February 2006 Archives

I'm able to share this thanks to Juti, who gave me this link to the London Review of Books personal ads. A sample:

Last Valentine’s Day I sponsored a truck load of mitten crabs on behalf on my girlfriend. She left me not long afterwards, but the mitten crabs are thriving. I learned an important lesson as a result of all this, but I’m really not sure what it was. That’s where you come in, F to 35 with profound love of mitten crabs for evenings spent drinking home-made iron brew and plotting the migratory pattern of mitten crabs with amateur mitten crab enthusiast (M, 35, mercifully low sperm count). Box no. 04/05

I don't know about you, but if I knew or cared what mitten crabs are, was under 35, lived in England and felt like dating, I'd be really tempted to respond.

Here's what I found in the British press today: articles on the fact that water is our most precious commodity, and there are likely to be wars over it, especially as the world starts dealing with climate change.

What, have these dudes never read Mark Twain, who pointed out that in the American west, "Whiskey is for drinking and water is for fighting over"?

Sheesh.

When I was in the Missionary Training Center, that bastion of moral and intellectual vapidness forsaken by god but not his minions, someone said to me, one night as all the sister missionaries prepared for bed, "I can tell you're from Arizona, because you turn the water off while you brush your teeth."

As the daughter of a Mormon Arizona lawyer who made his living representing clients like irrigation districts against legal opponents like any and all environmental groups, I've always known that A) water was incredible precious and scarce and B) people would fight over it like nobody's business--or rather, like big business. Because water isn't really nobody's business: it's something that can be commidified by those in power and sold, even down the who owns the right to take water out of a particular river on a particular day.

I guess I'm just glad that the rest of the world is waking up to something I've known my whole life. If there is ANYTHING in the world that causes me despair, it's the way the average person wastes water. I think everyone in the world should be required to read Cadillac Desert by Marc Reisner, about the utter unsustainability of both agriculture and population in the entire Western half of the US.

And, for good measure, while you're surveying the news, check out this brief piece about rape victims in Lybia who are detained in protective homes for women and girls "vulnerable to engaging in moral misconduct," because God knows being raped is more of a crime than committing one.

Reese, Frankengirl, Mystic Gypsy, and all types like me, check out this plea from the BBC:

Are you an avid reader of romantic fiction? Has Mr Darcy made you leave your fiancé? Has Mr Rochester, Heathcliff or any other fictional hero changed your love life in a significant way? Does your partner want you to be more like these fictional male heroes?

Silverriver Productions are producing a series of three 60' programmes for the BBC about the history of the romantic novel. Presented by Daisy Goodwin, Reader, I Married Him! will examine the work of Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer, Margaret Mitchell, Helen Fielding and Catherine Cookson amongst others, looking at how romantic novels have changed the female perception of the ideal man.

In the programmes we want to talk to real men and women whose love lives have been transformed by romantic fiction for better or for worse. We want to speak to the women who have never found their Mr Darcy, as well as the men who feel that they fall short of romantic literary ideals.

If you have an interesting story, please get in touch with Louisa MacInnes on 020 7580 2746 or louisa.macinnes@silverriver.tv with details of your experience and and some method of contacting you.

Today I'm offering you a trio of links.

First, a link to a really cool story sent to me by my friend Spike about a program in Argetina designed to promote literacy among young children AND provide a meaningful activity for "educated women over 50,who are excluded from the labour market by fierce competition." Called "Storytelling Grandmothers," the program has been very effective and claims its "secret formula" of "affection, plus high-quality literature, equals children who read."

Second, an entry I came across at woman in comfy shoes about a notebook kept by her grandmother, and filled with old clippings of "quaint" shoes and hats. T. Comfyshoes explains that

Living where she did in the 1930s, Grandma and her friends and sisters didn't have a lot of access to shopping, so if they wanted anything nice they had to order it from a catalogue. To make sure they got everything they ordered, and nothing that they didn't, Grandma would cut out the pictures from the catalogue and glue them into a notebook. She kept notes of what they paid and what they bought them for.

As T. Comfyshoes examines the notebook, she finds stories emerging. It's a really charming, interesting entry, and it supports my argument that journals should be kept, not burned.

Finally, a link to the Ninth Carnival of Feminists, which is up at Mind the Gap! I always enjoy seeing what is included in the feminist Carnival, and this one is really good. It's particularly easy to follow. As I'm scheduled to host the 15th Carnival in May, I will be remembering how well the feminists at Mind the Gap! presented the posts they chose to highlight.

Enjoy!

As promised yesterday, here are some of the things I have said about myself in my Friendster profile.

I actually have several affiliations, but at this moment I feel pretty damn unaffiliated. If I lived in a different time and place, I'd grab my begging bowl and hit the road.

As an insomniac, I find sleep pretty interesting, and many of my hobbies involve efforts to help me fall and stay asleep: yoga, acupuncture, lying prone in a dark room and thinking about my toes.

When I'm awake and want to stay that way, my hobbies and interests include dancing, paisley, calligraphy, learning to knit sweaters that fit me after they've been washed, radical Mormon feminism (yes, there is such a thing), men in mascara (saves me the trouble of wearing it), proper dental hygiene, good beer, writing, and those spaces on maps where cartographers used to write "here be dragons."

About two years ago, my buddy John at Mind on Fire sent me an invitation to join Friendster. It seemed kind of silly, and I was suspicious of anything that required me to upload a photo (especially since I didn't know how to do it) but I figured what the hell, and I joined.

And that was that, for a good long while. But seven or eight months later I met someone who was all about Friendster--oh, he'd met so many cool people through it! It made it so easy to keep track of people! I should definitely make more use of it. And it wasn't all that hard to scan and upload a photo; he'd show me how.

So I posted a few photos. And I set about crafting a profile I thought people might find interesting. And then I set about refining it--I only had 2000 characters, so I had to stay focused, had to keep things concise! And then I realized that I LOVED writing sharp, incisive portraits of myself in two or three quick sentences. As far as I was concerned, it was the perfect literary form.

It's been cold lately where I live. Saturday afternoon I had to run some errands and it was 15 degrees F (-9 C) when I left my house. As I flexed my chilly fingers inside my gloves so they'd retain the ability to move and checked the temperature gauge of my car every few seconds to see if the engine was warm enough that I could turn the heat on, I thought to myself, "OK, I remember now: this is what it feels like when it's butt-bustingly cold!"

I've learned this about cold climes: if it's near freezing, you can still have an OK time if you must go outside: you can bundle up for a long walk, or shovel your driveway sans hat, or amble across the street without gloves to ask your neighbor if he'll babysit your cat, and it can actually be pleasant in a bracing, wouldn't-want-to-do-it-everyday-but-this-once-was-fine sort of way. But once it drops to about 25 degrees (-3 C), going outside for anything but a nano-second will suck. And when it gets below zero (-18 C), well, then it REALLY sucks. No matter how many clothes you wear, you're still going to be cold. You might not freeze to death, but you won't feel like stopping to chat with a neighbor. You also won't want to take off your gloves to root around in your pocket for your keys, so make sure you know where they are before you walk out the door. Try to pee before you go out as well, because it's disconcerting to drop your pants and discover that even though it's been covered by underwear, thermal underwear, jeans and a long coat, your ass has become downright icy.

I lived through a few spectacularly dreadful winters in Iowa. In January 1994, it was so cold that all the universities in the state--with the exception of the one I studied at--canceled class: the actual high temperature was near -20 F (-29 C); the wind chill factor made it feel like it -55 F (-48 C). To paraphrase a report I heard on the radio, when it's that cold, "You shouldn't go outside if you can possibly help it, and if you must go outside, be sure to cover every inch of you, because at these temperatures, exposed skin can freeze within 30 seconds."

Having posted something about why I keep a journal, I thought I'd post an entry from my journal. This one seemed like a good choice because it was written during the previous Winter Olympic Games. I've fixed a bit of idiocyncratic punctuation and clarified a few obscure references, but this is pretty much a typical journal entry. A bit of context: I was living in Arizona near my parents, marginally employed, trying to finish my book, and hunting for a job. I was downright miserable.

I am watching the closing ceremonies of the Salt Lake Winter Olympics. I have found them really interesting and moving--there are all these great human dramas, like when Venetta Flowers, one of the bobsledders, became the first African American ever to win a gold medal at the winter games. And all kinds of drama and intrigue with figure skating.... It's been fun but after 17 days I am kind of Olympicked out. There was a pretty funny Saturday Night Live skit about the SLC games: this skier is racing down a hill, and two missionaries come up on either side of her and say, "Would you like a Book of Mormon?" But apparently the Mormons managed not to be complete jerks during the Olympics.

Friday I cried most of the day, discouraged by my prospects, upset about the way Mom is responding to my attempts to find a job, hurt by an insensitive email from a friend. And then there was Friday night--OK, this is a very old house, and I have gotten used to the idea that I will have to deal with mice, which are bad enough, but while I was watching the Olympics on Friday, I heard a trap snap but after that, a struggle ensued. Normally, mice are pretty thoroughly dead once a trap shuts on them. But here came this big rodent trailing blood across my carpet. I thought, "What is that? Is that a hamster? Because it's not a rat," and then I realized it was a gopher, a pissed-off, bleeding gopher. It ran behind this wicker trunk where I store fabric scraps, and my cat just sat there watching. I had to move all this stuff to get it out in the open, and I found so many droppings back behind the trunk that clearly the gopher had been in my house for a while. I had to sweep it out of the house--and it did not want to go--and I was just going to leave it alone to die in peace, and then I thought about all the damage gophers have done to my mulberry tree, and I fetched a shovel and beat it to death and buried it.

And that was just about the last straw as far as Friday was concerned.

As I posted something a few days ago about having dinner with God, I thought I'd share this strange little thing I wrote a few years ago about a date with God.

Last night as I lay in my bed tossing about in that semi-lucid semi-dreaming state induced by illness, medication and not enough sound sleep, a question and an answer occurred to me. Here they are:

Question: Describe your dream date with God.

Answer: OK.

My dream date with God would begin with a phone call--none of this voice speaking from the whirlwind business; I want an actual phone call made from a real phone number that appears on my caller ID box. I figure it will consist entirely of of 8's (infinity symbol turned side-ways) and 0's (the nothingness God created everything out of) and 1's (after all, God is the big One). God will say, "Hey, would you like to spend the weekend at the Grand Canyon?"

"Sure," I'll say, and write it down in my planner.

So that's what I'd do on my dream date with God: go to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. It has to be the North Rim; I haven't been there since 1976, the summer between seventh and eighth grade. We won't camp; we'll rent a cabin--separate rooms, of course. This isn't Leda and the Swan or Mary and the Holy Spirit or anything like that.

We'll look at the world in its magnificence and he'll try to explain the forces that molded it. He'll conjure a thunderstorm or two. He'll take apart a pine cone and tell me why it's constructed as it is.

God has nothing to do with ethics for me. Ethics exist outside of God. God is about power. I don't always understand power. This doesn't mean that I don't understand creation. I am perfectly willing to believe in a big bang that got everything going somehow. What I don't understand is how some things change and some things don't. What I don't understand is heresy today, gone tomorrow.

I just checked the stats for my blog, and discovered that someone ended up at my site while doing a search for a "'sorry I date-raped you' card."

Huh.

I know how they ended up here: I posted an entry where I mention that a guy I was dating once apologized for date-raping me. (Yes, the apology was warranted. Yes, I was young enough and stupid enough that I didn't break up with him, either after the non-consensual sex or the apology. Yes, the entire experience continues to affect my views on men, courtship, and issues of consent in sex.)

What I don't know is what the card means. It is a joke? Is it serious? Could such a card be used as an admission of guilt--and therefore evidence--against someone who had committed a date-rape?

My guess is, it's a joke--about like those awful t-shirts discussed on Shakespeare's Sister. But that raises the question: WHY is this a topic our culture finds funny?

I just got done teaching Night by Elie Wiesel in one of my courses. Of course everyone found it horrifying and upsetting. Everyone sympathized with the suffering of the narrator, and condemned the holocaust, and thought it completely fitting that Wiesel bear personal witness of what the Nazis did to the Jews.

This week we are reading Two or Three Things I Know for Sure by Dorothy Allison, in which she discusses being raped by her step-father when she was five years old. One guy said, "When I got to the part where she says, 'My step-father raped me when I was five years old,' I thought, 'Shit! Why is the professor making us read this crap?'" Another guy said, "Why do people need to talk about this? Why should we be expected to read about this?"

Um, maybe because in your life as a college-educated white American male, you're more likely to know someone who is the victim of sexual assault than someone who carries out or survives or dies because of genocide, not only because college-educated white Americans tend to be sheltered and protected from genocide, but because there are more victims of sexual violence in the world than there are victims of genocide? (Rape, after all, is a tool of genocide.) Maybe so you'll know how to react when your friend or sister gets a "Sorry I Date-Raped You" card? I assume, of course, that you'll never need to send one yourself.

Frankengirl posted an entry about diaries and whether or not they are meant to be kept or burned. This is a topic that gets ME burning. In the December 2004 issue of Sunstone, I published an essay detailing my attitude about keeping a journal. It seems relevant, so I'm posting it here.

Although I am no longer a believing or active Mormon, I still live a lot like one. OK, I drink an occasional beer, though I have never been able to cultivate any interest in substance abuse. I don't worry about the ratings of the movies I watch, though I have enough sense to avoid films that are obviously crap. I don't go to church on Sunday, though I have tried to find a congregation where I feel at home, but I can't help noticing other meetings' short-comings when compared to a Mormon service: I hate having to stand, then sit, then kneel, then stand again; or I hate that other worshipers sing tacky devotional pop songs accompanied by guitars or recordings, like it's some group karaoke thing; or I hate that people show up in t-shirts and shorts, like it's the grocery store.

But I still write down goals. I still strive to be scrupulously honest in my business dealings and to give a good portion of my earnings to charity. I still buy groceries in bulk. I still can't throw away anything, from a scrap of fabric to a cardboard box, without asking myself, "Is there some possible use left in this thing?" I still keep a journal.

For many years I kept a journal for the same reason I flossed, made good grades and exercised: because somebody told me that when I was seventy, I'd be glad I'd done such things in my youth. In general, the journal has given me more pleasure than the flossing. I was 11 when President Kimball issued his encouragement to

Get a notebook...a journal that will last through all time, and maybe the angels will quote from it for eternity. Begin today and write in it your goings and comings, your deepest thoughts, your achievements and your failures, your associations and your triumphs, your impressions and your testimonies. (4)

My three favorite dates are December 16 (my birthday), December 25 (although I'm one of those evil pagans who prefers wishing friends and strangers "Happy Holidays" to "Merry Christmas," I still dig the whole giving-and-getting-gifts part of the gig), and February 14.

I like February 14 for two reasons: One, it's Arizona Statehood Day. That's right, Arizona became the 48th state in the Union on February 14, 1912. Because it was so fashionably late to the AWESOME party thrown by the Federal Government, I am able to say that none of my grandparents were born in the United States: three were born in Arizona before it became a state; the fourth, like a good many Mormons, was born in Mexico (which is where the polygamists went to stay polygamists, until Pancho Villa came along and told them to get the hell out).

Of course, the other reason I like February 14 is that it's Valentine's Day.

This is the 43rd Valentine's Day I've spent on this planet. For, oh, 39 of those 43, I've not had a Valentine to call my own (I even had two long-term relationships where I managed to be on the outs with my sig/ot during the month of February), but the fact that any flowers I received on such days were from my mother (she never neglects me or my sisters on Valentine's Day: she sent bouquets to all four of us on Monday) and any chocolate I got, I bought myself, hasn't dampened my enthusiasm for the day.

I just like it, you know? I like construction paper and scissors and glue. I like doilies. I like crayons and markers. I like red a lot, and pink is OK. I like chocolate. I like flowers. I like hearts. I like sending big envelopes through the US mail and I like telling the people I love that I love them, even if they don't offer to take me to dinner, call me sweetheart and kiss me passionately on the 14th day of February. (I'm not saying I'm opposed to the idea, I'm just saying it doesn't have to happen. I accept other gestures of affection and regard. One of my all-time favorite Valentine's Day presents is a garlic press my sister bought me in 1990 when we shared an apartment--I use it still.)

There have been years when I've made fudge for the dozen or so people closest to me. There have been years when I've baked heart-shaped cakes. There have been years when I've sent dozens of Valentines, to pretty much everyone in my address book. I'd rather do that than send Christmas cards--I mean, it's just so commonplace to send red envelopes in December to people you ignore the rest of the year, but who does it in February?

If I'd had my shit together this year, I would have fashioned a huge, elaborate heart of pink and red paper, a sincere token of my affection for all my friends and readers. I would have taken a photo of said creation, and uploaded it here. Unfortunately, however, that did not happen.

So you'll just have to accept this blog entry as my Valentine to you. If I know you well enough to love you, then believe me, I love you! And if we're still in the early stages of our friendship, then I like you every bit as much as I can without seeming pathetic, threatening and weird.

And if you like or love me too, please leave a comment and tell me so.

Amazon.com has a list of seven "significant" questions that it likes to ask its favorite authors. Saviour Onassis asked Bored Dominatrix (my leather-wearing alter-ego--she's still me, just sassier) these questions over on Genius to Spare, and I thought I'd answer them here as well. (Because I'm still her, just more discreet.)

Q: What book has had the most significant impact on your life?
A: Probably Winnie the Pooh, since it's the first book I liked enough to want to read it myself. (It's also the book that explained my father's psychological state to me: he's Eeyore.) Tied for second place is, I don't know, maybe Pride and Prejudice, because it made me want to write, and A History of God by Karen Armstrong, since it reassured me that I'm by no means the only one to figure out that the bearded old white guy in the sky is one mean son of a bitch.

Q: You are stranded on a desert island with only one book, one CD, and one DVD--what are they?
A: I'm stranded on a desert island equipped with a functioning CD player, a DVD player and a TV? COOL! I hope there's a decent shower with plenty of hot water too....

Q: Ahem. Suspend your disbelief. Play along. Answer the freakin' question.
A: Book: An empty notebook. CD: Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd. It's not my favorite album in the world, but it expresses what would probably be my main sentiment. DVD: How to Build a Boat out of Coconut Trees and Escape from a Desert Island.

Q: What is the worst lie you've ever told?
A: The Mormon Church is true. (See Mission archives.)

Q: Describe the perfect writing environment.
A: A great big room with wood floors and lots of windows. There's a computer AND a typewriter, and a couple of well-stocked bookshelves. There is not, however, a phone. (Note: I wrote my dissertation in a room just like this. That's how I know what I'm talking about.)

Q: If you could write your own epitaph, what would it say?
A: Here lies Holly, by golly.

Q: Who is the one person living or dead that you would like to have dinner with?
A: God, Jehovah, the Ancient of Days--whatever you want to call the old bastard. That MF has some SERIOUS ‘splaining to do. I wouldn't back off, either, like Job did, when God started in on his "where were you when I did this and this" routine. AND I'd expect him to pick up the tab.

Q: If you could have one superpower, what would it be?
A: Telepathy. And the mind I'd most want to read would be God's. Who wouldn't want to know the mind of God?

Here are a couple of basic spiritual truths I've learned in my life:

1. You gotta leave the garden. You can't truly learn and grow while you stay within the confines of a system designed to protect you and keep you innocent.

2. She who will save her life shall lose it, and she who is willing to lose her life, will save it. If you stay inside the garden because you're afraid you'll perish in the lone and dreary world, well, here's some news! You're going to perish anyway, but you'll never know the potential, growth and possibility you could have experienced in the outside world. But if you venture out, you just might discover the means of not merely surviving, but thriving.

3. The Mormon church is one of the most pernicious "gardens" out there: yeah, there's plenty of produce, but it's thoroughly tainted with pesticides, fungicides and fertilizer. You can eat it, but it will give you cancer of the soul. You're better off applying the lesson of the fall and expelling yourself from the garden.

Because I am still technically a Mormon woman (they haven't excommunicated me yet, and I promised my mother I wouldn't ask the big boys to do it for me), and because I became a feminist partly because I was once a Mormon woman, and because I am occasionally an idiot, I sometimes find myself drawn into conversations with devout Mormon women about feminism.

I should know better. Because no woman will ever truly espouse the cause of feminism while she's still a devout Mormon. No human being will ever truly espouse the cause of justice while she's still a devout Mormon. No human being will ever truly espouse freedom of mind or plain good sense while she's still a devout Mormon. She'll do the best she can, and that's all the rest of us can ask. But devout Mormon women are still, fundamentally, stunted, because they insist on a diet of that horrible tainted fruit--and then spend all this time saying, "Oh there's nothing wrong with this fruit! There's nothing wrong with the garden! There's nothing wrong with anything--except maybe a few of the other gardeners, but that's not really important! Let's all just be nice and good, and then everything will work out--because God says so!"

To which I say, Yada yada fucking la-di-da. Grow the hell up.

And if I ever again start participating in forums for Mormon feminists who still support the patriarchy, will someone who's not in that benighted category remind me of this post?

People say you know you've found a special friend when you can enjoy a comfortable silence with him--the absence of speech doesn't herald awkwardness and anxiety. My friendship with Wayne must be pretty damn special because we can enjoy a comfortable silence together--on the phone. I called him Saturday afternoon and of course the conversation wandered eventually to blogging, an activity we share. We sat at our respective computers, he in Southern California, I in Northern Pennsylvania, and we blogged. We collaborated on three new entries (see them here, here and here), working in silent contentment, listening to the other breathe and mutter in the background but not speaking unless it became necessary, because we're THAT comfortable with each other, and besides, we both have free cell phone minutes on the weekend, so why hang up just because we don't have something to share right this second? In another 20 minutes or so, one of us will surely think up something to say.

As evidence for my argument that we need to use words like vulva and cunt instead of vagina when we mean vulva or cunt instead of vagina, I offer this example.

The other day I found a flyer for NuvaRing contraceptive in my campus ladies' room. It features a photo of a woman walking along a sidewalk, a photo of a woman taking a surfboard onto the beach in the company of a guy who also has a surfboard, and a photo of a woman holding a menu as she sits in an outdoor café with a female companion. (Maybe it's just me, but these have never been activities for which I required contraceptives.)

The flyer also lists some frequently asked questions and their answers. My favorite:

"Will I feel NuvaRing?"

The response:

"Most women don't because, while the nerve endings of the outer vagina are very sensitive, the ones in the upper vagina are not."

Outer vagina? The vagina is an internal passageway. Outer vagina? That makes about as much sense as "outer esophagus" or "outer vas deferens" or "outer urethra"--unless, of course, you think "vagina" is the term that, like a nice pink thong from Victoria's Secret, covers ALL the relevant bits of female genitalia.

In an entry last week I mentioned something about checking the frozen foods section of my favorite grocery store. I wanted to write simply, "Every time I go to Wegmans I check to see if Ben and Jerry's has brought back my favorite flavors," but I couldn't, because not everyone knows what Wegmans is.

And I have decided to do something about that.

As I hope I've made abundantly clear, I prefer the southwest part of the US to the northeast part. But one thing that makes the northeast superior to the rest of the country is the presence of Wegmans, the best grocery store I've ever shopped at. It's even better than the New Pioneer Food Co-op in Iowa City, and that was a pretty damn good grocery store. (Though New Pi had better bread--they had this chocolate cherry bread that was AMAZING.)

I'd be proud to appear in a Wegmans ad, pushing my cart through the spacious aisles and merrily singing some jingle as I pull high-quality food items from the well-stocked shelves. But I'm not the only one willing to sing the company's praises: last year Wegmans ranked first in FORTUNE Magazine's list of the top 100 companies to work for; this year it ranks second. According to a company press release, "this marks the ninth consecutive year Wegmans has appeared on the annual list and its fourth year ranked among the top 10."

I realize I sound as enthusiastic as a paid spokesperson, but part of what I like best about shopping at Wegmans is the fact that the employees don't seem to resent doing the jobs they're paid to do. They're not surly--in fact, they're usually pretty cheery. They know where stuff is. When you ask them for help, they try to provide it.

John at Mind on Fire has posted the following set of questions on his blog:

I posted a response to John's questions on his blog, and I'm going to include my response here as well. Here goes:

First, I believe that men should identify themselves as feminists, and work to improve the lives of women, advance the cause of women's rights, and fight sexism; that white people must fight racism and work to improve the lives of people of color; that straight people need to fight homophobia and support gay rights; that rich people need to care about poor people; that human beings need to work for the humane treatment of animals, and so on. Everyone needs to be on the side of justice. No righteous cause (and I use that term advisedly) ever truly succeeds until even those who benefit from an unjust system begin to work to overthrow it. Slavery would still exist were it not for the efforts of those who were NOT slaves.

I recently mentioned a rejection letter that didn't entirely suck, so I thought I'd discuss what's usually the best part of the publication process: actually seeing the work in print.

A few days ago my got my contributor's copies of Poetry International, and it has become my new favorite literary journal. First of all, it's simply gorgeous. The production values are impressive: good-quality paper, nice graphics that don't overwhelm the content of the text, an attractive cover (even if it is mostly earthtones). The journal is also a little bigger than usual: 9.75 inches by 6.75 inches (as opposed to 9" x 6"), with 208 pages before the ads start.

More importantly, the poems in the journal are GOOD. I haven't, by any means, read everything in the 2006 issue (it's a yearly, not a quarterly), but everything I've read I like--the poems are about things that matter--or at least, about the things I think matter, like suffering and truth and pain, which I guess is one reason they were willing to print my work.

And a more personal satisfaction: my poem is on page 30, and on page 31 is a poem by Billy Collins. It's the first time I've been published in such close proximity to a poet laureate of the United States.

So get online a buy a subscription, or rush out to the periodical section of your large university or independent bookstore, and read Poetry International.

Yes, this is my very first meme (what the hell is the origin of that word, anyway?). Thanks to Frankengirl for tagging me.

Instructions: Remove the blog in the top spot from the following list and bump everyone up one place. Then add your blog to the bottom slot, like so.

1. Kiss My Mike
2. Ultimate Writer
3. Golgotha_Tramp
4. FrankenGirl
5. Holly at Self-Portrait as

Next select five people to tag:
1. Major Steel at Out of the Mist
2. Jana at Pilgrimgirl
3. Heo Cwaeth
4. John at Mind on Fire.
5. Bored Dominatrix (yeah, OK, so that's just one of my personas--but she's got different answers--better answers, actually--and she's going to tag people who might not tag anyone else)
6. Mary Ellen at Rio Grande Valley Girl (Yes, I know, I'm cheating TWICE now, but I found out a day after tagging the first five bloggers that Mary Ellen has started a blog, and I want to support her)

What were you doing 20 years ago?
Riding a bike around Kaohsiung, the nasty port city in the south of Taiwan, trying to convert Buddhists to Christianity

What were you doing 10 years ago?
Finishing up my third year of course work in a PhD program in English lit

What were you doing 1 year ago?
Pretty much the same things I'm doing now

Five snacks you enjoy:
1. chocolate chocolate chip cookies
2. a bunch of Ben & Jerry's limited edition flavors that no longer exist, but every so often I check the frozen food section of my favorite grocery store, just in case
3. Carr's Ginger Lemon Creme English tea cookies
4. chips and salsa
5. extra sharp white cheddar

Five songs to which you know all the lyrics:
1. "My Favorite Things" (and every other song from The Sound of Music, as well as most of the Rodgers and Hammerstein oeuvre)
2. "There is a Light That Never Goes Out" from The Queen is Dead by (of course) the Smiths
3. The Soundtrack to "Once More With Feeling," the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (all right, I know MOST of the lyrics)
4. "Young Americans" from Young Americans by David Bowie
5. When I was in high school, someone at church taught us to sing all the books of the Old Testament, in order, to the tune of "Praise to the Man Who Communed with Jehovah" (i.e. Joseph Smith). I can still sing it, and I find it really useful when I want to remember if Psalms is before or after Proverbs.

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:
1. buy a house in Tucson
2. pay off all my debt
3. quit my day job and devote myself to writing
4. start doing yoga again regularly and become certified as a yoga instructor
5. give money more often and more generously to causes I support

Five bad habits:
1. not exercising as much as I should
2. buying candy almost every time I go to the grocery store
3. becoming so lost in my thoughts as I go for a walk that I start gesturing to myself, so that strangers sometimes ask me who I'm talking to
4. buying clothes I don't need when I already have more clothes than I can wear
5. not being more aggressive about submitting my work for publication

Five--no, six--things you like doing:
1. writing
2. reading
3. hanging out with old friends
4. meeting new people
5. visiting exotic places
6. staying home

Five things you would never wear again:
1. turtlenecks
2. a button-down shirt (not that I've worn many in my life--the preppy thing never worked for me)
3. anything with a sports mascot on it
4. Um, for over a decade, I almost never wore a bra, but then I got a job teaching high school, and it just seemed like a good idea to wear one some days
5. I don't really find jeans comfortable (denim is such a heavy fabric--who wants something made of it surrounding one's nether parts?) but it would be unrealistic to say I'll never wear them again

Five things that scare you: (yeah, I added this one)
1. Republicans (including my family)
2. religious extremism
3. environmental degradation, including but not limited to global warming, pollution, and destruction of rain forests
4. never being famous
5. deep water

Five favorite toys:
1. my own body. This is not an allusion to sex. This is mostly about the fact that I like yoga and dancing. I like lying in bed and listening to my toes. I like noticing sensations in my knees and my neck. I like having acupuncture and feeling energy gather and release. I like paying attention to what it feels like to be me, as I move through the world.
2. my cell phone
3. my computer
4. my sewing machine
5. the great ineffable mystery of the universe? I don't know. I just like to think about things. I want to get smarter as I age.

Monday, my friend Matthew the Brit who lives in Brussels left a comment on my entry written In Praise of the C Word, suggesting that we Americans check out this British show Balderdash and Piffle, because it was cool and because Germaine Greer had done a really cool bit on the c word itself. I believed him, but I didn't have time to check it out right away.

Later that day, on campus, I went to consult the Oxford English Dictionary on the etymology of a particular word. (While I really love the multi-volume hard copy, it's much more convenient to use the on-line version--I am lucky to work at an institution that has a subscription to the OED on-line.) And instead of the standard home page, I got something telling me that until February 13, 2006, ANYONE can use the OED, because it's available in conjunction with Balderdash and Piffle.

If you've never looked something up in the OED, do. It's really cool--OK, it's really cool if you're a language geek, but what writer isn't? The entries tell you not only the current meaning, but every meaning a word has ever had, and it lists occurrences of the word throughout history. Part of the mission of the OED is to document a word's first written usage, and to that end, they enlist the help of anyone who reads, to provide them with citations and occurrences.

On the B&P site is a list of words the OED people want help with. The site states: