First of all, what comes to mind when you see this tomato?
Please do share your thoughts. I will use them as the basis for your diagnosis.
So what does this have to do with Photo Friday?
The topic for Photo Friday this week is “politics.” Post a photo which in some way showcases your politics. Funky tomatoes? Politics? Yes.
This tomato comes from our CSA. CSA stands for Community Supported Agriculture. We pay $400 in the Spring, and get beautiful boxes of locally grown organic produce all summer long. By doing so, we benefit – we eat delicious, fresh, healthy veggies and far more of them than we normally would – the farmer benefits by sharing some of his risk with us (if he gets screwed by weather or bugs, so do we) – and the earth benefits. No harmful fertilizers and pesticides being washed into our waterways, and no fossil fuels being used to truck our produce 3000 miles across the country.
These are my politics. Consume thoughtfully. If you’re going to be a consumer – and oh boy am I ever one – try to create relationships through your consuming. My CSA has connected me with friends in my neighborhood. I hear the life story of my tomatoes in the newsletter that comes with my box. I treasure the rug I bought from a coworker’s aunt 10 years ago. Minimize impact. Am I going to foreswear lettuce from California in the midst of a brutal northern winter? No. But during the summer, when lettuce and corn and all manner of fabulous fruits are being grown right around me – why should I buy lettuce that’s been trucked from g-d only knows where?
The added benefit? I’d have to post a picture of me eating these tomatoes like apples, juice dripping down my chin, to convey how unbelievably rich and lush and tomatoey they taste. And the salad greens we get last two weeks in the fridge before they start to wilt.
I’ll leave you with a recipe of sorts for my favorite summer treat:
Cut rounds of locally baked italian bread. Place at bottom of baking dish. Layer fresh heirloom tomatoes, fresh basil, and fresh mozzarella on top. Drizzle olive oil and balsamic vinegar over them. Sprinkle with sea salt and ground pepper. Repeat layers. Try to stop eating it.
I really didn’t intend that last post to be the blog equivalent of “does this dress make my butt look fat?” (mandatory answer: no, of course not) but I am delighted to hear from so many of you and to hear about what motivates you to read this. I’ve never been able to keep a diary, it bores me to tears. Which is perilessly close to saying “I bore me to tears.” But this, this blogging thing – it’s fun. And I am tickled pink that people like to read this, or at least that your mothers raised you with the manners and good sense to tell polite untruths. So thank you. Thank you very much.
The reason I haven’t posted much about adoption related business lately is that there hasn’t been anything much to write about. We faxed our documents to the little agency that could, and they promptly looked them over, and told us that even if my boss has known Pili for 2.5 years and thinks she is of good manners, honorable character and never goes to bed without brushing her teeth (she doesn’t, it’s one of many ways in which she is far better than I), the witness statement, notarized by the gnome in accounting, must be redone to read either two or three years, and renotarized by the gnome in accounting.
Braving the gnome in accounting again is big news for me, but not terribly exciting to write about. The Big Thing for which we still wait is the homestudy from her evilness, Mrs. Vaseline Teeth. She called last week after being absent for two weeks, and told us cheerily that she’d had a great vacation and promised it would be done by Friday. It’s 4pm on monday and I have seen nary hair nor tail of said homestudy. She also didn’t answer our question about the police report which was supposedly being mailed to her.
I think MVT prefers Pili to me. This makes sense. Pili is so much catching flies with honey. I am so much, for g-d’s sake would you just do your $(#@# job already? Pili leaves discreet several day-long pauses between phone messages. I begin to pester people when they do not call me back after several days. In which pester means call them at least once a day and ask with barely veiled hatred, whether someone in their family has died? Because otherwise? There is No. Excuse. For not returning my phone call and if you are on vacation have the courtesy to say so on your out-going message.
I think in some ways, MVT responds to me and my decidely Big City South of Here ways in much the same way I respond to tail-gaters. If you and your gas guzzling substitute for viagara are riding my butt on the interstate when I am going 75, I am going to go 70. And then 65. And then 60. Until you and your Napoleon Complex that is single-handly destroying the ozone layer give up and move over a lane. And then I will be sorely tempted to follow you and return the favor in my peppy little tin can. But I will not, because I have gone to Driving School and I know that Road Rage is Bad. And also because you and your
car truck named after the things it is destroying (Denali? Tundra? Yukon? Sequoia?) could smush me into so much art-sweet road jelly.
But I digress. Me nagging MVT does not work. So now I am nagging Pili to nag MVT. Because Pili drives a cute little
subaru mandatory lesbian vehicle and would not run me over.
Those who know me well, know that I can spend a long time struggling to find the right word.
I just changed my reservoir, and realized that while I would know that distinctive insulin smell ANYWHERE, I can not think of words to describe it. So – no cheating – don’t read other people’s comments first – how would you describe that unique fragrance? You don’t have to be a PWD to answer this – family members and health care folks (mermaid!) are welcome too!
P.S. Thanks for the resume suggestions!
So, I have gotten a title change at the Workplace Most Dysfunctional(WMD – Hey, President Bush, I’ve found your WMDs!). Instead of being the Coordinator of Blah Blah, I am now the Manager of Blah Blah and Blech Blech. This is a good thing for my resume and for my chances of securing a job at a place which does not cause me to gnash my teeth and break out in spontaneous bursts of weeping when I make the mistake of reading my work email at home.
The problem is that I do not know how to indicate this on my resume and I need to send out some job letters ASAP.
My job responsibilites have not changed at all. I am still an underemployed peon whose superiors love to remind her of that fact (thus the spontaneous weeping from reading work email at home). But I am theoretically an underemployed peon who might be working full-time come January, and I suggested that that fact deserved a new title more representative of my many tasks and few responsibilities. My boss agreed. Other people needed to order new business cards. Business cards are cheaper if ordered in bunches. Thus, my title change happened now.
1. List both positions on my resume seperately:
Workplace Most Dysfunctional, Manager of Blah and Blech, DATE –
BIG FAT BLANK SPACE
Workplace Most Dysfunctional, Coordinator of Blah Blah, DATE – DATE
2. or put them in one description, giving the dates for each title:
Workplace Most Dysfunctional, Manager of Blah and Blech, DATE – PRESENT;Coordinator of Blah Blah, DATE – DATE
I am leaning toward 2., but your suggestions are welcome. But if you know any identifying information about me or the WMD, please, please don’t mention it.
ALSO, an update on the ETHICAL DILEMMAS:
I mentioned to L., the security guard that when I told Pili about her niece’s wedding, Pili had asked what they were planning to do about the MA residence law. L. said, “Oh, Cape Cod is in MA? And shit, no, niece is not a MA resident.” She was glad to know about the law and said she would check with her niece. The next day she told me that her niece was aware of the law, was just going to do her thing and see what happened, but that they were grateful for our concern.
And here’s what I told the flakey intern:
I wanted to check in with Good Job about their reference policy. As a reference, I can verify the dates you were there and what your responsibilities were.
What would I do without you, oh fabulous bloggy friends?
For a couple of days now I’ve been trying to figure out what it was that bugged me about this front page article in the New York Times. The headline is “Overcoming Adoption’s Racial Barriers” and it focuses on white families adopting African-American children.
As I was scrubbing the coffee stains and cat hair off the stairs this morning, in preparation for house guest 2.0 (my much loved cousin and his adorable daughter, so I’m not really whining), I realized that this article seems to be suggesting that race is only about black and white. Interesting, because there are a whole lot of adult adoptees, mostly from Korea, who identify as trans-racial adoptees. Interesting, because I know that Guatebaby will be a transracial adoptee in our caucausian-jewish-with-a-big-dash-of-episcopalian family.
I also find that the article disturbingly seems to assume that “black baby” = “in foster care” even while focusing on families who adopted black infants not via the child welfare system. They write:
At the same time, some blacks view international adoptions by whites as a slight to black children in need of permanent and stable homes. “I can’t help but wonder why Angelina and Brad can’t adopt an African-American baby here with so many in need,” said Ishia Granger, 36, a black friend of Ms. Brockway. More than 45,000 black children were waiting to be adopted from foster care in 2004. There are no reliable national figures for private adoptions.
What do you think, my wise internet friends?
Just five coincident facts that will have my pumpwearing pals wincing in sympathy:
2. 23″ Tubing
3. Carrying hot coffee
4. Cute, ass-enhancing, relatively new (and now elegantly coffee-stained) jeans
5. Formerly off-white carpet
P.S. Is anyone else disturbed by word verification combinations that include the letter “Q” not followed by “U”? Or am I just unspeakably uptight?
This morning, Pili and I went to have our fingerprints taken at our friendly local office of the Department of Homeland Insecurity, Office of Citizenship and Immigration Diservice. As we sat in the drab waiting room, Pili chatted with the security guard. This is one of the basic differences between us. Native New Yorkers are rarely chatters, I’ve found. Friendly, helpful, yes. That whole rude New Yorker thing is b.s. in my oh so humble opinion. But chatty, no.
She asked why we were not allowed to have our cell phones on. Was it a security thing or was it a respect issue? Respect, said the guard. You wouldn’t believe how fast people can talk in Spanish or Vietnamese, yabba jabba jabba. And they’re so loud. It’s really annoying.
I fully sympathize with their desire to have a cell phone free zone. But frankly, I’m more annoyed when I can understand people’s conversations. I don’t need to hear about your brother sleeping with your best friend and how BETRAYED you feel, or about the fact that your dog farted last night and your c-section incision is still kind of oozing and your husband doesn’t care.
Then, as I was having my fingerprints done, one of the workers commented that the man she had just fingerprinted, from the Sudan, was really stinky (not that I could notice, he wasn’t).
It seems to me, that if you’re going to work in an environment where you have the privilege of dealing with people who actually want to become citizens of this country, people who bring a rich gift of diversity and culture to our country, you might want to have the slightest sense of appreciation for those diffwences. And that the fact that so many North-but-not-Canada-Americans don’t appreciate other cultures is part of why so many people hate us right now.
And the fact that so many people hate us right now is why I will have to hunt down my doctor’s letter and prescription labels and check my lipstick (sigh. I will not look glamourous as I descend from the plane to claim my bags) when I fly to D.C. on Saturday for a combination of work/fun travel. The security guards at our dinky airport take their job far more seriously than any TSA official in a city where terrorism is a real possibility and I look forward to a lovely girl on girl wanding experience this weekend.