I was laid off 2 days before my birthday in 2009, a dismal blessing. I miss health insurance and payroll, but I haven't bought bread since the pink slip because I have time to bake.
Sometimes I'm a serious job hunter, sometimes a serious slacker, but mostly, I'm an underemployed, freelance Jaqueline of many trades including writing and dogsitting. Either way, I scrapbook my finds and activities here for your benefit and amusement.
Follow me on Twitter if tv/movie/pro-cycling spoilers and unplanned live tweets won't hail on your parade. And yes, I do work blue so don't be huffy with me if you don't like cursing or merciless roasting of public figures.
B. was my first long-term boyfriend, and thus the first man I looked forward to feeding on a routine basis.
I had spent the first half of my twenties fumbling my way through a sort of boxed set of attractive but woefully unsuitable males. Our brief entanglements would be fun but underwhelming, and the food I cooked tended to function mainly as a prelude to carnality. It was a thrill to possess such a means of seduction, but it was short-lived; I always ended up doing the dishes on my own.
Yoko called May one day and told her she was thinking of taking John back. May was scared, as she knew she was no match for Yoko’s will. In February of 1975, Yoko called John and told him she had found a cure for smoking. She herself had recently quit cold turkey. John had been trying to quit for some time. He went to Yoko’s, where he was with her and her hypnotist for two days. When he came back to May, he seemed dazed. She described him as looking “brainwashed.” He gave May a gift from Yoko, a vial of essential oil that reeked of sulfur. John had come to tell May he was moving out of their apartment and back in with Yoko. She had a month to vacate.
John Lennon’s wilderness years with May Pang fascinates me. This Recording has a great summary of this Yoko-John-May pseudo-triangle. Whatever happened between 1973 and 1975, all I know is when I saw Yoko at Arthurfest and she shouted “You killed my man, you bastard!” during “Walking on Thin Ice”, I sensed what deep pain it is to have your life’s love gunned down in front of you.
OH GOODNESS, I FEEL THIS. Friends, I do totally think you’re a shithead if you don’t answer my txt question but I see your inane twattling. Isn’t texting above social networking sites in the hierarchy of personal connections? Why are you in my phone’s contact list if you prioritize your imaginary online so-called friends? PAY ATTENTION TO ME!
Comedian Nick Kroll wrote this list and I think you should read it like I nailed it to your virtual front door like Martin Luther (yeah, the OG not Junior) did with his 95 Theses.
Drawing on his knowledge of police procedure, gleaned from his time as an informer for law enforcement, he accomplished what prosecutors in New York called one of the most elaborate framing plots that they had ever seen.
One night, Ms. Sumasar was pulled over by the police. Before she could speak, detectives slapped handcuffs on her. “You know you did it,” she said one later shouted at her. “Just admit it.”
This is simultaneously scary and delightful. Truth? If a hot guy executed such a fucked up, elaborate plot it would make me swoon. But I’d just admire from afar because no one needs this kind of shit in their lives.
Seriously, read the whole article. Hollywood will come a-knocking and turn this into an insipid erotic thriller.
If we had not been dating before then, if he were just another faculty member and this happened, I might have said, “I’m sorry, I’m out of here” and just left. But because this was someone I was growing to like a lot, I thought that I had to figure this out. So I kept at it. I fought back, and ended up having a huge argument with him. I don’t think we’ve ever had an argument quite like that since then.
I feared that if the study went on, he would become someone I no longer cared for, no longer loved, no longer respected. It’s an interesting question: Suppose he kept going, what would I have done? I honestly don’t know.
The Stanford alumni magazine of all publications has a must-read piece on the Stanford Prison Experiment, in which they interview researchers, guards and inmates after 40 years. While everyone’s takes are compelling, Christina Maslach stands out from others. She is the then-girlfriend and now-wife of Phil Zimbardo, the principal faculty for the experiment. She is also credited as the person who stopped the experiment.
What caught my attention about her take is that, in simplistic terms, she shut down the experiment so she wouldn’t have to break up with Zimbardo. Sure, the ethical issues struck her as well, but it seems the possible impact to her romantic relationship with Zimbardo was quite moving for her. I can absolutely understand the fear that sets in when you start liking someone; the fear of being disappointed or hurt or betrayed. Seeing someone you like acting cruelly or condoning cruelty toward helpless persons can be, for the most part, in layman’s terms, a bonerkiller and a dealbreaker. It just feels strange that an emotion I can totally relate to is what put the kibosh on the Stanford Prison Experiment.
I wonder what it must be like to date (and marry) one of the foremost experts in psychology—like dating Hannibal Lecter without romantic dinners of a census taker’s liver with fava beans? I just hope the sex is really, really good to match any mindfuck you get.
Trivia: I’ve been hypnotized by Zimbardo in a mass hypnosis demonstration in a full lecture hall. Also, Zimbardo looks very Luciferish.
A bride in China threw herself out the window when she was left at the altar, but was caught in time.
Girl, don’t do this over a dumb idiot asshole. Go find him in your wedding dress (which I love, btw) and kick him in the nuts with your YSL Tribute-style platforms. You have all that champagne you need to drink, all that cake to eat.
Such natural preferences get wiped out when the woman is on hormonal birth control, research has shown. Women on the pill no longer experience a greater desire for traditionally masculine men during ovulation. Their preference for partners who carry different immunities than they do also disappears. And men no longer exhibit shifting interest for women based on their menstrual cycle, perhaps because those cues signaling ovulation are no longer present, scientists say.
Some women using birth-control pills have long reported changes to their libido and mood. Research is still in the early stages to explore the implications of taking hormonal contraceptives for women’s choice of mates and for fidelity in relationships. Researchers speculate that women with less-masculine partners may become less interested in their partner when they come off birth control, contributing to relationship dissatisfaction. And, if contraceptives are masking women’s natural ability to detect genetic diversity, then the children produced by parents who met when the woman was on the pill may be less genetically healthy, they suggest.
Woa woa woa. This WSJ article on hormones and attraction says women on hormonal birth control aren’t as attracted to masculine men during ovulation. Women taking the pill or other homone-based birth control do not ovulate. That’s how it prevents baby-making.
And the lowered sex drive in women on hormonal birth control? Concluding that it’s because these women are attracted to less masculine men seems imbued with speculation and judgement, not empirical fact.
I hate how this article uses the idea of attraction as bait and fronts scientific research to spread misinformation about birth control. Yes, some women experience side effects that can be severe. It’s not the best solution for every woman. But to say using responsible birth control leads to “less genetically healthy” offspring is way off the mark. To call it irresponsible journalism would give it too much credit as this is weird disinformation not journalism.
“This is what I would like before leaving for America,” Piaf wrote on April 13, 1952, before a tour. “To be so worn-out, so filled with love, that I cannot make love anymore for months but await my marvelous return to be with you again like your little pet dog.”
Gerardin reportedly said of his mistress: “Forty eight hours with Piaf are more tiring than a lap in the Tour de France.”
Excerpt from Edit Piaf’s love letter to her married lover, Louis Gerardin, a French National Champion and a World Champion in track cycling. Plus his comment on Edit Piaf, which non-cycling people seem to interpret as negative. Endurance athletes know, however, there’s a good tired and a bad tired.
If I were a nuisance to a cyclist guy, though, I hope he’d shoo me away saying I’m more tiring than riding in Tour de France. Actually, it would be dreamy if he insulted me by saying I’m as back-breaking and ball-busting as the Giro d’Italia, Ronde van Vlaanderen and Paris-Roubaix combined.