Livingston, I Presume

When celebrity chefs turn good

I'm not going to start writing about the situation in Lebanon. I'm no expert, and I have zero on-the-ground experience to draw from. I'll leave the writing to the seasoned pros--or at least the celebrity chefs.

Anthony Bourdain is not really one of my favorites, but he has done a great service with this article   on Salon.com. (If you're not a subscriber, you may have to watch a short ad to read the story. Watch it. It's worth it.) Here's an excerpt:

They were so proud of how far they'd come, how much they'd survived, how different and sophisticated Beirut was now. They spoke of all the things they had to show us, the people we had to meet. Significantly, the word "Syria" was still spoken in slightly hushed tones. Speaking too long, too loud or too harshly of their former occupier, it was suggested, could still get you killed. (An outcome not without precedent.) We walked along the road leading to a cordoned-off area by the St. George Hotel, where Bardot, Monroe and Kim Philby had once played -- back when Beirut was called the "Paris of the Orient" without a hint of irony. The buildings in the area were still in ruins, a roof torn off, the old hotel -- under construction when the targeted blast that killed Hariri occurred -- still empty. The Phoenician, across the street, which had also been destroyed, had recently been completely rebuilt. A modern hotel like any other, but they were proud of that too. Because, like Beirut, it was still there. It was back.

Like I said, I'm not even going to get into this myself. But please, read the story. It's better than anything else I've read or heard on the subject.

No, really! A nice post about Baucus!

It's no secret how I feel about Senator Max Baucus. While I can't necessarily agree with The Onion, I have on occasion ranted about his Lieberman-like tendencies and his failure to stand up for what is really important to Montanans. I nearly lost my mind when he rolled over on the bankruptcy bill, and his performance regarding Our Dear Leader's judicial nominees was far from satisfactory as well.

But sometimes he does do right, and he deserves credit for that. Say what you will about Max, he is--as my cousin Kelly says--a true friend of choice. He voted against the Forced Teen Pregnancy and Grandmother Imprisonment Act yesterday, and that means something. Plenty of his democratic colleagues crossed the aisle on this one--shame on them--but Max stood firm.

I won't speculate about his motives. Doubtless his spotless record on this issue preserves the votes of some liberals who would otherwise write him off as unsupportable. Certainly I've had my worries about an earlier pledge to never vote for him ever again ever ever. "Senator Rehberg" is a very scary concept, as my brother is quick to remind me.

But the freshly scrubbed campaign volunteer in me would love to believe that maybe this vote signals a change of heart in our Max. Maybe the next time another odious bill or judge comes through, he'll vote with his heart--instead of his wallet or next election hopes.

Unlikely, I suppose.

Still, I appreciate that he took at least a small stand for teenagers, who don't even have the right to vote to protect themselves. As a former teenager and, indeed, as a current parent, I applaud him.

The best technique I've heard in a while

I was talking to an old friend of mine who has a two-year-old yesterday. We were discussing the onset of terrible two-ness and the continuation into the defiant threes (threadbare threes? throw-myself-under-a-train threes? thick-with-tantrum threes?) and he mentioned that distraction and redirection is still working well for him in relation to his son.

"For example," he said, "yesterday (my son) was upset because I wouldn't let him walk on a ledge. He was crying and screaming, and it wasn't getting better. So I said to him, 'Look! A chicken!' And that got his mind off things for a minute."

"Hold it," I broke in. "There was a chicken in downtown San Francisco?"

"Well, no," he admitted. "But there could have been, and that distracted him."

"So what you're telling me is that you have invented the imaginary poultry school of parenting."

"Pretty much."

Brilliant, isn't it? It would not have occurred to me. This is why collaborating with other parents is so important.

They are dangerous!

It's true. I have to retract my snark about electric blankets and pets because it turns out they can be really dangerous for our animal companions...

...if they eat them!

Hating the weather

Can't... Blog... Must... Restrict... Movement... Even... Fingernails... Sweating

Yeah, when it comes to hot weather, I'm pretty much the biggest whiner who ever lived. When I moved into the Yale-Owned Roach Motel on Prospect Street in New Haven in August 1996, I considered dying rather than continuing to live in such an inhospitable climate. Six feet under would have been cooler, right? I'm having similar thoughts now. Yesterday was our respite day from the heat--a mere 91 degrees.

Please don't tell me that where you are is hotter. I know that in the grand scheme of things, I would be even more miserable in Texas, London, or even Prague. I don't care. I'm hot now. I'm delicate. I'm allergic to the sun. My Swedish/Scottish ancestry does not equip me to deal with this kind of weather.

The central air conditioning project just moved WAY up on the list.

Organic hysteria

It takes a lot for me to buy a book in hardback. Hell, it takes a lot these days to get me to buy a book. We have a good library and a big mortgage, so waiting until the LivPubLib decides to spring for it generally works for me. Still, when I picked up a copy of Organic Housekeeping by Ellen Sandbeck while accompanying Connery to his regular visit to the Thomas the Tank Engine set at Barnes and Noble, I knew I wanted to buy it. My cursory examination revealed practical, common-sense tips for making housekeeping greener by using natural ingredients such as baking soda and vinegar instead of chemical wonders like FANTASTIK and FEBREZE!

And, I have to say, for about half of the book, she really had me. She was self-deprecating about her own lackluster housekeeping, offered generally interesting and user-friendly advice, and made going green seem not only necessary but practical and do-able. I was even seriously considering composting.

But then she began to lose the plot and I began to have flashbacks to: 1) junior high shop class safety videos; and 2) local news in Connecticut.

My brother does this great impersonation of the safety lecture of his own junior high shop teacher which goes something like this," This is a drill press. You may be blinded. This is a band saw. You may lose a finger." (Oh, and for the record, we're allowed to make shop teacher jokes and enjoy shop teacher impressions because our dad was a shop teacher. The rest of you can shut up about shop teachers. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.)

Here's Ellen Sandbeck's impression of the junior high shop class safety lesson, offered on page 322:

"Malfunctioning gas appliances such as furnaces, stoves, water heaters, and clothes dryers can produce deadly amounts of carbon monoxide (CO), an odorless yet deadly gas that is produced by all kinds of combustion. Carbon monoxide displaces oxygen in the blood, causing disorientation that may prevent victims from escaping and--if they don't manage to escape--bright red corpses."

In other words, "Here is a kitchen range. You may be graphically suffocated and end up the color of a Flathead cherry."

Do I want to downplay the importance of carbon monoxide detectors and safe home heating? No way. Did I want to know that last bit? Not at all. It's one of those instances that I would wish for the ability to go into my brain and scrub a portion clean until I can no longer remember the specific wording used. Un-bloody-likely.

But then, the hysteria got worse.

Here's Sandbeck's take on electric blankets, or, as she calls them "electric wolves in sheep's clothing":

"Never put anything on top of an electric blanket while it is energized; enough heat can build up between the item and the blanket to cause a fire. This means no pillows, no coverlets, no bedspreads, no clothing, no dolls, no toys, no pets, no small children... Even the most sedate cat or dog can literally become a ball of fire if he naps on top of a heated electric blanket." (emphasis mine)

Sweet Buddha on a beach ball, people. Literal balls of fire? That's when I knew I would have to put the book down. You see, when I was living in New England, I was subjected to Connecticut News 30, the station that took "If it bleeds, it leads" to entirely new heights. My mom and I still joke about deadly Winter Storm Chuck, which hit while she was visiting me in New Haven and involved two gusts of wind and a snowflake. One night, probably while I was avoiding doing my Russian homework, the trailer came on with the lead story of "Pet Store Fire in Milford! Burning Bunnies and Flaming Puppies at 11!" Unfortunately, I am only exaggerating slightly.

When a hardback book that I have purchased begins to emulate Connecticut News 30, it is not pleasing. I will still take her good advice, but I'm ignoring the flaming pets--at 11 or any other time.

Stop making sense

Having a Sirius radio in the car has taught me many things--no amount of Duran Duran can make up for a single inadvertent exposure to Whitney Houston, so Big 80's is right out, for one. But the single biggest impact has been learning just how bad I am at deciphering song lyrics. When that song title rolls by on the little LCD screen, more often than not I discover that the words in my head don't match what's there even remotely.

Not that this is news to anyone who's known me for long. It was at least a year after Phil Collins released "Invisible Touch" that someone haughtily informed me that it wasn't "Bizzy-bo Traction". Don't tell me that "Bizzy-bo Traction" makes no sense whatsoever. That much is obvious. But, really, can you blame me where Phil Collins is concerned? I mean, what the hell was "Sussudio"? The other day, I heard a song that, in my head, has always been "My Sweet Laura." Can you guess what George Harrison tune I was actually listening to? Yes, I somehow managed to steadfastly ignore the slap-you-in-the-face hints of the background singers to NOT hear him talking about "My Sweet Lord."

Of course I was the kind of teenager who obsessively devoured liner notes to learn the "real" lyrics to my faves, but maybe that's where I got disillusioned about them. Did it really enhance my enjoyment of premiere lyricists, the afore-mentioned Duran Duran, to get the nuances of:

Shake up the picture the lizard mixture
With your dance on the eventide

Not so much. And later exposure to bands like the Red Hot Chili Peppers has only strengthened my belief that maybe the versions in my head are just less disturbing to my delicate sensibilities.

You know, like... Can I pet your wolverine?

I didn't make that one up. See why my lyrics, even the ridiculous ones, still work in my head?

Again with the health insurance

Touchstone covered this story--in which a teacher describes her decision to leave the profession to join the army to support her family--very well yesterday, so I won't tread on his ground. I noticed that Jason had also picked it up, under the rubric of the pressing, desperate need for health-care reform in this country. How right he is. Indeed, how right they both are.

I have an itty-bitty example today. I received our standard "explanation of benefits" from our health insurance company, Assurant, today. We get one of these clear-as-mud beauties every time we sneeze in a doctor's office or take a potty break at a clinic. (Aside: How much money could they save by letting us access this shit online and NOT sending a brand-new 8-page confirmation of benefits Every. Single. Month?) This one covered our purchase--with a doctor's prescription--of a nebulizer machine for Connery. He has been diagnosed with very mild asthma, and our pediatrician recommended we purchase one outright rather than rent one every time he comes down with croup, which has been often in the wintertime. When I picked it up, I turned over the presciption the doctor had written for the machine to the technician who gave me the machine. Our explanation of benefits tells us that we are being penalized for failing to get pre-qualification for a durable medical item that was not medically necessary.

Can I just say, "Huh?"

First of all, it was medically necessary. We had a doctor's prescription. Second, "Huh?"

We're not talking a lot of money here. What chaps my hide is knowing that these insurance cocksuckers (Sorry, too much Deadwood around here lately) can and will get away with not paying it because they wave around section 14, subpoint 3, asterisk 27 everytime they get close to having to pay for something.

"Ma'am, you should have checked your contract."

True enough. And what a fool I was to think that I could take off with a nebulizer--which I'm sure to use for pot instead of albuterol--for my asthmatic toddler without clearing it with them first.

And yet, how can I bitch about my insurance company knowing how many people out there have no coverage--not even the crappy kind--if something goes terribly wrong? I could bitch all day about my insurance company, and I'm still better off than 45 million of my fellow citizens. Jason and Touchstone are so right: Something needs to be done, and sooner rather than later.

What I did on my summer vacation

First of all, I survived without opening my computer and actually found it enjoyable. My computer meanwhile enjoyed shut down and not connected to a power source for the first extended period probably ever.

I determined that I will need to spend considerable amounts of time on this site in order to avoid further Yahtzee-based humiliation.

I beat my mother at Scrabble, which has only happened one other time. (Please don't ask about the next game, in which she handed my ass to me on a plate.)

I waded in the lake.

We all survived taking two children to a play. We even enjoyed it.

One day, we slept until 9 a.m. Connery too.

Another day, I got up at 7 a.m., went back to bed, and slept until 11 a.m. Only the parents among you will know what kind of a heaven-ordained miracle those two wake-up times are.

I read three books and stopped in mid-fourth because, well, it sucked.

Chip and I spent an afternoon alone in Big Fork and didn't buy anything. Talk about a miracle! Of course we made up for it at Linens-n-Things on the way home.

Hope you all had a similarly fun-filled Fourth.