« December 2008 | Main | February 2009 »
Those lips were made for kissing.
My hike got rained out this week, which is where I normally replenish my supply of cow photos. So back to the archives I go.
This pretty goat was at Odds Farm, where I took Daughter Number Two this summer. She wanted a kiss, and since I see nothing wrong with kissing goats, of course I obliged. (I kid, of course, which is what one does around young goats.)
I need to borrow a child so I can go back to the farm and get more kisses, I mean photos.
| |
|
Upon returning home from the gym Wednesday afternoon, I had two emails from my oldest daughter, sent in the morning her time. Her eye was "being weird" and she was seeing a shadow in the corner of her eye. Before I even read the second email I emailed her back: "Go to the eye doctor! Or the emergency room, NOW! You have a retinal detachment!"
The second email described her symptoms further. It was like when someone takes your picture with a flash, she said, and you see a spot, only the spot doesn't go away.
That just confirmed it for me, especially knowing that her severe myopia put her at risk for a retinal detachment, which can begin with a tear or hole. It's a serious medical emergency. If you ever experience a cloud or hole in your vision, you should immediately seek treatment, or be prepared to lose your vision.
By the time I finally was able to speak to her (she's a teacher, so I can't call her in class, but she can check email occasionally) she'd heeded my advice and gone to the ophthalmologist, the kind of eye doctor who is an actual M.D. They treat diseases of the eye, not just dispense glasses and contacts. The doctor she saw sent her to the hospital, where she saw a specialist who diagnosed a hole in her retina. He scheduled surgery for the next morning.
While I was glad to hear she was being treated promptly, I was still worried. But she's a big girl, and handled her surgery quite well. A good thing—she'll need to have a surgical treatment in the other eye to prevent this happening in that eye.
I decided to invade her privacy and write about this so that any of my readers who are severely myopic—having corrective lenses greater than 6 diopters—will be aware of the increased risk of retinal detachment. Myopia, or nearsightedness, means that your eyes are longer and your retina is stretched and thin. Daughter Number One has extreme myopia—her glasses prescription is at minus 11. People with extreme myopia have a 1 in 20 chance of having a retinal detachment, compared to 1 in 300 for the general population.
I was warned about this myself a couple of years ago, when I was seeing flashing lights. Fortunately, I had no retinal tears, but was told to avoid any sport that might result in a blow to the head. So again, let this be a warning for my readers, who tend to be the book-ish type, and consequently may be the myopic type as well. Despite having had regular visits to optometrists all my life, I'd never been told to be aware of the increased risk for retinal detachment that my extreme myopia predisposed me for. If you wear glasses, but don't know your prescription, ask your eye doctor. Most people with myopia have a correction under 5 diopters (mine is 7.5 in one eye, and 10.75 in the other, with a few degrees of astigmatism thrown in just to complicate things). If you live in Britain, you probably are aware if you have severe myopia—you get free eye exams for glasses, and a discount on your lenses.
The risk also increases if you've had cataract surgery. But anyone who sees flashing lights, an increase in the number of "floaters", or a shadow or veil in their vision should be aware of the possibility of a retinal detachment. This Wikipedia article has more.
And thanks to those of you who read my frantic Tweets and wished Daughter Number One well. Hopefully she'll be back in class in a couple of weeks, avoiding contact sports and blows to the head.
| |
|
Republicans had no problems voting to spend upwards of $3 trillion in Iraq, building schools and bridges, among other things. (And buying ill will toward the U.S. at the same time.) Yet when it comes to spending $800 billion in America, building schools and bridges for Americans, every single Republican voted no.
Why do Republicans hate America?
| |
|
My refrigeratored life.
I was thinking the other day, the most interesting spot in my house is the side of my refrigerator. So I took a photo in order to have something to blog about. (Obviously that is a problem for me this week.)
So I'm starting a new meme: Instead of Twenty Five Things About Me, I give you: 25 Things on My Fridge. Starting from the top, left:
1. A 3D cow magnet from Andorra.
2. A print of cows, from The Netherlands, with a windmill in the background.
3. A cotton magnet, from Louisiana, my home state. It's yellow with age.
4. A pink magnet clip from a Madison educational store, I think, but it's strong enough to hold the print.
5. Another cow magnet, this one from Prague. Very wimpy magnet.
6. A funky magnet my friend gave me when we lived in Madison.
7. An Explorabook magnet, strong for holding heavy things.
8. "Asylum for teaching young females household work" magnet, from Bath.
9. Spanish refrigerator poetry magnets: hicieron, hicimos, impulso.
10. A photo of our last dog, a sweet cocker spaniel, with a pewter sun magnet holding her on. She's not very heavy.
11. A postcard of cows by artist Stanley Spencer....
12. ...held up by another magnet from Andorra.
13. Photo of the current dog, when she was a baby puppy, held up by a magnet of Whistlejacket, by George Stubbs, from the Stubbs exhibit at the National Gallery in London.
14. Postcard my daughter brought back from Montmartre in Paris...
15. ...held up by a red street sign magnet from Prague.
16. All this is over a photo of Daughter Number Two at two, sleeping on Grandmother's quilt...
17. ...who is next to her big sister, Daughter Number One, at six months, wearing Osh Gosh B'Gosh.
18. Henry VIII, my nemesis, on a magnet from Dover Castle.
19. Bayeux Tapestry magnet, holding up DNT, from Normandy.
20. Van Gogh's Sunflowers on a magnet, holding up DNO.
21. Magnet from Zugspitze, which I bought after staring at a row of them instead of the rail at the summit.
22. Postcard from The Netherlands, of cows, what else?
23. Charles Darwin magnet, from the Darwin: Big Idea exhibit at the Natural History Museum in London.
24. Oxford magnet, from my first visit to Oxford.
25. William Morris pattern magnet, from his home in Kelmscott, holding up a photo of DNT and her prom date, taken at Pinewood Studios.
My life, all there on my fridge. Cows, kids, and magnets.
| |
|
Whose house was this?
Hint:
1. It was not lived in by Bostonians.
2. Though maybe an American.
3. Maisie and Daisy too.
4. And now it's the turn of the screw.
Get it? Or do I have to draw you a portrait, lady?
Extra credit: Where is this located?
| |
|
The ski resort on Zugspitze, Germany's highest mountain.
On a cold January day I can't think of anything better to do than revisit Bavaria in August. I never got around to posting photos from that trip, which was a particularly photogenic holiday. Now the dry ski slopes we walked across are filled with skiers and canyons of snow, and the beautiful lake we hiked around is probably frozen. But in my mind it will always be warm and sunny with bright blue skies and dark green forests.
The trip up Zugspitze was particularly challenging for me, since I'm deathly afraid of heights. I didn't realize how it would affect me until we reached the summit; I usually associate my fear with airplanes and tall buildings. But the highest mountain in Germany is pretty scary too, especially when you're outside. In fact, I could barely bring myself to look at the photos. They really are spectacular, however, though I didn't take them—I couldn't do anything but stand facing a wall of souvenirs, trying to control my lurching stomach.
I enjoyed the lower altitudes much more, especially our hike around Lake Eibsee. If this isn't the most beautiful lake in Europe, I'll eat my Obama cap.
Another reason I never wrote about the trip was because there were several puzzles I never solved. What are the painted houses called? What were those empty wooden huts in the fields used for?
You can see the photos here. One of these days I'll get around to creating an album of my Luxembourg photos too. Winter days are great for catching up with all the fun I packed into the short summer—although the sight of that blue sky is making me want to plan a journey somewhere to the southern hemisphere.
| |
|
USA! USA! USA!
Photo by Daughter Number Two, somewhere on the Mall.
| |
|
The speech:
There's been some criticism, mostly from pundits who read it before they saw it. Frankly, Barack Obama could read the ingredient list on a cereal box and make it sound eloquent and uplifting. His speech was far from a box of Weetabix, however, and I felt uplifted, albeit slightly cold at the image invoked of Washington next to an icy Potomac. The words were inspiring, the delivery even better.
The poem:
Please, no more inaugural poetry. Poetry-on-demand is difficult, and poems read to the masses inevitably fall flat.
The benediction:
I hated this line: "we ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get back, when brown can stick around -- (laughter) -- when yellow will be mellow -- (laughter) -- when the red man can get ahead, man -- (laughter) -- and when white will embrace what is right." I thought it was divisive, oddly, coming from the not-Rick-Warren preacher.
The dress:
At first I was disappointed by the color. The details of the white dress were washed out on television, and the First Lady seemed to have some trouble maneuvering it. But when I saw it up close, it really looked beautiful. And lucky woman, she doesn't need to worry about a tan, or my personal scourge, freckles. Also, I am inspired by both the First and Second Biceps to get my puny arms back to the gym. Toned is in; flab is out.
The other dress:
I really liked this one. Yellow is such a happy color, even if it's called maize. With green shoes and gloves, it looked like something I'd wear if my husband were being sworn in (rather inelegantly, by Chief Justice Roberts) to the highest office in the land.
The car:
Nicknamed The Beast, this behemoth should more accurately be dubbed The Vampire. Did you know it carries litres of the president's blood on board?
The commentary:
I had a choice between CNN and Fox, as well as BBC and Sky and who knows what else. I mostly watched CNN, cutting to Fox when they took breaks. (Fox must not be feeling the pinch, because they didn't cut to commercials very frequently.) The Fox commentators were actually pretty good; nary a sour note heard all day, until Glenn Beck came on in the evening. CNN's commentary was sometimes just downright goofy. Watching video replays from MSNBC, I thought they were great. BBC and Sky were funny, with their "mal" coverage, but I always feel like I'm missing something if I don't watch American coverage of US events. Plus the interviewees were second rate; all the cool people were in D.C. getting interviewed by the major networks.
Now, I'm off to the gym to work on those biceps.
| |
|
From Nate Silver again:
| |
|
What an amazing image. (courtesy)
Today, I'm just sort of wallowing in it. Sky News this morning had their anchor in D.C., correctly pronouncing Barack Obama but incorrectly pronouncing the "Mall". But that's okay.
More thoughts:
This is an amazing collection of photos of the last few days' events.
The White House transition—the Bush's move out and the Obama's move in—will be accomplished in 5 hours. I can't get over that, having moved many times in and out of homes myself. I guess having 93 people to help makes the difference.
Remember back in the primary when his opponents made fun of his eloquence, saying it took more than pretty words to run a country? I found that highly insulting, since the ability to craft pretty phrases hints at a deep intelligence and thoughtfulness and persuasiveness that any president should count himself or herself lucky to possess. That's why I was so excited in 2004 to learn of an up and coming politician whose profession was a writer. The NY Times book editor takes a look at Obama's writing and reading: "throughout his life he has turned to books as a way of acquiring insights and information from others — as a means of breaking out of the bubble of self-hood and, more recently, the bubble of power and fame." I suspect, after his eight years in office, Barack Obama will turn to writing—perhaps even fiction—full time.
There's a big Inaugural Ball in London tonight, but I'm not going. I'd rather be here, wallowing in it with my own tiny tv and my own computer to connect with my base. I'll be Twittering my thoughts, for what that's worth.
Tomorrow, the real world, and all its difficulties and demands. Today, we celebrate hope.
| |
|
Like Frank Rich, I grew up in the segregated South:
Unlike Rich, I can believe it. Four and a half years ago, when I saw Barack Obama give a speech to the Democratic Convention, I knew he'd one day be president. I didn't think, "He'll be our first black president", I just thought "He'll be president one day."
Maybe I was naive, or maybe overly optimistic, but I never thought Barack Obama's race was an impediment to his reaching the highest office in America. Or perhaps I've seen too many attitudes change, including my own.
During my childhood, I accepted without question the idea that blacks and whites were not exactly the same. When my dad instructed me to inform any black-sounding voice on the phone that our rental houses were already rented, I did so without wondering why the white part of town—even the run-down dead end street where our property was located—could not be home to a black family. I didn't question my father when he insisted we leave the church we'd attended for years, because black college students had begun to attend. I didn't complain when he sent me to a private school after integration orders were handed down from the "interfering" Northern federal judge. And I assumed the "n-word" was perfectly acceptable discourse—after all, nearly every white adult I knew used the word without apology.
But then I did end up at the public high school in my town, and eventually a university where I lived next to black girls. I became good friends with the black editor of my college yearbook, and understood when she confided to me how hurt she was when a white "friend" told her she was unlike all the other blacks she'd known, and therefore acceptable.
I read, and learned of my state's recent history—lessons I never learned in school, not even from my black social studies teachers. I learned of horrible wrongs and injustices, beatings and lynchings and daily discriminations.
I no longer tolerated my father's racist attitudes. I understood what that federal judge was on about when he forcibly integrated my school. I realized why my best friend from grade school had told me her parents wanted her to go to an integrated school instead of the private school they could have afforded—pioneers in the fight against white flight.
And of course I raised my children with my new-found sense of racial equality—as did everyone else I knew. Only on my occasional visits home did I hear outright racism expressed, in an increasingly ugly and isolated manner. Racists, like my father, were fewer in number, and feeling oppressed, but I felt no compassion for their plight.
I speak in past tense, but I know racism isn't dead. It still thrives in places like northeast Louisiana, on the soil of the former plantations that bred slaves like cattle and offered separate and unequal schooling to their grandchildren.
Yet I knew, watching on television four years ago, that the adherents of racism were too few in number, and could not stop such a man from becoming president one day. So I was surprised, and hurt, and angry when so many in the political classes assumed that because of the dark cast of his skin a man with so much talent could not be elected president. I had higher expectations, or maybe I was naive. Or overly optimistic.
Yet I'm not so optimistic as to be ignorant—there is still vast inequality in America. More African Americans live in poverty, find themselves in prison, and are steered away from white neighborhoods, even as one black family is about to move into a house called the White House—a name that could derive from its previous occupants as well as its color. Discrimination is still alive, despite the fact it's officially frowned upon. Not long ago, I watched a news conference where a women's basketball team defended themselves from ugly racial stereotypes uttered by a revered media figure. Those beautiful, talented women made me proud to belong to a country where they could reach their potential, despite the ugliness expressed by old white men like my father and Don Imus.
On November 4, I was proud, but not surprised to see my country elect a black man president. While I agree with Rich:
For all our huge progress, we are not “post-racial,” whatever that means. The world doesn’t change in a day, and the racial frictions that emerged in both the Democratic primary campaign and the general election didn’t end on Nov. 4.
there is still this: “In no other country on earth is my story even possible."
Barack Obama's story wouldn't have been possible forty years ago, when I was learning that I shouldn't drink from the newly integrated water fountains. But half the people alive then are now gone, and those born after that grew up in a different America, an America that accepts that a man or woman should be judged not by the color of their skin but by the range of their talents.
And that's what I knew, four and a half years ago.
| |
|
This is cute: Children have written letters to "Dear Sir Obama", as one referred to the president-elect. Another boy wanted to know the truth about Area 51.
Here's my favorite:
Here is a list of the first 10 things you should do as president:
1. Fly to the White House in a helicopter.
2. Walk in.
3. Wipe feet.
4. Walk to the Oval Office.
5. Sit down in a chair.
6. Put hand-sanitizer on hands.
7. Enjoy moment.
8. Get up.
9. Get in car.
10. Go to the dog pound.
— Chandler Browne, age 12, Chicago
If you have advice or inquiries for Sir Obama, please leave it in comments. I'm sure he'll see it.
| |
|
Today in my first class on Victorian Britain we talked about the preconditions that led to the Industrial Revolution, which was already in full swing when Victoria came to the throne. Among them was the strong banking system of Britain.
What does that have to do with the current legislation before Congress and the financial crisis in America and elsewhere, you're probably wondering. Bear with me.
Because Britain had strong banks and a safe and secure financial system, there was money available to finance the entrepreneurs whose ideas and devices powered the Industrial Revolution.
See where this is going?
A lot of people think it was, at best, a waste of money to bail out the banking system, and at worst, an immoral reward to cheats and crooks. And perhaps it is both, at least in some instances. But without a strong financial system we're not going to pull ourselves out of the deep recession we've found ourselves in. Banks without money to lend are not going to finance the advances in technology that will put Americans back to work. Banks with no credit to extend won't finance the green revolution that, we can only hope, will one day be written in capital letters and will rival the Industrial Revolution. (And correct its mistakes, when it comes to the destruction of our environment that the Industrial Revolution was responsible for.)
So Congress should agree to give the new Obama administration the rest of the TARP funds and then banks should get to work loaning money to engineers and entrepreneurs, which, incidentally, we also talked about today.
There. That's my contribution today in the "nothing new" department.
| |
|
This video is so sweet you're gonna feel like brushing your teeth afterward. But I'm in the mood for sweets, so try it.
Don't forget to floss.
(Via The PETA Files)
| |
|
We made another trip to Heathrow this morning, this time to take Daughter Number Two to her flight to Boston. I've learned to dread these drives, knowing I'll come home to an empty house. At the Departures set-down, a quick hug goodbye, followed by a batting back of tears. On the way home, invariably a sad song will come on the radio. Just when I need to exit the M25, I'm blinded by tears.
This time my husband stayed with the car, while I wheeled her bags to the entrance door—one last thing I could do for her, a last few moments in case either of us thought of anything funny to comment on. Then I walked back over three lanes of zebra crossings, brushing back tears. (At least I didn't do what I did last year: walk into the elevator and blindly push the emergency button.)
I liked the old days, when we could go inside with our loved ones, wait in the departure lounge making small talk, until they were called to board. Then we'd watch the plane taxi down the runway, and quickly run outside to see it lift into the air and fly off into the distance. The process gave a finality to the occasion, a formal seeing off.
But there was still that empty house to deal with later.
I guess goodbyes are just no good however they're done.
| |
|
We went to see the film Slumdog Millionaire this afternoon. As everyone has said, it's great. If you haven't seen it, and like me, don't like to go to movies very often, you won't regret spending the money and time on this one.
It did leave us feeling pretty bad, with our middle class guilt, so we went shopping, as we were already at the mall. (Two malls in two days—how bourgoise!) And then we came home and ate dinner, but still felt guilty so we made cupcakes.
If you haven't seen the movie, don't read this review, but if you have, you'll appreciate it all the more. A "romantic fable," indeed, with a lot of bloody bits thrown in.
| |
|
Westfield Mall in London
Yesterday we ignored the nice weather and took our Sunday walk in the new mall in west London. It's in White City, near the BBC studios, with easy access by tube or by road.
There weren't too many people there, but on a mild January Sunday afternoon, I wouldn't expect that. While there's no shortage of shopping in London, until now there were no big American-style malls this close in. They picked a terrible year to open, though. Some of the shops in the new mall are already in receivership.
I didn't see many people carrying shopping bags, either. Most people seemed curious, like us. It does seem like a comfortable place to sit and read, which is what my husband did while I shopped for boots with Daughter Number Two.
I did buy a pair of weight-lifting gloves. DNT says I'll look bad ass when I walk into the gym. Until they see how I struggle to lift the weight machine even with the pin out.
| |
|
