenty of these kids probably have plenty of money that they keep in the Range Rover mommy and daddy sent them off to college in), and how they should rob the tourists down on the battery instead. Seriously. He said, “Those white women have $12,000 diamond rings on their fingers, cut off a finger, you’ve got yourself a score!” He also went on about how he doesn’t drink or “use the cocaine” because “those are white women things. They love to drink those martinis with their pinkies in the air.” When (and I note that at this point we had made it about, oh, a mile from my house, so he really packed the info in) he launched into some sort of diatribe about sending his pennies to Obama so all the lazy black men could get jobs (at this point I decided he was just a misanthrope who hated everyone– white women, white men, black men, maybe the only ones he likes are black women like the bus driver he seemed to be trying to impress), I decided it was time to find the escape pod.
I fished around in my giant be-prepared-for-anything-that-could-happen-on-the-bus tote and found my trusty little ipod, Weasley. I slipped those little white “tentacles” into my ears, clicked on my “Summer Dance Party” playlist and slid my thumb around the dial, cranking up the volume. The lady sitting next to me, white tentacles also in her ears, nodded at me and smiled. A friend of mine across the aisle looked at me with jealousy, wishing she too could tune out the crazy sermonizer. When I couldn’t hear his insane rantings anymore, it was sort of funny to imagine his mouth moving to the lyrics of M.I.A. and MGMT. I couldn’t help but smile to myself as I tapped my foot to the beat.
Now, in order to avoid true pod-dom, I should probably have removed the “tentacles” as I hopped off the bus for my short walk to the office, but I fear their little feelers had already worked themselves into my mind– one of my favorite songs had come on and I walked to its beat all the way to my building. I sort of hope there isn’t a camera in the elevator because I may or may not have had a little dance party somewhere between the first and fourth floors… Guess it’s time to welcome my shiny red Apple overlord.
erniebufflo's south & west kitchen 