If I Could Snap My Fingers And Be Anywhere, Where Would It Be?
Suggested by Chris P.
As a writer who seems to have hit a low point in creativity and / or just getting off my ass and writing, I signed myself up to write 31 blog posts during October - one a day - on any subjects that are suggested to me. The only rules for suggestions are that they can't be anything that involve me having to take on a particular viewpoint (so no "Why I Hate Twilight" or "Why Rock Music is the Best Music") - this isn't debating class, and right now I'm not interested in trying to argue something that I may or may not agree with. Anything else goes - it can be a specific subject or a broad one, one that I've written about in the past or something new that will need research. If you're interested in playing along, you can leave a comment here, or email me at thenordicalien@gmail.com. (I'll try and remember to check there, honest!)
Where would I be? The Star Light Zone in the Mega Drive / Genesis version of Sonic the Hedgehog.
I fell in love with the Star Light Zone when I first played Sonic, back in 1991. For those of you who've never played the game - have you been living under a rock? - the Star Light Zone is a large pale green and gray construction site under a black sky filled with thousands of bright stars. As the second-to-last zone in the game (aside from the Final Zone), it is one of the harder zones, filled with unkillable beasties, bottomless pits and spiked balls that you have to use as counterweights on catapults. Yet it is the strangest mix of difficult and peaceful, and I decided the first time I saw it that I wanted to live there.
Nobody had pointed out to this seven-year-old that this would not be possible.
Over the last twenty-some years I've tried to work out why I have such deep affection for a game level, and I've never come up with a satisfactory answer. The closest I can get is that it feels like home. It might be the strange, space-age streetlights that remind me so much of the ones we had in Spain when I was a kid. It might be the astonishing amount of stars that you can see in the sky; stars that, like the streetlights, remind me of a childhood spent where the air was dry and unpolluted and the night sky filled with wonder. It might be the fact that I spent many an hour playing on construction sites as a kid, and find the atmosphere comfortable.
Maybe it's just that it's a city. I've always felt most at home in space-age cities. It's why I originally started studying Japanese, and why I hope to take up Cantonese - Tokyo and Hong Kong are two places that I want to live.
In my early years of playing Sonic, I found it hard to get up as far as Star Light, often turning off the Mega Drive before I got there, and considered it to be a prize that was dangled in front of my face only to be cruelly snatched away. There was a cheat code you could use to access a screen that would allow you to choose your level - on the title screen, you sort of smush your thumb on the D-Pad in all directions at once, while pressing Start, and if you're super-lucky you'll get a brown screen that brings up the level selection - but it was an incredibly hard cheat to manage and usually left me throwing my controller to the ground in frustration even more than the early levels of Sonic did. As an adult, I prefer to think of Star Light as a reward for getting through the sheer awfulness that is Labyrinth Zone. (I HATE the underwater levels on Sonic games. Every. Single. One.)
There are multiple places across the globe - and indeed, in books and movies (Rivendell, anyone?) - that I'd like to visit or live in, as well as places that I'd like to be able to teleport myself to any time I'm in need of a dose of happy. Sports stadiums at night are one of the places where I feel the happiest, and I don't think it's a coincidence that the floodlights remind me of the Star Light Zone.
Thanks to the miracle of YouTube, I can watch other people zipping the little blue critter through my homeland without having to do it myself - handy, since I no longer own a Mega Drive (it disappeared when Ryan did, after being stored in his wardrobe for several months, and I can only assume he accidentally took the bag with him and then was too embarrassed to bring it back when he realised what it was) and I don't often have my GameCube hooked up to the TV. I probably should see if there's a Sonic Collection or a Mega Drive Collection available for GBA or Nintendo DS - I know there's one for PSP that I played when I was staying with Siji. Regardless, YouTube has made it possible to view the Star Light Zone whenever I want.
But there will always be that little part of me that grieves for the fact that I will never be able to live there.
Go see Star Light played (WARNING: He curses a lot, and says "cunt" a lot. I know some people are sensitive about that word.) - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWreQW1-MX4
See anything you like? Share it! Just link back to this page.
Thursday, 3 October 2013
Wednesday, 2 October 2013
A Month of Blogs - Drugs
Drugs
Suggested by Jonny F.
As a writer who seems to have hit a low point in creativity and / or just getting off my ass and writing, I signed myself up to write 31 blog posts during October - one a day - on any subjects that are suggested to me. The only rules for suggestions are that they can't be anything that involve me having to take on a particular viewpoint (so no "Why I Hate Twilight" or "Why Rock Music is the Best Music") - this isn't debating class, and right now I'm not interested in trying to argue something that I may or may not agree with. Anything else goes - it can be a specific subject or a broad one, one that I've written about in the past or something new that will need research. If you're interested in playing along, you can leave a comment here, or email me at thenordicalien@gmail.com. (I'll try and remember to check there, honest!)
Drugs are bad, mmmkay?
- Mr Mackey
I have a friend who's an addict.
Truthfully, I have several friends who are probably (drug) addicts, many more if you add in things like cigarettes and junk food. But right now I'm thinking about one friend in particular. My friend got into drugs lightly as a teen, with pot, and then more heavily as a 20-something. I won't specify what kind of drugs, since that could be seen as identifying evidence, which for obvious reasons would be a bad thing for the purposes of this post. All I'll say is that my friend's choice of drugs doesn't involve needles, and that they started out with a legal - i.e. prescription - drug habit, and slid down that slippery slope into semi-legal and then illegal drugs.
We talk on a fairly regular basis about my friend's habit, as they consider me to be someone they can talk to who won't judge them. (I find this amusing, since I'm one of the most judgemental people I know. I can only assume what they mean is that when I judge them, for the most part I'll keep my opinions to myself unless asked for them, and I'll continue to love them anyway even when I think they've royally fucked up.) One of the things that we've discussed at some length is why my friend's an addict.
On their less honest days, my friend gives me the spiel about needing drugs. They're prescribed by a doctor, they have a medical condition that requires them, etc. I inevitably call bullshit on this, as a) not all the drugs are prescribed by a doctor, at least not for my friend by THEIR doctor; b) my friend buys and sells a whole lot more on the side; c) my friend doesn't use the prescribed drugs in the way that they're meant to be used (think twice as many, and up the nose instead of in the mouth); and d) my friend hasn't had any extensive testing for their medical condition in the years since they were injured and has no real idea whether they still suffer from it. (I could also object due to my feeling that there are other ways to handle an injury than with hard drugs - graduated exercise, CBT, pain management courses - and if you're not willing to explore those ways you shouldn't be prescribed unlimited medication, but that's a personal opinion rather than a fact so I tend to leave that out of my arguments.)
On their more honest days, my friend will talk to me about how good it feels to be buzzed, which really gets down to the bones of it. Highs feel nice. They feel nice enough that people chase them, through all manner of ways. I'm no exception here - I spend much of my free time in search of that elusive bliss, although I tend to chase my highs with exercise, books, nature, hobbies and occasionally food. Everyone does, in one way or another. It seems to be human nature to seek out pleasure and to escape from boredom or pain.
My friend has been through more pain than a lot of people, although more cushiness as well. That dichotomy has set them up for what is perhaps a more persistent need to chase extremes of pleasure than you'll find in many people. A childhood raised by a permissive single parent - and I would like to add the caveat here that none of these things will ensure addiction in the future; simply that the convergence of factors in my friend's case has set them up with the tendency to think that a rollercoaster of extreme highs and lows is normal and necessary - who coddled them and protected them and always allowed them to have their own way, followed by teenage years in which they were blessed with an excess of charm, above average looks, brains and natural athletic ability, followed by the death of several loved ones and a sense of having lost their place in the world, have caused my friend to think of their life as split into two parts: the early part (good) and the later part (bad). Childhood and teenagehood were good and fun and exciting. Adulthood is bad and boring and painful. Drugs are the crutch which both livens up their adult years and dulls a lot of the pain.
This isn't an unusual story. Using drugs as a killer of emotional pain and a thing that makes your life brighter and shinier are two very common things. My friend's case is complicated by the fact that the losses they suffered came right at the beginning of their twenties, as their brain was coming down off the natural high that the teenage years bring. Recent progress in neuroscience has found that teenagers don't think and feel the same way that adult humans do. Impulse control and the ability to plan ahead and stick to that plan are some of the last parts of the brain that develop fully. Perhaps more importantly, the parts of the brain that deal with memory and emotional responses are overloaded by adult standards - although many of my teenagers argue that the teenage brain is the one we're supposed to have, and adults' brains are merely atrophied - causing everything to feel more wonderful, more exciting, more awful. Just more. Nothing is ever quite as emotionally powerful as it is when you're in your teens. No music sticks with you as strongly as the music that you loved when you were young; no memories of wild nights hit you with quite the same degree of nostalgia; few romances are as hard to forget as the ones you had when your volume of gray matter was at its highest and your body was flooded with hormones. Those memories, and the feelings that go with them, are indelibly imprinted on the brain, and even those of us whose teen years were often unbearable tend to look back at the good parts through rose-coloured lenses.
In my friend's case, the combination of the natural highs of the teen years and the fact that the brutal losses they suffered came right at the end of that period have resulted in an uncontrolled yearning for the past, for security, for excitement. The drugs don't bring back the dead, or send my friend back into the past, but they provide an echo of the feelings that are so sorely missed. They will, of course, never provide more than an echo.
I think this is the real reason why I agree with Mr Mackey. Drugs are bad. Not because they wreck your body (plenty of things do), not even because they're dangerous and possibly deadly - although both those things alone are reasons for me personally to stay away. Drugs are bad because they catfish you with pretty promises of feeling good, promises which they can never deliver after the first few times, unless you take more and more of them.
Of course, I lost a brother to a drug overdose when I was a kid. I'm biased.
Probably not everyone who becomes addicted to drugs is trying to revive their teenage years, although I'd hazard a guess that a large portion of them are. But I feel reasonably safe in saying that everyone who becomes addicted, and stays addicted, is either escaping from pain, escaping from boredom through the chasing of larger and larger highs, or some combination of the two.
Is chasing a high necessarily a bad thing? Can you be a social drug user without turning into an addict? Those are two questions I've been asking myself while writing this post (and, indeed, for many years before now) and I've never come up with a completely satisfying answer. I do think that some people, if they have a great deal of self-control, can be recreational drug users. (I also think that a heck of a lot of people who describe themselves as recreational drug users, aren't.) Marijuana is one of the drugs that's most talked-about at the moment, what with all the legal revisions going on in the US. When people ask me - which they often do - what my position on the legalisation of pot is, I admit that I'm not really sure. I suppose I support legalisation sort of by default, since I don't believe that it should be illegal when tobacco and alcohol are legally available just about everywhere, and I know full well that banning those things would be both impossible and unnecessary. The problem I have with legalisation is that I worry that it won't be done in the right way. If a formerly illegal substance is to become legal, I feel that it needs to be regulated, taxed (I know this will be an unpopular opinion; since how many of us actually want to pay taxes?) and studied extensively. So far, this hasn't happened with marijuana, or at least what regulation and studying has been done hasn't been widely publicised. The fact that a thing is legal does not necessarily mean it's safe. It doesn't mean it doesn't have ill-effects, both short and long-term. It doesn't mean we should automatically stick it in our mouths. When it comes to weed, most people fall into one of two camps: the "Weed is dangerous / a gateway drug / supports drug barons / etc" camp, or the "It's natural and good and as harmless as sparkly unicorns" camp. As far as the harmful side-effects go, I'm witholding judgement until more research is done, but assuming that there can't possibly be any seems dangerously naive to me. In addition to my practical concerns, there is my personal, irrational bug-a-boo: why can't life be enough? Why can't the planet, with all its wonders, be enough for people without the need for mind-altering substances?
I don't generally bring up that last point with people unless they ask me directly, since most folks would tell me to mind my own business, and they'd be right. The fact that I find it sad that people feel dissatisfaction with what, to me, seems like an extraordinary world full of wonder, is my own problem, not anyone else's. And you'd also be right if you said I was a bit of a hypocrite to feel that way, as I mentioned earlier that I find myself chasing my own highs quite often. When I push myself in the swimming pool or on the ice rink, when I take a walk on an autumn day, when I immerse myself in the crowd at a hockey game or an MMA match, I'm chasing those peaks of emotion. And when I reread a book that I've loved, when I eat a favourite food, when I listen to a song that fills me with joy or rerun a memory in my mind that makes my heart pound, I'm using repetition to try to recreate the feelings I had last time those things made me happy. Human nature - the need to seek out pleasure - meets human habit - the tendency to repeat behaviours in the hopes that they have the same positive result. Physical pleasure - pleasure in exercise, in food, in sex - and emotion come together in this wonderful synergy. And with the best of these things, the things that you love above all others, whether we're talking about songs or books or foods or lovers or anything else - they're always good. Perhaps a fraction less good than the first time, or perhaps not, but always good. And the periods inbetween, while not giving a person the wash of bliss that they get from the peaks, don't throw you into those deep depressing troughs either.
That's why I think you can consider me only a bit of a hypocrite. Because, personal likes and dislikes aside (or as far aside as they can ever truly be), I do honestly feel that there's a difference between chasing a high through drugs, and chasing it in the ways I've mentioned just above. The drug high can be hell for your body, while the things above (junk food and MMA excluded) are generally safe, and it's expensive - but more importantly, the drug high never fully satisfies after the first time, and people end up spending their whole lives chasing something that is physically impossible to attain.
And what kind of a life is that?
I haven't cited any sources for this blog post, as I wrote it off the top of my head, based on what I've learned over the years. However, if you want to learn more about the science behind teenage brains, you can try the following pages:
National Institute of Mental Health - http://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/the-teen-brain-still-under-construction/index.shtml
A PBS programme - http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/teenbrain/
See anything you liked? Share it! Just link back to this page.
Suggested by Jonny F.
As a writer who seems to have hit a low point in creativity and / or just getting off my ass and writing, I signed myself up to write 31 blog posts during October - one a day - on any subjects that are suggested to me. The only rules for suggestions are that they can't be anything that involve me having to take on a particular viewpoint (so no "Why I Hate Twilight" or "Why Rock Music is the Best Music") - this isn't debating class, and right now I'm not interested in trying to argue something that I may or may not agree with. Anything else goes - it can be a specific subject or a broad one, one that I've written about in the past or something new that will need research. If you're interested in playing along, you can leave a comment here, or email me at thenordicalien@gmail.com. (I'll try and remember to check there, honest!)
Drugs are bad, mmmkay?
- Mr Mackey
I have a friend who's an addict.
Truthfully, I have several friends who are probably (drug) addicts, many more if you add in things like cigarettes and junk food. But right now I'm thinking about one friend in particular. My friend got into drugs lightly as a teen, with pot, and then more heavily as a 20-something. I won't specify what kind of drugs, since that could be seen as identifying evidence, which for obvious reasons would be a bad thing for the purposes of this post. All I'll say is that my friend's choice of drugs doesn't involve needles, and that they started out with a legal - i.e. prescription - drug habit, and slid down that slippery slope into semi-legal and then illegal drugs.
We talk on a fairly regular basis about my friend's habit, as they consider me to be someone they can talk to who won't judge them. (I find this amusing, since I'm one of the most judgemental people I know. I can only assume what they mean is that when I judge them, for the most part I'll keep my opinions to myself unless asked for them, and I'll continue to love them anyway even when I think they've royally fucked up.) One of the things that we've discussed at some length is why my friend's an addict.
On their less honest days, my friend gives me the spiel about needing drugs. They're prescribed by a doctor, they have a medical condition that requires them, etc. I inevitably call bullshit on this, as a) not all the drugs are prescribed by a doctor, at least not for my friend by THEIR doctor; b) my friend buys and sells a whole lot more on the side; c) my friend doesn't use the prescribed drugs in the way that they're meant to be used (think twice as many, and up the nose instead of in the mouth); and d) my friend hasn't had any extensive testing for their medical condition in the years since they were injured and has no real idea whether they still suffer from it. (I could also object due to my feeling that there are other ways to handle an injury than with hard drugs - graduated exercise, CBT, pain management courses - and if you're not willing to explore those ways you shouldn't be prescribed unlimited medication, but that's a personal opinion rather than a fact so I tend to leave that out of my arguments.)
On their more honest days, my friend will talk to me about how good it feels to be buzzed, which really gets down to the bones of it. Highs feel nice. They feel nice enough that people chase them, through all manner of ways. I'm no exception here - I spend much of my free time in search of that elusive bliss, although I tend to chase my highs with exercise, books, nature, hobbies and occasionally food. Everyone does, in one way or another. It seems to be human nature to seek out pleasure and to escape from boredom or pain.
My friend has been through more pain than a lot of people, although more cushiness as well. That dichotomy has set them up for what is perhaps a more persistent need to chase extremes of pleasure than you'll find in many people. A childhood raised by a permissive single parent - and I would like to add the caveat here that none of these things will ensure addiction in the future; simply that the convergence of factors in my friend's case has set them up with the tendency to think that a rollercoaster of extreme highs and lows is normal and necessary - who coddled them and protected them and always allowed them to have their own way, followed by teenage years in which they were blessed with an excess of charm, above average looks, brains and natural athletic ability, followed by the death of several loved ones and a sense of having lost their place in the world, have caused my friend to think of their life as split into two parts: the early part (good) and the later part (bad). Childhood and teenagehood were good and fun and exciting. Adulthood is bad and boring and painful. Drugs are the crutch which both livens up their adult years and dulls a lot of the pain.
This isn't an unusual story. Using drugs as a killer of emotional pain and a thing that makes your life brighter and shinier are two very common things. My friend's case is complicated by the fact that the losses they suffered came right at the beginning of their twenties, as their brain was coming down off the natural high that the teenage years bring. Recent progress in neuroscience has found that teenagers don't think and feel the same way that adult humans do. Impulse control and the ability to plan ahead and stick to that plan are some of the last parts of the brain that develop fully. Perhaps more importantly, the parts of the brain that deal with memory and emotional responses are overloaded by adult standards - although many of my teenagers argue that the teenage brain is the one we're supposed to have, and adults' brains are merely atrophied - causing everything to feel more wonderful, more exciting, more awful. Just more. Nothing is ever quite as emotionally powerful as it is when you're in your teens. No music sticks with you as strongly as the music that you loved when you were young; no memories of wild nights hit you with quite the same degree of nostalgia; few romances are as hard to forget as the ones you had when your volume of gray matter was at its highest and your body was flooded with hormones. Those memories, and the feelings that go with them, are indelibly imprinted on the brain, and even those of us whose teen years were often unbearable tend to look back at the good parts through rose-coloured lenses.
In my friend's case, the combination of the natural highs of the teen years and the fact that the brutal losses they suffered came right at the end of that period have resulted in an uncontrolled yearning for the past, for security, for excitement. The drugs don't bring back the dead, or send my friend back into the past, but they provide an echo of the feelings that are so sorely missed. They will, of course, never provide more than an echo.
I think this is the real reason why I agree with Mr Mackey. Drugs are bad. Not because they wreck your body (plenty of things do), not even because they're dangerous and possibly deadly - although both those things alone are reasons for me personally to stay away. Drugs are bad because they catfish you with pretty promises of feeling good, promises which they can never deliver after the first few times, unless you take more and more of them.
Of course, I lost a brother to a drug overdose when I was a kid. I'm biased.
Probably not everyone who becomes addicted to drugs is trying to revive their teenage years, although I'd hazard a guess that a large portion of them are. But I feel reasonably safe in saying that everyone who becomes addicted, and stays addicted, is either escaping from pain, escaping from boredom through the chasing of larger and larger highs, or some combination of the two.
Is chasing a high necessarily a bad thing? Can you be a social drug user without turning into an addict? Those are two questions I've been asking myself while writing this post (and, indeed, for many years before now) and I've never come up with a completely satisfying answer. I do think that some people, if they have a great deal of self-control, can be recreational drug users. (I also think that a heck of a lot of people who describe themselves as recreational drug users, aren't.) Marijuana is one of the drugs that's most talked-about at the moment, what with all the legal revisions going on in the US. When people ask me - which they often do - what my position on the legalisation of pot is, I admit that I'm not really sure. I suppose I support legalisation sort of by default, since I don't believe that it should be illegal when tobacco and alcohol are legally available just about everywhere, and I know full well that banning those things would be both impossible and unnecessary. The problem I have with legalisation is that I worry that it won't be done in the right way. If a formerly illegal substance is to become legal, I feel that it needs to be regulated, taxed (I know this will be an unpopular opinion; since how many of us actually want to pay taxes?) and studied extensively. So far, this hasn't happened with marijuana, or at least what regulation and studying has been done hasn't been widely publicised. The fact that a thing is legal does not necessarily mean it's safe. It doesn't mean it doesn't have ill-effects, both short and long-term. It doesn't mean we should automatically stick it in our mouths. When it comes to weed, most people fall into one of two camps: the "Weed is dangerous / a gateway drug / supports drug barons / etc" camp, or the "It's natural and good and as harmless as sparkly unicorns" camp. As far as the harmful side-effects go, I'm witholding judgement until more research is done, but assuming that there can't possibly be any seems dangerously naive to me. In addition to my practical concerns, there is my personal, irrational bug-a-boo: why can't life be enough? Why can't the planet, with all its wonders, be enough for people without the need for mind-altering substances?
I don't generally bring up that last point with people unless they ask me directly, since most folks would tell me to mind my own business, and they'd be right. The fact that I find it sad that people feel dissatisfaction with what, to me, seems like an extraordinary world full of wonder, is my own problem, not anyone else's. And you'd also be right if you said I was a bit of a hypocrite to feel that way, as I mentioned earlier that I find myself chasing my own highs quite often. When I push myself in the swimming pool or on the ice rink, when I take a walk on an autumn day, when I immerse myself in the crowd at a hockey game or an MMA match, I'm chasing those peaks of emotion. And when I reread a book that I've loved, when I eat a favourite food, when I listen to a song that fills me with joy or rerun a memory in my mind that makes my heart pound, I'm using repetition to try to recreate the feelings I had last time those things made me happy. Human nature - the need to seek out pleasure - meets human habit - the tendency to repeat behaviours in the hopes that they have the same positive result. Physical pleasure - pleasure in exercise, in food, in sex - and emotion come together in this wonderful synergy. And with the best of these things, the things that you love above all others, whether we're talking about songs or books or foods or lovers or anything else - they're always good. Perhaps a fraction less good than the first time, or perhaps not, but always good. And the periods inbetween, while not giving a person the wash of bliss that they get from the peaks, don't throw you into those deep depressing troughs either.
That's why I think you can consider me only a bit of a hypocrite. Because, personal likes and dislikes aside (or as far aside as they can ever truly be), I do honestly feel that there's a difference between chasing a high through drugs, and chasing it in the ways I've mentioned just above. The drug high can be hell for your body, while the things above (junk food and MMA excluded) are generally safe, and it's expensive - but more importantly, the drug high never fully satisfies after the first time, and people end up spending their whole lives chasing something that is physically impossible to attain.
And what kind of a life is that?
I haven't cited any sources for this blog post, as I wrote it off the top of my head, based on what I've learned over the years. However, if you want to learn more about the science behind teenage brains, you can try the following pages:
National Institute of Mental Health - http://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/the-teen-brain-still-under-construction/index.shtml
A PBS programme - http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/teenbrain/
See anything you liked? Share it! Just link back to this page.
Tuesday, 1 October 2013
A Month of Blogs - How to Make Strawberry Shortcake
How to Make Strawberry Shortcake
Suggested by Susan V.
As a writer who seems to have hit a low point in creativity and / or just getting off my ass and writing, I signed myself up to write 31 blog posts during October - one a day - on any subjects that are suggested to me. The only rules for suggestions are that they can't be anything that involve me having to take on a particular viewpoint (so no "Why I Hate Twilight" or "Why Rock Music is the Best Music") - this isn't debating class, and right now I'm not interested in trying to argue something that I may or may not agree with. Anything else goes - it can be a specific subject or a broad one, one that I've written about in the past or something new that will need research. If you're interested in playing along, you can leave a comment here, or email me at thenordicalien@gmail.com. (I'll try and remember to check there, honest!)
I promised this recipe to Susan three or four months back, and is standard for someone with short-term memory loss, promptly forgot about it. She very gently reminded me when I was looking for suggestions of topics for the October 31-day blogging challenge, so I promised I would make it my first post.
Sorry there are no pictures - strawberries aren't in season right now, although if I make the cake itself soon I'll put a photo up.
Also, a note - I tend to measure in cups. Buying a set of measuring cups is probably your best bet if you want to make any of my recipes - you can get a set from any cheap kitchen store or supermarket for a couple pounds / dollars - but if you're really too cheap and or lazy to do that, an American cup is about 2/3 of a standard British mug, or 1 1/2 times a British teacup. This recipe, as with most of the ones I use, works pretty well even if your measurements aren't exact.
The basic structure of the cake - eggs, flour, butter, sugar - comes from the 1963 edition of McCalls Cookbook, published by Random House. The flavourings are my blend.
Ingredients:
For the cake:
~ 3 cups sifted flour. In the US I use cake flour; in the UK I use half plain and half self-raising.
~ 2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder. Not soda. Powder. Don't accidentally use tablespoons the way my mom did once.
~ 1 teaspoon salt.
~ 3/4 cup butter. You can use vegetable spread if you insist, although I'm a fan of butter for cakes. It's not as crucial as it would be in a finer cake though.
~ 1 1/2 cups sugar. I used to use half white and half demarara, which is nice. Now I use all unrefined since that's the only kind we buy. It's still nice. A bit less sweet.
~ 3 eggs. BUY FREE RANGE! Nothing to do with how well the recipe works, just that you should do that.
~ 1 teaspoon vanilla extract or 1/4 teaspoon vanilla essence or 1/4 teaspoon crushed vanilla pod. Do not buy anything that says "vanilla flavouring". Vanilla flavouring has no vanilla in at all. And it tastes rank.
~ 1 teaspoon almond essence. I leave this out sometimes, since my brother's allergic, but it adds a nice taste.
~ 1/2 tablespoon crushed edible lavender or 2 tablespoons lavender sugar. You can add a bit more of this if you want, but if you do, scale back a bit on the normal sugar.
~ 1 cup milk. We use semi-skimmed. I've never tried to make it with other kinds of milk, although I suppose it would work well enough. If you try, let me know how it works out.
For the topping:
~ Strawberries.
~ Vanilla ice cream (optional).
~ Whippy (aerosol) cream or pouring cream (double or single, doesn't matter).
Equipment:
~ 2 mixing bowls. At least one needs to be large-ish (14-inch diameter or larger).
~ Measuring cups and spoons.
~ Sieve.
~ Rubber spatula. Plastic works, but rubber is best. If you're not sure, get your partner to spank you with it. If it stings, it's rubbery enough. Also, when I say "spatula" I don't mean one of those lifter things with holes that some people call spatulas - I mean one of these. (They're not usually that expensive.)
~ Wooden spoon (not mandatory, but it helps).
~ Cooling rack.
~ Sharp knife.
~ Electric mixer. You CAN do it with a french whisk and wooden spoon and a heck of a lot of bicep strength (and if you do, please send me a photo), but I'd recommend the mixer.
~ Cake tin. I use a round one, although a loaf tin would probably work (although I'm not sure how you'd adjust the cooking time). If you're going for a round tin, I recommend a 7-inch diameter. (Women will most likely know what this means. Men: if you don't know, look at your round tins - or the ones in the shop - and select the one that you think is seven inches. Then choose the next size up. This is actually seven inches.) The most important thing is that it needs to be deep - at least three inches deep, four would be better.
This recipe does not work well as a layer cake.
Method:
1) Preheat your oven to 350 - 375 F / 180 - 190 C / Gas Mark 4 1/2 - 5.
2) Grease your baking tin liberally. I know a lot of people grease with oil and flour, but I find that a fairly gross method - I use butter or vegetable spread on a piece of kitchen towel and rub it all over the bottom and sides of the tin. Make sure you use quite a bit - a tablespoon, maybe a little more.
3) In your smaller bowl (if they're two different sizes), sift your flour along with your baking powder and salt. Set this to one side.
4) In your larger bowl (if you have one), use your electric mixer / superior bicep strength to beat your eggs until fluffy, then add butter, sugar, vanilla, almond and lavender. Beginners' tip: if you're having trouble measuring out your butter, fill a measuring cup 1/4 full of water, then add butter until the water's just about to overflow. I find this easier than trying to measure out a full 3/4 cup of butter, since the butter inevitably doesn't want to fill the cup without leaving empty spaces. Just make sure you don't have butter sticking over the top of the cup if you use this method.
5) At a low speed on the mixer, beat your flour mixture (in fourths) and milk (in thirds) into your butter-egg-sugar medley, beginning and ending with the flour mix. I know some people just chuck it all in together, and I suppose this might work, but I like to do it in bits because I KNOW that way works. And I'm a creature of habit, gosh darn it. You may want to use your wooden spoon to fold the batter together a few times when you add the flour mixture, so the flour doesn't all fly into the air and up your nose.
6) Pour your batter into your cake tin, using the spatula to get the last of the batter off the sides. I advise against licking the bowl - I know parents have been letting their kids eat the scrapings of raw cake batter since time immemorial, but I'm not someone who thinks salmonella is something to screw around with. That said, I have to be super-careful due to my lack of immune system, so YMMV. I know my mom eats cake batter and hasn't contracted any awful diseases yet. That we know of. Smooth the cake as much as you can on the top. It won't be totally smooth, since it's fairly viscous, but do your best.
7) Bake. The book says 30 to 35 minutes, which is a load of crap. It'll probably take an hour and a quarter. You can check it after 45 if you really must, but bear in mind that the more you check the more likely it is to sink. When it's brown on the top, check that it's cooked by poking a sharp knife in the center. If it comes out clean, it's ready. If your knife has any gooiness on it, try again in 15 minutes.
NOTE: People cooking with a fan-assisted oven, or at a high altitude, will need to adjust cooking times. I don't have a fan-assisted oven or live in the mountains, so I don't know exactly what the adjustments are, and you'll have to play around. Generally fan-assisted ovens cook things more quickly, so I'd advise checking the first time after 30 minutes if you're using one. If you're at a high altitude, it may take longer to cook. There's a formula for it (or at least for water, which boils at 1 degree F lower for every 500 feet above sea level) but I think trial and error is your best option.
8) When your knife comes out clean, let the cake rest in its pan on a cooling rack for 12 or 15 minutes.
9) After 12 or 15 minutes, run your knife around the cake where it meets the tin. Tip cake upside-down onto your hand or a plate and bang the top hard. Squeeze the sides a little if it doesn't come out. If it's really stuck, tip right way up again and run knife around the edge once more, this time wiggling the knife a little so the edges pull away from the tin. Tip upside-down and commence banging and squeezing. If you're lucky, it'll come out with very little damage. If a lot breaks off and stays stuck in the tin, you have three possibilities: a) you didn't wait long enough and the cake was too hot; b) you waited too long and the cake was too cold; or c) you didn't use enough butter when you greased the tin. Nothing you can do about it now, but you'll know next time.
10) Eat whatever's left in the tin.
11) Wash strawberries. Remove stalks, cut in half.
12) Either let your cake cool or serve it hot. Stick strawberries on top of cake, add vanilla ice cream or whippy aerosol cream or pouring cream or some variation thereof. You could even beat your cream (if it's double cream - this does not work with single cream or whippy cream) if you want. I like mine with ice cream and a squirt of whippy cream.
13) Hide from your nephews before they eat the entire thing.
For more information on high-altitude cooking, go here - http://culinaryarts.about.com/od/culinaryfundamentals/a/highaltcooking.htm .
See anything you liked? Share it! Just link back to this page.
Suggested by Susan V.
As a writer who seems to have hit a low point in creativity and / or just getting off my ass and writing, I signed myself up to write 31 blog posts during October - one a day - on any subjects that are suggested to me. The only rules for suggestions are that they can't be anything that involve me having to take on a particular viewpoint (so no "Why I Hate Twilight" or "Why Rock Music is the Best Music") - this isn't debating class, and right now I'm not interested in trying to argue something that I may or may not agree with. Anything else goes - it can be a specific subject or a broad one, one that I've written about in the past or something new that will need research. If you're interested in playing along, you can leave a comment here, or email me at thenordicalien@gmail.com. (I'll try and remember to check there, honest!)
I promised this recipe to Susan three or four months back, and is standard for someone with short-term memory loss, promptly forgot about it. She very gently reminded me when I was looking for suggestions of topics for the October 31-day blogging challenge, so I promised I would make it my first post.
Sorry there are no pictures - strawberries aren't in season right now, although if I make the cake itself soon I'll put a photo up.
Also, a note - I tend to measure in cups. Buying a set of measuring cups is probably your best bet if you want to make any of my recipes - you can get a set from any cheap kitchen store or supermarket for a couple pounds / dollars - but if you're really too cheap and or lazy to do that, an American cup is about 2/3 of a standard British mug, or 1 1/2 times a British teacup. This recipe, as with most of the ones I use, works pretty well even if your measurements aren't exact.
The basic structure of the cake - eggs, flour, butter, sugar - comes from the 1963 edition of McCalls Cookbook, published by Random House. The flavourings are my blend.
Ingredients:
For the cake:
~ 3 cups sifted flour. In the US I use cake flour; in the UK I use half plain and half self-raising.
~ 2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder. Not soda. Powder. Don't accidentally use tablespoons the way my mom did once.
~ 1 teaspoon salt.
~ 3/4 cup butter. You can use vegetable spread if you insist, although I'm a fan of butter for cakes. It's not as crucial as it would be in a finer cake though.
~ 1 1/2 cups sugar. I used to use half white and half demarara, which is nice. Now I use all unrefined since that's the only kind we buy. It's still nice. A bit less sweet.
~ 3 eggs. BUY FREE RANGE! Nothing to do with how well the recipe works, just that you should do that.
~ 1 teaspoon vanilla extract or 1/4 teaspoon vanilla essence or 1/4 teaspoon crushed vanilla pod. Do not buy anything that says "vanilla flavouring". Vanilla flavouring has no vanilla in at all. And it tastes rank.
~ 1 teaspoon almond essence. I leave this out sometimes, since my brother's allergic, but it adds a nice taste.
~ 1/2 tablespoon crushed edible lavender or 2 tablespoons lavender sugar. You can add a bit more of this if you want, but if you do, scale back a bit on the normal sugar.
~ 1 cup milk. We use semi-skimmed. I've never tried to make it with other kinds of milk, although I suppose it would work well enough. If you try, let me know how it works out.
For the topping:
~ Strawberries.
~ Vanilla ice cream (optional).
~ Whippy (aerosol) cream or pouring cream (double or single, doesn't matter).
Equipment:
~ 2 mixing bowls. At least one needs to be large-ish (14-inch diameter or larger).
~ Measuring cups and spoons.
~ Sieve.
~ Rubber spatula. Plastic works, but rubber is best. If you're not sure, get your partner to spank you with it. If it stings, it's rubbery enough. Also, when I say "spatula" I don't mean one of those lifter things with holes that some people call spatulas - I mean one of these. (They're not usually that expensive.)
~ Wooden spoon (not mandatory, but it helps).
~ Cooling rack.
~ Sharp knife.
~ Electric mixer. You CAN do it with a french whisk and wooden spoon and a heck of a lot of bicep strength (and if you do, please send me a photo), but I'd recommend the mixer.
~ Cake tin. I use a round one, although a loaf tin would probably work (although I'm not sure how you'd adjust the cooking time). If you're going for a round tin, I recommend a 7-inch diameter. (Women will most likely know what this means. Men: if you don't know, look at your round tins - or the ones in the shop - and select the one that you think is seven inches. Then choose the next size up. This is actually seven inches.) The most important thing is that it needs to be deep - at least three inches deep, four would be better.
This recipe does not work well as a layer cake.
Method:
1) Preheat your oven to 350 - 375 F / 180 - 190 C / Gas Mark 4 1/2 - 5.
2) Grease your baking tin liberally. I know a lot of people grease with oil and flour, but I find that a fairly gross method - I use butter or vegetable spread on a piece of kitchen towel and rub it all over the bottom and sides of the tin. Make sure you use quite a bit - a tablespoon, maybe a little more.
3) In your smaller bowl (if they're two different sizes), sift your flour along with your baking powder and salt. Set this to one side.
4) In your larger bowl (if you have one), use your electric mixer / superior bicep strength to beat your eggs until fluffy, then add butter, sugar, vanilla, almond and lavender. Beginners' tip: if you're having trouble measuring out your butter, fill a measuring cup 1/4 full of water, then add butter until the water's just about to overflow. I find this easier than trying to measure out a full 3/4 cup of butter, since the butter inevitably doesn't want to fill the cup without leaving empty spaces. Just make sure you don't have butter sticking over the top of the cup if you use this method.
5) At a low speed on the mixer, beat your flour mixture (in fourths) and milk (in thirds) into your butter-egg-sugar medley, beginning and ending with the flour mix. I know some people just chuck it all in together, and I suppose this might work, but I like to do it in bits because I KNOW that way works. And I'm a creature of habit, gosh darn it. You may want to use your wooden spoon to fold the batter together a few times when you add the flour mixture, so the flour doesn't all fly into the air and up your nose.
6) Pour your batter into your cake tin, using the spatula to get the last of the batter off the sides. I advise against licking the bowl - I know parents have been letting their kids eat the scrapings of raw cake batter since time immemorial, but I'm not someone who thinks salmonella is something to screw around with. That said, I have to be super-careful due to my lack of immune system, so YMMV. I know my mom eats cake batter and hasn't contracted any awful diseases yet. That we know of. Smooth the cake as much as you can on the top. It won't be totally smooth, since it's fairly viscous, but do your best.
7) Bake. The book says 30 to 35 minutes, which is a load of crap. It'll probably take an hour and a quarter. You can check it after 45 if you really must, but bear in mind that the more you check the more likely it is to sink. When it's brown on the top, check that it's cooked by poking a sharp knife in the center. If it comes out clean, it's ready. If your knife has any gooiness on it, try again in 15 minutes.
NOTE: People cooking with a fan-assisted oven, or at a high altitude, will need to adjust cooking times. I don't have a fan-assisted oven or live in the mountains, so I don't know exactly what the adjustments are, and you'll have to play around. Generally fan-assisted ovens cook things more quickly, so I'd advise checking the first time after 30 minutes if you're using one. If you're at a high altitude, it may take longer to cook. There's a formula for it (or at least for water, which boils at 1 degree F lower for every 500 feet above sea level) but I think trial and error is your best option.
8) When your knife comes out clean, let the cake rest in its pan on a cooling rack for 12 or 15 minutes.
9) After 12 or 15 minutes, run your knife around the cake where it meets the tin. Tip cake upside-down onto your hand or a plate and bang the top hard. Squeeze the sides a little if it doesn't come out. If it's really stuck, tip right way up again and run knife around the edge once more, this time wiggling the knife a little so the edges pull away from the tin. Tip upside-down and commence banging and squeezing. If you're lucky, it'll come out with very little damage. If a lot breaks off and stays stuck in the tin, you have three possibilities: a) you didn't wait long enough and the cake was too hot; b) you waited too long and the cake was too cold; or c) you didn't use enough butter when you greased the tin. Nothing you can do about it now, but you'll know next time.
10) Eat whatever's left in the tin.
11) Wash strawberries. Remove stalks, cut in half.
12) Either let your cake cool or serve it hot. Stick strawberries on top of cake, add vanilla ice cream or whippy aerosol cream or pouring cream or some variation thereof. You could even beat your cream (if it's double cream - this does not work with single cream or whippy cream) if you want. I like mine with ice cream and a squirt of whippy cream.
13) Hide from your nephews before they eat the entire thing.
For more information on high-altitude cooking, go here - http://culinaryarts.about.com/od/culinaryfundamentals/a/highaltcooking.htm .
See anything you liked? Share it! Just link back to this page.
Tuesday, 6 August 2013
So We Put Our Hands Up...And Our Clothing Goes Too
I've been eating a lot of Mr Whippy this summer, because the ice cream man is so damn attractive. He looks like a taller, more muscular Macklemore, which I'd have previously said wasn't my type, except somehow now it is, and has been since I saw him the first time. He's been down my road every evening since June, and once or twice a week I indulge in a cone or a ridiculously overpriced lolly. (￡1.30 for an ice lolly! Really!)
I missed him yesterday - literally by the few seconds that I took to find my purse and try and get mom to move off the doorstep - so today I was sitting on the step from the time I heard the first chimes. (Which was about twenty minutes before he actually showed up, he does the other streets near us first.)
I looked cute. My hair was behaving. I had on a nice sundress. No makeup, since it melts in this weather, but I looked alright without it, despite the mozzie bites on my right cheek. I smelled like satsuma from the bath and Ann Summers' Ravish.
Did I mention I have a ridiculous crush on this man? I've no idea if he's married / in a relationship / gay, but from the greeting he gave me the first time I met him - when I was wearing a bikini and a see-through black beach coverup, with bare legs - I'd hazard a guess that he's none of those. I hope.
So I walked up the street and ordered an orange lolly for mom, and I was just in the process of ordering a 99 Flake for me - and then guess what?
I freaking flashed him.
Yes, the wind chose that moment to whip my dress up over my head. The wind that's been pretty dormant all day.
I probably should have learned my lesson with this dress, because I'm now flashing - hah - back to the first time I wore it. It was in May two years ago, and I'd just had dinner with my Japanese class, and was walking out of the Galleria with Dominic and Ayumi and a gust of previously nonexistent wind came up and whooshed the chiffon skirt way up, although not quite over my head like this time. Funny, I'd blocked that out of my mind until now.
Skirt is out of shot, defeating the point of this pic. Oh well.
So what did I do? I said, "Whoops, sorry about that. I'd like a small cone with a Flake, please. Sure, sauce. Which one? Oh, bubblegum, I guess." I was very composed. You'd have been proud of me. Until he went to give me my change and I accidentally (again) stroked his fingers.
Sigh.
This (British, since it's coming up soon) Thanksgiving, I shall be thankful for underpants.
I missed him yesterday - literally by the few seconds that I took to find my purse and try and get mom to move off the doorstep - so today I was sitting on the step from the time I heard the first chimes. (Which was about twenty minutes before he actually showed up, he does the other streets near us first.)
I looked cute. My hair was behaving. I had on a nice sundress. No makeup, since it melts in this weather, but I looked alright without it, despite the mozzie bites on my right cheek. I smelled like satsuma from the bath and Ann Summers' Ravish.
Did I mention I have a ridiculous crush on this man? I've no idea if he's married / in a relationship / gay, but from the greeting he gave me the first time I met him - when I was wearing a bikini and a see-through black beach coverup, with bare legs - I'd hazard a guess that he's none of those. I hope.
So I walked up the street and ordered an orange lolly for mom, and I was just in the process of ordering a 99 Flake for me - and then guess what?
I freaking flashed him.
Yes, the wind chose that moment to whip my dress up over my head. The wind that's been pretty dormant all day.
I probably should have learned my lesson with this dress, because I'm now flashing - hah - back to the first time I wore it. It was in May two years ago, and I'd just had dinner with my Japanese class, and was walking out of the Galleria with Dominic and Ayumi and a gust of previously nonexistent wind came up and whooshed the chiffon skirt way up, although not quite over my head like this time. Funny, I'd blocked that out of my mind until now.
Skirt is out of shot, defeating the point of this pic. Oh well.
So what did I do? I said, "Whoops, sorry about that. I'd like a small cone with a Flake, please. Sure, sauce. Which one? Oh, bubblegum, I guess." I was very composed. You'd have been proud of me. Until he went to give me my change and I accidentally (again) stroked his fingers.
Sigh.
This (British, since it's coming up soon) Thanksgiving, I shall be thankful for underpants.
Tuesday, 2 July 2013
Curse You, Universe, You Twisted Mofo
So picture the scene: the fair's in town, and you've been seeing posters for it for a few weeks. You really want to go; you love the fair and there's never anyone who'll go with you. This year, though, you have friends to go with. So you're looking forward to it. You walked past it yesterday on the way to the swimming pool, and it looks smaller than you thought it was going to be, but there is this one totally awesome ride that you're dying to go on.
Kinda ironic that you're terrified of throwing up, and love rides that make people throw up, but what can you do?
So you're at the fair. It's Saturday night, and you're feeling good. People are screaming in fear and delight. You can smell candyfloss and hotdogs. You warm up with one fast-and-fun-but-not-scary ride. And then it's time for the big one. You queue, not that there's much of a queue. You pay. You go put your handbag down and take your slip-on shoes off so you don't fling one off while you're riding and end up committing death by ivory pump. You go to get in. While you're trying to clamber up into the ridiculously high seat, you absently catch sight of the warning signs. You never bother to read warning signs on rides, because the contraindications are always the same: no riders less than 1.5 metres tall, no pacemakers, no back and neck injuries, no oh my fucking God I haven't had a period in three months.
What's a girl to do? Panic, it seems. Panic, mutter something to your friends about not being able to get into the seat because your legs aren't long enough, try to shake off the sweetheart of a ride operator who offers several times to lift you in, and move very quickly towards the exit while your friends yell at you, confused. And then leave the fair as soon as possible without seeming unfriendly, and take yourself off to Tesco to buy a pregnancy test. And then to Nando's, since you're already out, and dressed up for the evening, and most of life's problems seem less daunting when there's peri-peri chicken.
So far, I have a negative result from the pee-on-a-stick test, but I need to get a doctor's appointment this week. My body's been out of control for the last year or so, so there's no knowing what's going on. It's true that I've gained a lot of weight. None of my clothes fit, especially around the waist. I look pregnant, but then I've looked pregnant for the last year and a half. Could just be outta-whack hormones.
I can't even begin to express how stupid I feel for not considering the possibility. I'm an ex medical student, for pete's sake. And I deal with pregnant teenagers all the time. I give talks to teenagers at the youth center about pregnancy, how to prevent it, what to expect from it, et al. I guess that the lack of sex in my life kind of made me ignore the possibility. Not that there haven't been naked occasions. Just not many. And nothing recently. I sort of blanked out the stuff with personal-trainer-guy. Perhaps wrongly.
I long ago accepted the fact that the universe has a weird sense of humor, and likes to play jokes on me. Lakik the Trickster god, from Tamora Pierce's books, always comes to mind when I think of the stuff the universe throws at me. This stuff now may well be my just desserts for all the whinging about children I've been doing lately. I don't like kids, but recently I've had less patience with them than normal. But finding myself knocked up without even getting to have the fun of getting in that state in the first place...that would be a new low for even Lakik, that sick sonofabitch.
Meh.
I can tell it's just going to be one of those weeks.
I didn't even get my damn candyfloss.
So you're at the fair. It's Saturday night, and you're feeling good. People are screaming in fear and delight. You can smell candyfloss and hotdogs. You warm up with one fast-and-fun-but-not-scary ride. And then it's time for the big one. You queue, not that there's much of a queue. You pay. You go put your handbag down and take your slip-on shoes off so you don't fling one off while you're riding and end up committing death by ivory pump. You go to get in. While you're trying to clamber up into the ridiculously high seat, you absently catch sight of the warning signs. You never bother to read warning signs on rides, because the contraindications are always the same: no riders less than 1.5 metres tall, no pacemakers, no back and neck injuries, no oh my fucking God I haven't had a period in three months.
What's a girl to do? Panic, it seems. Panic, mutter something to your friends about not being able to get into the seat because your legs aren't long enough, try to shake off the sweetheart of a ride operator who offers several times to lift you in, and move very quickly towards the exit while your friends yell at you, confused. And then leave the fair as soon as possible without seeming unfriendly, and take yourself off to Tesco to buy a pregnancy test. And then to Nando's, since you're already out, and dressed up for the evening, and most of life's problems seem less daunting when there's peri-peri chicken.
So far, I have a negative result from the pee-on-a-stick test, but I need to get a doctor's appointment this week. My body's been out of control for the last year or so, so there's no knowing what's going on. It's true that I've gained a lot of weight. None of my clothes fit, especially around the waist. I look pregnant, but then I've looked pregnant for the last year and a half. Could just be outta-whack hormones.
I can't even begin to express how stupid I feel for not considering the possibility. I'm an ex medical student, for pete's sake. And I deal with pregnant teenagers all the time. I give talks to teenagers at the youth center about pregnancy, how to prevent it, what to expect from it, et al. I guess that the lack of sex in my life kind of made me ignore the possibility. Not that there haven't been naked occasions. Just not many. And nothing recently. I sort of blanked out the stuff with personal-trainer-guy. Perhaps wrongly.
I long ago accepted the fact that the universe has a weird sense of humor, and likes to play jokes on me. Lakik the Trickster god, from Tamora Pierce's books, always comes to mind when I think of the stuff the universe throws at me. This stuff now may well be my just desserts for all the whinging about children I've been doing lately. I don't like kids, but recently I've had less patience with them than normal. But finding myself knocked up without even getting to have the fun of getting in that state in the first place...that would be a new low for even Lakik, that sick sonofabitch.
Meh.
I can tell it's just going to be one of those weeks.
I didn't even get my damn candyfloss.
Tuesday, 18 June 2013
Gems From The Treasure Cave Of Sati #1: In The Name Of Dog
Every now and then something happens - an event, a conversation - that's just begging to be be written down. And as I'm someone who's trying to become a writer again - for I haven't been one for a long time - it seems prudent to, you know, write.
I skype with Dr Chris every couple weeks. Either for my own therapy (when I need it), or to catch up on work stuff if we miss each other when we're at the center, or just to catch up. We're friends, as well as colleagues and therapist-client. (It's an unconventional and some would say 'wrong' arrangement, but it works for us.) I'm not currently in therapy, and I'm off work from now until September or October, but we had a friendly talk today.
Today I got to 'meet' Doc's six-year-old niece, Sasha, and her schnauzer puppy, who is named - wait for it - epididymis.
This name came about due to a six-year-old's mishearing of one of the Labyrinth characters, and an uncle with a medical degree and an offbeat sense of humor who egged her on.
I skype with Dr Chris every couple weeks. Either for my own therapy (when I need it), or to catch up on work stuff if we miss each other when we're at the center, or just to catch up. We're friends, as well as colleagues and therapist-client. (It's an unconventional and some would say 'wrong' arrangement, but it works for us.) I'm not currently in therapy, and I'm off work from now until September or October, but we had a friendly talk today.
Today I got to 'meet' Doc's six-year-old niece, Sasha, and her schnauzer puppy, who is named - wait for it - epididymis.
This name came about due to a six-year-old's mishearing of one of the Labyrinth characters, and an uncle with a medical degree and an offbeat sense of humor who egged her on.
No relation to testicles, except for the excessive fur.
Doc's sister does not have a medical degree, nor a particularly offbeat sense of humor, and she's cursing the fact that nobody picked up on the puppy's name until after he'd learned to respond to it. Now, of course, they're stuck, since nobody wants to try and retrain him to answer to a new name. *grins*
I have to say, though, it makes my own childhood choice of James Pond Bubble-Oh-Seven (goldfish) and Anna and Michael's Catticus Finch (American Shorthair) look positively mundane.
Monday, 10 June 2013
The List - No, Not *That* List
Holy crud, I knew I had this post somewhere. That's what I get for using encrypted files. I lose them and then don't find them for two years.
Anyway.
I shouldn't have to tell you this is tongue-in-cheek, but I suppose I'd better, just in case.
The (Incomplete) List of Things I Look For In A Man
Intelligence and Learning:
Is smart - 5 pts
Is smarter than me - 50 pts
Is smarter than I used to be - 500 pts
Can talk to me intelligently about Plato - 5 pts
Can talk to me intelligently about Plato for more than 90 seconds - 50 pts
Can talk to me intelligently about Plato for more than 90 seconds without sounding condescending - 500 pts
Likes Studio Ghibli - 50 pts
Grave of the Fireflies is his favorite - minus 50 pts
Will happily read an essay of mine titled, "Exploring the Parallels in the Lives and Rise to Power of Emperor Haile Selassie and Simba the Lion King" - 50 pts
Will laugh at me because he knows the essay was at least 90% B.S. - 500 pts
Cleanliness and Appearance:
Showers or bathes before bed - 250 pts
Shaves daily - 250 pts
Keeps his pubic hair trimmed - 250 pts
Uses a nice-smelling detergent / fabric softener - 250 pts
Wears cologne or aftershave (and is willing to use one that I like) - 250 pts
Is happy to wear a nice suit now and then - 250 pts
Asks for my advice on picking one out - 250 pts
Hobbies:
Speaks Japanese - 250 pts
Speaks Spanish - 250 pts
Will quote me e.e. cummings - 100 pts
Will quote me Pablo Neruda - 100 pts
Will quote me Christina Rosetti - 100 pts
Will quote me Edgar Allan Poe - 100 pts
Will quote me Shelley - 100 pts
Buys me books for my birthday - 25 pts
Buys me books when it's not my birthday - 100 pts
Buys me MolyMod for my birthday, instead of what he thinks I should want - 1000 pts
Can cook food that tastes great - 25 pts
Can cook food that tastes great and is healthy - 100 pts
Buys me flowers now and then - 25 pts
Buys me flowers that suit my personality - 100 pts
Is creative and / or artistic - 25 pts
Thinks it's adorable that I'm not - 100 pts
Tells jokes that make me laugh - 25 pts
Tells clean jokes that still make me laugh - 100 pts
Tells clean jokes that make me laugh so hard I stop breathing for a minute - 250 pts
Corrects my grammar - plus or minus 50 pts, depending on how he does it
Does volunteer work - 50 pts
Looks:
Is tall - 250 pts (fuck off, sometimes I'm shallow)
Has nice strong shoulders - 250 pts
Has good skin - 250 pts
Has neatish eyebrows that don't meet in the middle - 250 pts
Has a few tattoos (more than 0, less than 5) - 250 pts
Has a few piercings (more than 0, less than 5) - 250 pts
Has a crooked smile - 250 pts
Wears eyeliner and / or mascara and / or nail polish - 250 pts
Has a moderately large nose - 250 pts (yes, seriously...I think it's a throwback to my Native American ancestry, but most of the guys I really crush on have large noses)
Arete:
Makes me want to be a better person - 500 pts
Makes me want to do things that I'm scared to do - 500 pts
Makes me want to do things that I might well regret - 500 pts
Got your score? Great. Now throw it away, because that was just for fun. For the right man, none of this counts.
Makes me feel all fluttery in my stomach when I see him - 500 pts
Makes me feel all fluttery in my stomach just by texting or calling me, or messaging me, or coming online - 5 million pts
Anyway.
I shouldn't have to tell you this is tongue-in-cheek, but I suppose I'd better, just in case.
The (Incomplete) List of Things I Look For In A Man
Intelligence and Learning:
Is smart - 5 pts
Is smarter than me - 50 pts
Is smarter than I used to be - 500 pts
Can talk to me intelligently about Plato - 5 pts
Can talk to me intelligently about Plato for more than 90 seconds - 50 pts
Can talk to me intelligently about Plato for more than 90 seconds without sounding condescending - 500 pts
Likes Studio Ghibli - 50 pts
Grave of the Fireflies is his favorite - minus 50 pts
Will happily read an essay of mine titled, "Exploring the Parallels in the Lives and Rise to Power of Emperor Haile Selassie and Simba the Lion King" - 50 pts
Will laugh at me because he knows the essay was at least 90% B.S. - 500 pts
Cleanliness and Appearance:
Showers or bathes before bed - 250 pts
Shaves daily - 250 pts
Keeps his pubic hair trimmed - 250 pts
Uses a nice-smelling detergent / fabric softener - 250 pts
Wears cologne or aftershave (and is willing to use one that I like) - 250 pts
Is happy to wear a nice suit now and then - 250 pts
Asks for my advice on picking one out - 250 pts
Hobbies:
Speaks Japanese - 250 pts
Speaks Spanish - 250 pts
Will quote me e.e. cummings - 100 pts
Will quote me Pablo Neruda - 100 pts
Will quote me Christina Rosetti - 100 pts
Will quote me Edgar Allan Poe - 100 pts
Will quote me Shelley - 100 pts
Buys me books for my birthday - 25 pts
Buys me books when it's not my birthday - 100 pts
Buys me MolyMod for my birthday, instead of what he thinks I should want - 1000 pts
Can cook food that tastes great - 25 pts
Can cook food that tastes great and is healthy - 100 pts
Buys me flowers now and then - 25 pts
Buys me flowers that suit my personality - 100 pts
Is creative and / or artistic - 25 pts
Thinks it's adorable that I'm not - 100 pts
Tells jokes that make me laugh - 25 pts
Tells clean jokes that still make me laugh - 100 pts
Tells clean jokes that make me laugh so hard I stop breathing for a minute - 250 pts
Corrects my grammar - plus or minus 50 pts, depending on how he does it
Does volunteer work - 50 pts
Looks:
Is tall - 250 pts (fuck off, sometimes I'm shallow)
Has nice strong shoulders - 250 pts
Has good skin - 250 pts
Has neatish eyebrows that don't meet in the middle - 250 pts
Has a few tattoos (more than 0, less than 5) - 250 pts
Has a few piercings (more than 0, less than 5) - 250 pts
Has a crooked smile - 250 pts
Wears eyeliner and / or mascara and / or nail polish - 250 pts
Has a moderately large nose - 250 pts (yes, seriously...I think it's a throwback to my Native American ancestry, but most of the guys I really crush on have large noses)
Arete:
Makes me want to be a better person - 500 pts
Makes me want to do things that I'm scared to do - 500 pts
Makes me want to do things that I might well regret - 500 pts
Got your score? Great. Now throw it away, because that was just for fun. For the right man, none of this counts.
Makes me feel all fluttery in my stomach when I see him - 500 pts
Makes me feel all fluttery in my stomach just by texting or calling me, or messaging me, or coming online - 5 million pts
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