martinimade

While I was going to torture everyone with pixs of my lovely rhodendrons, I can't because the battery in my camera died. And, so, instead, I shall torture you with the new stuff up at bookslut.

First, an interview with Lois McMaster Bujold, during which I try with little success to comment on being female in a largely male field.

Second, a column on Carol Emshwiller, whose work I'm keep trying (and failing) to embrace.

Third, a review written by Susan Chenelle of my fellow writermama Bee Lavender's newest book Lessons in Taxidermy.

Finally, after having it sit in its little Netflix envelope on top of the TV for the last two weeks, the Hub and I got around to watching Sideways. My official review runs thusly: eh.

I mean, it's not bad, but I just found it hard to care all that much about any of the characters. Yes, yes, Paul Giamatti is great. Still. I have a sneaking suspicion that it's just not the kind of flick I'd enjoy because I am not a mid-life sensitive writer male who doesn't know how to talk to women or deal with feelings. You know, like most movie reviewers, especially the ones who went ga-ga over this movie.

This is just a hunch, however, and is the same theory I supply when asked why I don't love Almodovar. Which is an infrequent question, granted, but one that I wish I'd be asked more than once per decade.

While we clean up from the hellacious storm, which brought down all sorts of trees and general havok yesterday, a picture of the Diva and her "sister" Caroline (and, um, two plastic alligators).

The two -- the Diva's the smaller one -- are almost two years apart. For whatever reasons, they've each taken to calling each other sister. Caroline was over for the afternoon a couple of weeks ago and they spent the time like siblings would, playing beauty shop (hence the nine zillion hair clips) and fighting over who gets which toy when. Then we all watched Dora and had teddy grahams. A good afternoon all told.

I blame the fact that I'm hugely pregnant and insanely warm for my recent inexplicable rages about trivial things done by strangers. Not, of course, that I tell them how infuriating their behavior is -- I lived in the south for too long to confront anyone directly, like they do up here. Instead, I seethe, then post about it.

So my newest peeve is the folks who, despite being completely able-bodied and presumably adult enough to go out in public without a minder, are completely unable to return shopping carts to an appropriate location after they have finished with them. It's just a matter of public courtesy, really, and one of the things that every decent member of society should do so that the world doesn't descend into mannerless anarchy. I'm not saying that you have to walk the dang thing back to the store itself. Just get it into one of the little corral things. I mean...I mean...on my way out of the grocery this afternoon, while loading my own bags into my car, I watched a woman (who, it should be noted, had no broken limbs or a screaming toddler or a flaming pocketbook) dump her cart in her parking space, just in front of her car. Here's the kicker -- the cart corral was a mere ten feet away, in the space one space over and could be easily seen. Grrrr, I say. And grrr again.

It's not that I worry about one of these buggies ramming into my car and damaging it. If you saw my car, you'd realized that one more ding isn't going to keep me up at night nor, in fact, be noticed through all of the dirt. It's just rude, is all, and it's hard to teach the Diva the rules of getting along with others when others flout them because they can shave ten seconds off of their grocery routine. It's a small thing, I know, but small things count, too.

Call me passive-aggressive. Call me a pacifist. Just don't call me. I'm pretty crabby. And very, very, very hot. Summers here aren't that bad, generally, but we're in the middle of a hot and humid spell that may send me around the bend. The Hub, because he is a good guy (and is tired of the grumbling, I suspect), put a window AC unit in my office, which has taken the edge off. Now if that promised cool front would just work its way here, then all would be bliss.

Except for the shopping cart thing. That chaps my ass, cool weather or no.

In keeping with my general slackitude of late, I can't quite work up enough energy about any one topic to post. Oh -- except my local NBC station decided to show the Children's Miracle Network telethon instead of the first men's semi match at the French. As long as the 4 p.m. match, which is on ESPN2, is the Nadal v. Federer one, I will be happy. If not, heads will roll. Because I wield that kind of power.

I did, however, make a killer batch of brownies (no, not those kind) and get some yard work done, so the morning hasn't been a complete waste. And, yes, starting on Monday, I shall dive back into my meaty stash of writing projects that need to be written. Just singularly uninspired this week and have decided to give myself a break. I am uncomfortable with this, too. It just feels so wrong to not be actively working on a moneymaker. Damn you protestant work ethic! Damn you to hell!

Anyway, pictures. Two from the Met Museum in NYC. I'd love to tell you who the artist is but, sadly, am one of those people who says "Write it down? Fwah. Of course I'll remember." Then I promptly forget. The more arty among you may have the answer. If so, please share.

I've had this day. Hell, I've had this decade.

Scott dubbed this one the "Anti-Mooch."

via brad Gilbert, commenting on the Mary Pierce v. some leggy Russian (Likhovtseva) semi-final match, which Pierce handily won:

"When you get a beat-down in the first set, don't go out and lose the second set the same way. Try something -- anything -- different."

Words to live by. If there is anything more soothing than watching tennis and knitting, I haven't the slightest idea what it is. Actually, that's not quite true, but this is certainly the cheapest most soothing thing. Tomorrow will be the most anticipated match of the French: Federer v. Nadal. I, for one, can't wait.

What am I knitting? In addition to the Nemo blankie, a pair (almost) of cotton socks, using Ann Budd's pattern. Sock #2 just needs a few more rounds around the foot and a toe.

Last loose end for the day -- a big shout-out must go to my mother-in-law who spent the better part of last week chasing after the Diva. Amidst the chaos, MIL managed to work some voodoo wherein the Diva no longer screams the entire time you are washing her hair and will -- get this -- actually look up so that the soap doesn't get in her eyes, thereby causing more screaming. Thanks, Char.

The New York Times magazine offers further proof that the human body is a strange and wonderful thing, but that you can only truly appreciate how strange and wonderful it is when it isn't working seamlessly.