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Joel redid our closet in the bedroom:

IMG_6559
Before (CROWDED) Also, I have the sartorial aesthetic of a 1970s sofa.

Newly re-designed bedroom closet
after (much less cram-packed, easier to see what I have to wear)

newly re-designed bedroom closet
Joel’s side (and the shelves for sweaters & shoes in the middle)
wly re-designed bedroom closet
Another view of Joel’s side of the closet.

This isn’t the first (awesome) closet that Joel has done in this house. Last year, he put up shelves in the closet in my workroom. This has been such a boon in helping me manage my mess. We’ve got plans for some more shelving in my sewing room and a re-design of the way in which I store my sewing patterns (and sewing/fashion/craft books and magazines) forthcoming. After the next round of shelving goes up, I’m going to hang my pictures and call the workroom completed. I have some really great pictures for my workroom walls, too!

He also created some much needed bike parking for the living room:
living room bike parking
living room bike parking
(this is about half of the combined Davis/Dyke bicycle stable…eeek!)

There are also pegs for coats and bags by the front door:
front room coat-and-bag pegs

bedroom coat-and-robe pegs
Pegs for bathrobes and jackets and a shelf for helmets & hats in the bedroom.

IMG_8725
And the extra shelf for the spices in the kitchen cupboards is his handiwork, too.

We both like having a proper place to put things, and I consider us especially fortunate that Joel not only likes organizing, he has a knack for building shelving and other “storage solutions.”

For as much goofing around with the Internet as I do, I’m not what you’d call proficient. I don’t know how to code. I use WordPress templates that pretty much walk you through any minor modifications you might want to make.

Until today.

Joel had been asking me for help with the Dirty Kanza 200 website. He’d been running it at WordPress.com, but was not entirely happy with the template options available to him. He wanted more than a customizable header; he wanted a background image and the ability to put graphic images in a sidebar, so he started poking about online looking at WordPress themes. He found one he liked, called Trans Travel, but found that it couldn’t be used with a WordPress-hosted blog.

Fortunately for him, I already have some experience with hosting a blog elsewhere and using WordPress software (you’re looking at it), so we grabbed the URL for DirtyKanza200, and I got started setting up a new blog. If you’ve ever hosted a blog at Dreamhost, you know that it’s pretty darn easy to get set up. This was no different from usual. Set up the software, uploaded the template and then…whoops, this isn’t one of those no-brainer templates that walks you through changing the image/colors/etc. I had to edit the code.

Now here’s the deal. I don’t know jackshit about coding. I know just enough HTML to post pictures, make hyperlinks, and use italics and bold. If I need more than than, I have to look up HTML cheatsheets and try to muddle through. Luckily for me, I don’t even have to do much of that anymore, thanks to the wonders of WordPress. If I want need to do a snarky strikethrough, WP can do the thinking for me. Aaah, how nice!

The only thing that got me from this:
trans travel screen shot
to this:
dk200 screenshot
was the fact that my brain is pretty good at working out how things are put together and/or taken apart.

After a bit of staring at nearly meaningless code, I was able to figure out how to change the background image. Then I had to take this picture of Joel’s:

and superimpose the Dirty Kanza logo on the upper left corner, make the logo a bit transparent, upload that as the new background image and paste in the link to that image for the new background.
dk200background
So then I had the background we wanted, but the red and blue headers over the text box and sidebars looked like absolute DOOKIE with the new image. Joel said he’d just as soon have black-and-white.

Because I don’t make websites for a living, it took me a solid hour to figure out how to change those headers. It took me that long to figure out that they were image files. Once I had that bit of information pinned down, it was the work of mere minutes to copy them to my photo editing software, convert ’em to grayscale, and re-upload them. I think the grayscale works pretty nicely. Black-and-white would have been too stark, considering the otherwise muted colors of the site in general.

I totally had to bootleg a whole lot of the sponsor graphics, too. I had a sponsor list and everyone had to get their shoutouts, but I didn’t have GIF/JPEG/PNG/PDFs of most of their logos, so I had to go to their site and either right-click-and-copy or screen-print-and-crop, depending on whether or not they had a shitty Flash site. I kind of doubt any of the sponsors will be too put out that I had to jerry-rig their logos, since I’m not misrepresenting them, mocking them, using them for my own profit, or otherwise behaving inappropriately on their behalf.

I’m sure that people who actually do websites for a living are looking at my totally amateur attempt and going “god what a hack…I could do better while drunk, high, and suffering a concussion,” but for what it’s worth I’m feeling pretty darn stinkin’ pleased with how the Dirty Kanza site turned out.

The only thing that is bugging me is that I couldn’t get the sponsor list to stay in the order it was entered. It insisted in re-arranging itself alphabetically. Hopefully none of the sponsors will feel slighted by their positioning on the list.

It makes me feel almost confident to try something more fancy with this site…but truthfully, inertia and laziness will probably keep it looking much the way you see it for the foreseeable future.

For comparison, here’s the old site and here’s here’s the new one. I joked to Joel that I was earning my way into the race for sure this year!

Big Bad Belle

I started writing this review (such as it is) before I finished reading the book, but  most of the original objections stand.  I did finally slog my way through to the conclusion, and while the protagonist (for want of a a better word) does become somewhat less detestable and hateful, the story doesn’t improve significantly. In fact, the love story, the climax, and the resolution feel hastily kludged together to make this into a “story” with a “story line.” The clumsy way the story is handled, along with the execrable writing makes me think that Brooke Parkhurst and her publisher should demand a refund from her editor.

That said, here are my impressions upon reading Belle In The Big Apple.

Normally when I write about a book, I am writing about it because I liked it so much that I feel the need to tell everyone I know about how freakin’ amazing it was.

Today, however, I’m writing to warn you to avoid at all costs the tedious freshman effort of Brooke Parkhurst, AKA “Belle In The Big Apple.” The tagline of her erstwhile blog is the title of her first (and so far mercifully only) novel, which appears to be a fictionalized autobiography.

The writing is overwrought (overwritten?).  She’s the damnable type who seems to think that not only is it okay, it is laudable to open a chapter with a sentence like, “Moving day and the morning lay heavy on my skin.” It’s full of tortured similes and baroque descriptions that characterize a lot of painfully Suth-uhn fiction.

I adore chintzy chick-lit; I seem to check out at least one book with “shoes on the cover” (via Mimi Smartypants) per library jaunt. I need something to read on my lunch hour that doesn’t require too much brain power. I remembered Parkhurst’s blog from ages ago (I think I discovered her in some sort of minor kerfuffle between her and Gawker) and I found her blog to be a little insufferable at times, but overall pretty cute.   She seemed to live a glam lifestyle for a young woman in a notoriously expensive city, and I was kind of intrigued about how she did it.

But being an amusing blogger does not necessarily translate into being an amusing novelist and throughout “Belle,” I was mostly just irritated with the arrogance of the protagonist. I believe she was meant to be irreverent and insouciant, but she mostly came across as snobby and peevish. The story opens with her looking down on people: the young lads she hired as moversi, the secretaries and security guards at all of the places where Belle sought workii, her eventual bossiii, most of her co-workers…nearly everyone Belle interacts with is described in lowly, unappealing terms. You can tell the protagonist holds up an imaginary measuring stick graded with social classes and only considers people above a certain mark interesting. She accepts friendship with a posh, dilettante shopowner who runs an antiques/housewares shop and has the same Spode china pattern as the one Belle is set to inherit. She flirts with the handsome mogul who runs the company where she works, and considers a hunky co-worker for an office romance, but most of the rest of her co-workers are dismissed as either lumpen or stringy. Pretty much anyone who is Not Our Kind, Dear is framed as an unsympathetic and unappealing character.

The storyline, a tale of small-town-girl-makes-good-in-the-big-city isn’t compelling enough to carry my interest beyond the terrible writing and obnoxious protagonist, so I’m not even sure that I will finish this book. If I do, it will be out of a sense of obligation; I’m one of those people who feels committed to finish a book just because she started it, but this is one that I may just tote back to the library when the due date is up.

i …their clunky shoes falling silent on the asphalt, The two twenty-somethings stumbled my way from across the street, looking more like overgrown adolescents than the burly moving men that I had expected. They were a lesson in opposites: one was tall, wiry, and hesitant in his gait while the other was short, proudly led by a big, soft belly…The tall one lifted the bill of his cap to get a better look at the tattered piece of paper he held in his palm. “…uh, Bellelee?” he said, merging my first and last name in a slur of consonants, pronouncing them without their familiar molasses coating. His pale, lean face, deep-set eyes, and wiry frame made me think of a childhood spent on cement playgrounds, syringes poppin’ out of public trash cans. He was young and just short of being a tragedy… (p. 11)

ii …I nodded and I smiled at security guards and polyester secretaries, entrusting them with my life-in-a-manila-envelope as if my task were an easy and thoroughly enjoyable one…But the office drones were otherwise occupied. I was not nearly as important as their keyboards, cell phones, and Lee Press On Nails, stained with last night’s supper…I do believe that many of the envelopes (my life!) went straight into the trash, Naturally I got to fantasizing; of ways to teach them a lesson.

Soon enough, important and wearing some serious St. John on my way to have luncheon with Cindy Adams, I’d deliver them a surprise. Special delivery, Ms. Secretary and Mr. Rent-A-Cop – flaming poop! They’d sit up and take notice then, wouldn’t they? As long as I could manage a hundred-yard-dash in Ferragamo heels out of the building and into the sidewalk milieu, I was game. Daddy would support my symbolic gesture. He claimed that all Yankees were nothing more than a bunch of turds and as a graduate of Sewanee University—a fraternity with lecture halls high up in the Tennessee Mountains—he knew a thing or two about practical jokes. This fantasy of mine was wholly appropriate… p.29

iii …a whippet thin, dark-haired woman…looked as if nothing could have parted her skinny, maroon lips into a smile…black, close-set eyes, down to a nose with nostrils so pinches, a tip so lifted, it looked as if she were kin of the Gloved One. Before turning on her sensibly outfitted heel, she wiped the crimson that had bled from her lips and traveled north to the wrinkles beneath her plasticized nose…Gina could never have made it down South. Below the Mason-Dixon, it takes five seconds and a limp handshake to determine a stranger’s potential status…I couldn’t shake the feeling that Gina was a scrawny, high-strung, second-string high school football player—tiny ass, oversized shoulder-pads, helmet hair—masquerading as a starting quarterback. She was tense, charmless, overbearing… p.63

Making the best of it

My voice is all jacked up. I’ve had this lingering cold/laryngitis/swinfluenza bullshit for about a month now, and my telephone-answering job isn’t helping the condition of my voice any.

Endless tea, honey-and-lemon, and Emergen-C packets haven’t really helped much. At best I sound like Marge Simpson, at worst, I sound like a forlorn goose.

Sadly, I don’t know many Simpson’s quotes, so I can’t really bust out with a really good Marge-ism. In fact, pretty much the only Simpson’s quote I know is:

It came from:

9 is the magic number

floam cube

I irrationally adore (and detest) many things. One of my irrational favorites is a deep and abiding love of the number 9.

I tell you that in my book, 9 is the best number. It’s square and tidy. It’s made up of three, three times, and three is my next favorite number. When you multiply 9 times anything else the digits of whatever you get add up to 9. 9×3=27…2+7=9. 9×4=36…3+6=9. 9×57=513…5+1+3=9. Isn’t that awesome?

Whenever I’m looking at a tiled floor or wall, my eyes pick out little blocks of 9 tiles. If the tiles are alternating colors, I always see the blocks of 9 as being centered around a dark tile. If I’m waiting in line in a Ladies’ room, and it’s a long wait, I’ll unfocus my eyes and watch the repeating blocks of 9 tiles on the floor or wall dance before me like some trippy 1970s animation from old-school Sesame Street.

I love reading other bloggers admissions of some peculiar compulsion, obsession, or tic. Very frequently I can relate; I have a hard time envisioning people as being anything other than a bundle of erratic compulsions. Other people’s quirks, put on display, are fascinating facets of the make-up of their personalities.

floam cube
Instead of a stress ball, I have a hunk of Floam at work. When I have really stressful or annoying calls at work, I pinch off little wads of Floam and roll them into balls. I had a particularly bad day at work the other day, and managed to reduce my wad of Floam into about 40 little balls of Floam.

Then, I assembled the little balls of Floam into blocks; a 3x3x3 block works out the best, so I took a picture of one of them. And, since 9 is my favorite number, and 27 is a multiple of 9 (and 3, squee!) I decided that my Floam cube would be a great illustration for this particular entry about my defective brain.

So, if you’re delicate and gross-outable, then you should totally stop reading NOW.

Seriously, I’m warning you, I’m really gonna talk about boogers and snot in just a second.

/warning

Okay, so I’m going to sound like not only a disgusting 5-year-old, but also like a total stoner.

Did you ever wonder if snot has a smell? What is the scent of booger?

This is quite possibly the stupidest thing I have ever been curious about! I was riding home from work today, and my nose was running, as is its wont when the temperatures drop. I wiped my nose on the back of my glove, as most cyclists do (note to non-cyclists: never shake hands with a cyclist who still has his/her gloves on!!!) Sometimes, when I wipe my snoot, I catch a fleeting, slightly sharp scent, and I wondered today, “is that what snot smells like?”

Who thinks about shit like this? Besides me, that is?

Well, I’m going to ask Google what snot smells like and post the first three (non-porny) hits:

via Answerbag

Snot doesn’t smell, i know i’ve scooped enough of it up at work as samples for the lab.

via Tongna Bologna

If there’s one thing we are all desensitized to, it’s the smell of snot.

via ChaCha.comIf snot smelled, you would be able to smell it. ChaCha on!

I’m guessing that realistically, snot doesn’t particularly have a scent. If it did, it would interfere with one’s ability to smell other things. In fact, I am working on a theory that snot probably helps enhance the nose’s ability to smell stuff. Keeps the sniffulator all lubed up and such.

But it’s definitely one of those awful recursive stoner musings: if snot smells, what does snot smell like?

I think I broke my brainmeats trying to think about this one.

I’ve been enjoying the little short-sleeved, girly-girl jackets since they came in a few years ago. I even succumbed to the madness during one of my Junior League sprees and bought this little number two years ago:
163_6308
(please excuse the quality of both the photo and facial expression!)

I’d had this cute quasi-western, 1970s-esqe jacket pattern around for a couple of years, and lucked into a nice piece of Pendleton wool flannel that seemed like it would make a chic pair-up with that pattern. I thought I’d use some scraps of shirred velvet for the collar and mock-pocket trim for contrast. That shirred velvet has been carrying me along for a long while:

I’d originally bought it for the collar and cuff accents for my 1880s dress, which I made my senior year of college (’98/’99 school year). I accidentally over-bought by about half a yard. Since then, it has trimmed

This jacket (made with scrap from the 1880s dress) and now:
IMG_1626
this jacket!

As I got to laying out the pattern, though, I realized that what with matching up plaids and all, I was not going to be able to cut out the as-designed long, slim sleeves. Fortunately, I had another adorable Butterick pattern around, for short-sleeved jackets or a design for a sleeveless vest, and so I chose to use Sleeve B & cut the cuff out of the velvet (and omitted the mock pocket trim, as it would have resulted in too fussy and busy of a garment)

IMG_1625

I’m overall pretty pleased with this jacket, though I may ultimately eliminate the peplum. I’m not sure that I really like it with the plaid…it seems a little busy. Without the peplum, the slightly pointed waistline of the jacket would be more evident, and it really is a particularly chic feature. I’ve always liked pointed waistline dresses and jackets. I like the silhouette, though. In general I like peplums as they help create a more curvaceous silhouette for my figure. I may make this jacket again, in a plain fabric, with the long sleeves, and with the peplum.

artsy buttons
I did an artsy edit of a detail shot of the buttons. They’re pretty neat; they’re textured plastic with polished diamond-shaped facets. They were in some random buttons that my Grandma gave me once. They’re not especially old or anything, but they are just about perfect for this particular project.

Bike porn?

Because bicycling has become such a thing lately, bicycling magazines have been popping out like mushrooms after a rainstorm. One of the many new players on the field is a magazine called Cog. It plays to the hipster/fixed-gear/polo/freestyle crowds and features a lot of advertising for products which purport a certain amount of lifestyle cachet along with whatever intended functions they may have. It is actually pretty interesting for a bike mag: they’ve got some good writers and photographers and write in-depth articles, not just little blurbs to pimp a product. Actual stories and interviews! It is a little like old-school Dirt Rag, ‘cept not centered around mountain biking.

I’ll check out bike magz once in a while, but I don’t usually dig them. On the whole, they’re all about pushing the latest-and-maybe-greatest gear, and I’m not a fan of gear-gab. Each panders to a niche: road, mtb, fixie, ‘cross, etc. They tend to be laser focused on their genre, which can be monotonous to someone who doesn’t really fall into any of the categories. And saints preserve me from any publication that tries to cater to the “utility cyclist.” There is little more tedious than discussions about bicycle safety, advocacy, and how best to clean up once you get to work. Fenders, pannier, lights, wet-wipes, good boots and a balaclava in the winter. Ride with traffic, stop for lights, signal your intentions. We all know the drill, and if you don’t, it ain’t that hard to figure out. Bleh.

So, it’s established that I’m basically a grumpy bitch about bike shit. I don’t read the magazines, I don’t participate in the online discussions, hell, I don’t read them in order to preserve my tenuous grasp on sanity.

So, in an uncharacteristic swan dive into the madness that is bicycling media, I took it upon myself to look at a back issue of Cog over at a friend’s place the other day, and guess what I saw in a Knog ad?

A fucking penis is what I saw.

Twice. Some random dude’s cock and balls all sitting festooned merrily across the end of his saddle as he perches nakedly on his bike. In one shot he appeared to be mesmerized by his penis, as if he had fallen under its hypnotic one-eyed gaze.

For those who might have the misfortune to be reading my blog at work, I’m only adding a scan of this picture as a link, and you can click on the picture once you get there, if you want the large version *shudder*

Now here’s the thing about Knog. Knog is an Australian bicycle accessories company, and I think a lot of the stuff they make is actually pretty neat, but I boycott them because their advertising is so sexually objectifying and brain-thumpingly stupid. Half the time, a bike isn’t even readily apparent in the ad. If you looked at the penis ad linked above, would you guess it was an advertisement for bike stuff? No, you would probably think it was an advertisement for naked homoerotic camping adventures, wouldn’t you?

They had an ad campaign a couple of years ago for their Frog lights, which are little rubber blinky lights you can affix to your handlebars, seat-tube, or wherever else you feel is a good place for an LED “be-seen” light. They’ve become so ubiquitous with the hipster/fixie crowd that Bike Snob of NYC calls them hipster cysts.”

Anyway, the ad campaign that started me off hating Knog featured TaTu style fauxmoeroticism. Again, look at the ad. Would you believe that it was an advertisement for bicycle lights, or would you think it was a PSA advocating making out with cute girls in laundromats? It’s just pointless titillation. It says nothing about the product. It implies that you will be sexy if you use Knog products, but it doesn’t really say anything of value.

One of the reasons that I’ve loved Bitch magazine forever is that they have a history of deconstructing and disemboweling sexist advertising. I’d like to see what they’d make of Knog’s perennially oversexed ads. I have a feeling that they’d take a look at the penis ad and say, “well, shit, junior. Just because you’re objectifying a guy this time doesn’t really make it any better.”

I am aware that my prickly response to the Knog advertising is part generation gap, part culture/nationality gap. This article, written by a woman who looks at advertising and cultural sexism from a similar angle that I do sums up the generation gap regarding sexy vs. sexist. The gist of it is that a lot of GenY and younger see oversexed media as positive, fun, exciting, and empowering, while us old fogeys think that women being used as “catch your eye” sex objects to big up everything from chewing gum to computer parts is a bit degrading (not to mention gratuitous). And I recognize that my being a Yank may have more than a bit to do with my distaste for overtly sexual advertising. I was raised in a culture that permits only insinuation and innuendo in our ads. We can insinuate pretty fucking loudly, but we don’t actually show genitalia in our advertising, so seeing this guy’s pecker all “hey, there, hi, there, nice day to be a penis” was a bit of a shock.

But really, the core of my objection is that the sexy-sexalot advertising is stupid. It doesn’t really promote the product, it makes an oblique suggestion that you’ll be sexy if you use their product, and I think that on the whole, sex is oversold. If a product is good, it pretty much sells itself. Knog could do just as well with more pertinent ads which showed their products in use. If they showed hip, cool, exuberant cyclists having a good time (and incidentally using their lights, wearing their clothes, and using their accessories) it would be more relevant, would reach a wider audience, and would not make your co-workers think you’re looking at porn in the breakroom.

The Long, Long Trailer:

I just got a movie recommendation from my Dad: The Long Long Trailer,” which opened in 1954 featuring the beloved Lucille Ball/Desi Arnaz team, a 1954 Mercury convertible, and a really big travel trailer.

Dad has been laid up for the past month following rotator-cuff surgery; he’s currently banned from using his right arm, so he’s been reading a lot of books and magazines and watching movies. He mentioned that he and Mom had watched (and enjoyed) The Long Long Trailer, and that he’d seen it at matinee when he was a little kid (he was 6 in ’54). He was telling me about going to the movies with Grandma Chickadee (his grandmother, my great-grandmother), his big sister Glenda, and three of his cousins. Grandma would take the kids to Saturday matinees because it was an economical way to treat all of the grandkids (and give their parents a break!) and this was one of the movies they went and saw. He said that he was surprised at how much of the movie he remembered from the first time he saw it, considering that there’d been about a 55 year lapse between viewings. He said that he remembered holding his breath and shouting “don’t back up any further” during the a particularly tense scene on a twisty road in Yosemite.

Anyway, the movie starts here for those of us who don’t have Turner Classic Movies at our disposal:

I’ll be enjoying this I’m sure. I am a big Lucy fan, love roadtrip stories, and have some particularly good (if exhausting) memories of Yosemite from our tour. I’m expecting that the set, props, and general array of cultural artifacts from that exuberant period of populuxe post-war affluence will be total eye candy!

Also, I feel that it is not inappropriate to stick you all with a jaunty little earworm:

Thanks!

Okay, I’d be a total asshole if I didn’t write the obvious – I’m unable to articulate how truly grateful I am for my awesome family and friends, a few of whom I’ll be spending the evening with, and a few more with whom we’ll be throwin’ down a fiesta on Saturday. My tribe is my greatest treasure.

But my idea was to write up a semi-silly list of things I’m grateful, since I am an easily-amused person who really does get a big kick out of little things.

1. I’m thankful that Joel is so industrious and ingenious. Soon, I will be posting photos of the fabulous closet remodel he’s done in the bedroom. Thanks to his handiwork, we’re going to have a proper linen cupboard, and the layout of the closet-closet is going to be twice as usable as it originally was. Handy hands, smart brains, and a drive to “make it happen.” What a guy!

2. I’m thankful for Facebook, without which I couldn’t talk so much crap with so many people, so far away…and keep up with the neighborhood news from back home. Plus, I FINALLY get to see regular, new pictures from my sister of her adorable family.

3. I’m thankful that my hair is finally long enough to put in a real, non-angry-chicken-butt ponytail.

4. I’m thankful that Griswald didn’t turn out to be that terribly lost the other night when he escaped. I really do adore that horrible little varmint and would be pretty heartbroken if he got hit by a car, eviscerated by a neighbor dog, or just plain lost.

5. I’m thankful to have a job, even if I have to work on holidays. Like today. In a few hours.

6. I’m thankful for the vagaries of the weather, without which my daily commutes would probably be a lot less interesting

7. Pursuant to item 6., I’m also thankful for Thinsulate lined boots, ’cause sometimes the whim of the weather is to be fuckoff cold.

8. I’m going to get all earnest again and say that I’m thankful for my health. My job puts me in contact with a lot of people whose mobility is affected by their health, and they have to rely on a sometimes highly faulty network of people to do many of the things that I nearly take for granted; going to the store, the library, a friend’s house. I am so grateful for my good fortune that I am hale and spry and can just hop on a bike and go wherever I need to go, without waiting for a bus, a cab, a relative, a caregiver to tote me around, not finding myself stranded because I missed a ride, not having to continually negotiate such a basic necessity as transportation. I have gained a whole new sympathy and understanding for people who need assistance to do what they need and want to do, and I sometimes feel a bit guilty for my nearly obscene good fortune.

There are many other things for which I am thankful, I’m sure, but my brain isn’t working so well this morning. I try not to take things for granted, but since I am human, I do sometimes. I kind of hate the term “mindfulness,” but I guess the fact is that I do kind of try to live and behave deliberately, as twee as that sounds. To enjoy life, and all that schmackarooni.

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