goddess of clarity: a blog about politics, culture, and serenity

Archive: September 1 - September 30, 2006

September 25, 2006 — 19:33 EDT

A house is an undiscovered country, and Mr. Goddess and I are the latest intrepid explorers to plant our flag on this one.

A house comes with its own customs and traditions that can trip up the uninitiated, causing the ghosts of former occupants to mutter to each other in kindly exasperation. "Ah, bless them. They're not from around here, are they?"

"Hey, Lori! How do you turn on this light?"

"I don't know. Try that switch."

"That switch doesn't do anything."

"Well it has to do something."

If a house is an undiscovered country, then the basement is its primeval forest. There is a lot going on in your average basement. There are furnace filters to change and dehumidifiers to check, and circuit breakers, and gas meters, and wires, wires, wires. My first instinct when I'm confronted with something new that I don't understand is to buy a book on the subject. Unfortunately, Amazon doesn't seem to sell any books entitled "What the Heck Does This Thing Do? A Field Guide to Basements, Roofs, and Crawlspaces."

—lori.

September 17, 2006 — 19:33 EDT

In my first act as a soon-to-be homeowner, I attended a "Painting Interior Walls and Ceilings" workshop at the local Lowe's home improvement mega-store. I've never painted a wall or ceiling in my life. We're closing on our new house on Friday, and I strongly suspect there will be interior wall and/or ceiling painting in my immediate future.

The workshop lasted less than an hour, and was conducted by the paint-speckled manager of the paint department. Our fellow workshop attendees included another obviously clueless couple of first-time homebuyers, a single mother trying to corrall her two kids who were merrily running through the shelves of paint cans, and an old codger who was obviously a ringer and knew all there was to know about Painting Interior Walls and Ceilings.

The workshop got off to a rocky start, as the Paint Guy clearly over estimated the painting knowledge of the majority of his young charges. He charged straight ahead with a treatise on the benefits of denatured alcohol over TSP as a cleaning agent when prepping your walls. I raised my hand. "Wait. You have to *clean* your walls before you paint them?"

I didn't know the half of it. Did you know that before you ever get around to choosing seafoam green over sage green, you have to spackle, sand, prime, *and* clean the walls? I didn't. Then you have to "tape up" and "cut in" using any one of about 1,400 different edging tools or trim brushes available.

If seafoam green and sage green were your only choices, that would be a blessing. The paint department at Lowe's is a vast canyon of color. But wait! Before you even get around to picking a color, do you want latex, oil-based, or acrylic? Flat, matte, eggshell, semi-gloss, or high-gloss? What's the difference? Damned if I know.

Lowe's and Home Depot are all about the oppression of choice. Where is Goddess Depot, where they sell four -- maybe five -- different types of paint, all in beautiful colors and each labelled "Perfect for the Kitchen," or "Would Work Really Well in the Second Bedroom?"

—lori.

September 12, 2006 — 19:07 EDT

Mr. Goddess — a man of foreign birth, no less — has just proceeded to kick my entire family's ass in the first week of our family football pool, with a record of 14-2. Who picks Chicago to beat Green Bay on the road?! I'll tell you who. A foreigner, that's who.

This will not stand, I tell you. When Scots start winning our football pools, what will they be winning next? Wimbledon?!

—lori.

September 11, 2006 — 13:07 EDT

With all the memorials, and re-caps, and Special Television Events, I've been experiencing a bit of September 11th fatigue this week. To cap it off, the president today embarks on Terror Tour 2006, making stops in each of the three sites hit by those planes on September 11th. Tonight we will be treated to a national address that I'm sure will contain just the right amount of fear-mongering ("The threat is real. We're still not safe."), empty reassurances ("We've made great progress in protecting the homeland."), and chest-thumping ("We will fight the terrorists and we will win, because America never backs down from a fight!") to get the mid-term election campaign off to a rip-roaring start. Meanwhile, my craving for facts -- just tell me what happened that day and what's happened in the five years since, please! -- has been left unsatisfied, and instead I've been subjected to emotionally over-the-top mini-dramas and overtly political analyses from both sides.

So I turned -- as I often do -- to Jon Stewart.

The week of September 11, 2001, was a weird one. I had just moved to tiny Geneseo, N.Y., from not-so-tiny Seattle three weeks earlier. I had just turned 30. And I had just left my job. In fact, on the morning of September 11th, I was at a job interview. They never called back. I heard about the attacks over the car radio during the 45-minute drive home, and by the time I'd gotten to a TV set, the first tower had already fallen.

I was unemployed in a new town with nothing to keep me company but CNN. My eyes were glued to the TV, darting back and forth between whatever fresh horror was being broadcast live and the relentless new "ticker" crawling along the bottom of the screen. Mr. Goddess would come home from work about 10 hours later -- the only warm, human body I would see all day -- and I would just unload on him. Everything I had seen and heard all day -- in meticulous detail -- would come pouring out of my mouth with me scarcely taking a breath. Then together we would sit and watch some more. And I wasn't sleeping very well.

During those first few days, there was nothing else to watch on TV anyway. Every other network -- from ESPN to the Food Network -- was broadcasting a black screen, offering their condolences to the victims' families but no distraction from the tragedy. The morning news shows were suggesting tips on how to "talk to the children" about what was happening. Anchors and correspondents were weeping openly as they interviewed people still searching for family members. It was all too touchy-feely for me. I wanted an explanation, not tears. And certainly not some Dr. Phil-ism about accepting a "new normal." I liked the old normal, dammit!

So when the Daily Show finally returned a couple weeks later, I eagerly tuned in. We actually had tickets to see Jon Stewart live at one of the local SUNY schools the week of 9/11, but he cancelled the show (it was rescheduled a few months later).

What he said that night was emotional, but it was also smart. And after a couple of weeks of insanity, a few minutes of intelligence and clarity were exactly what I needed. So thanks, Jon Stewart. I can't think of a better way to mark this anniversary than to watch your remarks again, and feel comforted.

—lori.

September 8, 2006 — 19:08 EDT

It's a Fact! It's a Toid! It's a Factoid!

Today is the 40th anniversary of the premiere of the Star Trek TV series. Forty years ago today, the world was introduced to Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock, and a generation of geeks suddenly knew how they would be spending a good deal of their time -- 20 to 30 hours a week, easy -- for the rest of their lives.

Star Trek presented a vision of a multicultural future where all of humanity works together in the peaceful pursuit of knowledge while respecting the rights of developing societies. Plus women in very short skirts. Imagine the Democrats under Bill Clinton, and you get the general idea.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I love me some Star Trek. It certainly filled the void until Buffy came along.

—lori.

September 6, 2006 — 18:12 EDT

My clock radio woke me with the sad news over the holiday weekend that the Crocodile Hunter was dead. I wasn't what you would call a fan, but still I was bummed. The guy had his thing. He did what he loved and he did it with gusto and with no apologies. You have to admire that, even if the man in question has a penchant for unfortunate shorts.

After the initial, "Man, Steve Irwin is dead," reaction wore off, three thoughts came immediately to mind:

One: It's sad that a lot of people are going to find his death funny. Though I suppose if he died after slipping in the shower or from food poisoning or something, people would find that funny, too.

Two: Once the TV media coverage starts, we'll be treated to the standard footage of crocodile wrestling and snake handling, followed immediately by footage of Irwin dangling his one-year-old son dangerously close to one of the aforementioned crocodiles. And watching the news that night, I found I was right. The world does not look kindly on baby-dangling, even from beyond the grave. I'm sure when Michael Jackson finally pops off, we'll be treated to scenes of the infamous balcony incident. Once a baby-dangler, always a baby-dangler.

Three: I wonder how long it will take for the video to be posted on the Internet? (I don't know the answer to that one, cuz I ain't lookin'.)

—lori.

September 5, 2006 — 20:37 EDT

Unflattering Politician Photo of the Week

(Fascism Edition)

Channeling the spirt of a teenage girl dripping in Wet 'n Wild mascara and a bad attitude, Secretary of State Don Rumsfeld lashed out at those "total fascists" in Iraq at a speech last week before the American Legion.

The speech was a highlight in a week that featured more Nazis than an Indiana Jones movie. In speeches before the American Legion, the Veterans of Foreign Wars, and the Military Officers Association of America, members of the administration fanned out across the country in an attempt to scare retirees and veterans into believing that the forces of the Wehrmacht were massing once more.

Hitler, Lenin, Chamberlain, Churchill: all the old favorites made an appearance. Suddenly the fifth anniversary of September 11th is looking a lot like the 20th anniverary of the Treaty of Versailles.

—lori.