I managed to come down with a nasty cold at the beginning of August and as soon as I started feeling fully functional my cat managed to hurt the feline equivalent of his wrist. Which sucks for numerous reasons, including the fact that I had to cancel a trip to the Adirondacks with my father to take care of his pathetic, barely-upright self. And as if that weren't enough to deal with, my mother has been in town. Which is fantastic, actually, because I love seeing my mother, but has also contributed to my feeling like I have a lot on my plate. On the bright side though, I'm more caught up at work than I've been in at least a year. Our summer interns? They are fabulous.

So while I haven't been doing much that's interesting to blog about here in the dog days of summer, I have been reading.

The -Ookies are counting down to hockey with fabulous pictures that make me wish that my camera wasn't broken. And that it was better. And that I could take such nice pictures. And that I had jars of chocolate chips.

The Millions tackled Malcolm Gladwell's (shabby) stab at literary criticism. The main problem, as I see it, is that Gladwell doesn't really seem to appreciate the difference between the kind of fun cultural criticism he normally does and writing about literature. He tackles the two things the same way and treats the characters as if they're real historical people, the novel as if it's artless. And his conclusion is particularly egregious: "A book that we thought instructed us about the world tells us, instead, about the limitations of Jim Crow liberalism in Maycomb, Alabama." Even if we accept the idea that To Kill a Mockingbird "instruct[s] us about the world" in a way that's different than the way that all great literature and art does so--a conclusion I'm not particularly inclined to agree with--we're still left with the fact that telling us about the limits of Jim Crow liberalism in a particular place in time is instructing us about the world. Not the way we're instructed by a history class though--the way we're instructed by a novel: through thoughtful reading and fierce attention.

I'm not fussed about Gia Kourlas saying bad things about the program Tulsa Ballet performed at the Joyce. I didn't see it so I'm not in the position to agree or disagree with her, but if she didn't like it she didn't like it and should say so. But I do wish she hadn't started her review with a somewhat condescending paragraph that begins by saying, "State government doesn’t normally shut down for ballet, but you wouldn’t have believed it judging by the dignitaries who spilled into the Joyce Theater on Monday night," and finishes up by claiming, "It was surreal—the whoops that erupted as the curtain was raised were a bit much—but it was also sweet to see such hometown pride." It just feels to me like she's looking down her nose at the Oklahomans. Of course small cities are proud of their cultural institutions. Of course they're going to come and support said institutions when they perform in a cultural capital like New York. It's a big fucking deal when it's something they only do once every few decades instead of all the time. I can't say I'm at all surprised that Oklahoma bigwigs came. And as for the whooping at the curtain raising . . . yeah, that doesn't surprise me either. People tend to be a bit more vocally enthusiastic outside New York. It doesn't mean they need to be portrayed like they just might be overexcited yokels.

I just read most of Love Begins in Winter. Then it became the first book in quite some time that I actively chose not to finish. Van Booy's writing is full of lovely lines and scenes, moments of genuine beauty, but they seem to come without real regard for the stories themselves. This one for example: "In the far distance, Sunday parked over the village like an old mute who hid his face in the hanging thick of clouds." I don't even know what that means. That it was quiet and foggy? That the author is trying rather too hard on the evocative imagery front? That he thought up that line and had to get it in there no matter what? Some combination?

My big issue though, is that there's so much that just doesn't feel true to me. The story that really killed me though is one that contains a scene wherein the protagonist and her boyfriend go on a trip to the Adirondacks. They hike nine miles “up into the white breath of the mountain” go off trail to a river with a large and flat enough rock for them to make love on, which isn’t soaked although it’s just been raining because “it’s amazing how quickly the sun dries the earth after it has been washed.” Now having spent some time in the Adirondacks I find it hard to believe that if it's just been raining you're going to be amazed at how quickly the sun dries things. Or that you'll feel like said rain has cleaned anything. Because you'll be hiking in mud. And if you've been hiking up for nine miles you are a) on a hell of a long day hike and b) probably not near any rivers large enough to contain a rock that sizable and flat. It doesn't seem real; it feels like Van Booy just wanted the scene. Particularly because while they've been busy having sex and taking a nap, their champagne glasses have rolled off into a rock pool where they stand upright. There, we are told, “Each glass held the weight of an entire river without knowing where it came from and how much was left.” Say what? That sounds nice and serious and all but it doesn't mean much of anything, which is pretty much how I felt about so much in this story collection.

Things That Make a Girl Peevish...

My apartment building has been having water problems pretty much all year and I can deal with that. I can even deal with the brown water and sediment spitting out of the pipes. I felt a little like the Laura Ingalls Wilder of the East Village last weekend when my water was out all day and I was heating water in the kettle in order to bathe and I wasn't totally aggravated although I wouldn't say I was thrilled. But when I got home from vacation today to find my toilet not working, I was not at all happy. I just spent time backpacking, people . . . all I want this afternoon is a toilet that actually flushes without my dumping 5 gallons of water into the tank. 

A Letter

Dear Sabres,

That was a lousy, pathetic excuse for a hockey game. I paid $70 to witness that shit in person and I hope you're properly ashamed that anyone would have wasted their money on watching that. I may have had fun tonight but it was no thanks to you. (Lalime, you're excused. You were fine and it's not your fault the team clearly loves playing like absolute trash in front of you.) 

I mean, the Islanders are the worst team in the league for a reason. And tonight? They played like the Islanders. And yet you were shut out. If I was that shitty at my job I wouldn't have a job. I'm just saying. 

All the best,

Meg

Apartment Living

For like the 5th time this fall I have no running water, and this is at least the second time that it's happened with no warning and no estimate of when it's coming back on because of broken pipes. This puts a real crimp in my plans and projects for the day. Not amused. This month, for the first time since moving here about 6 years ago, I've really been wishing I lived somewhere else. Somewhere I could have a house, for instance.

iGoogle and Other Miscellany

Apparently I'm now part of Google's experiment with iGoogle that has left-hand navigation and this canvas view thing. As you can see above. My gmail doesn't work as well nor does my reader and it makes everything look more cramped and crowded when I'm not looking at a specific app. So basically I think it sucks and I'm not terribly happy to be stuck with it. Just saying. 

Amy, at Shots off the Crossbar, linked to a not entirely shitty Bucky Gleason article in the Buffalo News. My least favorite sports columnist starts out pretty well, but can't help ending up in the usual Bucky zone of stating the blindingly obvious:

See, at times, this job becomes one. You become so accustomed to seeing great athletes perform at the highest levels that, after a while you forget how to cheer. Over time, I guess, objectivity stole one of the things I liked most about following sports, having a rooting interest.

Stop the presses: Bucky is out of touch with the common fan? Somewhere along the line he stopped getting it? I imagine it's too much to hope that he takes this realization and remembers it while covering the Sabres this year. Every time he begins to write something that condescends to the fans he should take a moment and remember what it's like to be a fan. And by that I don't mean what it's like to be a fan of Drury, Briere, and Campbell. I mean what it's like to be a fan of a team. Yeah, I'm not holding out much hope. (Side note to the Buffalo News: Copyedit better. That last sentence I quoted could be a bit less awkward grammatically, no?)

My previously balding cat now has peach fuzz on his formerly bald patches and is looking rather less ugly. I may be treating the symptom not the disease, but at least he's a bit less ugly. 

Totally Stressed

This is from yesterday evening and there's even less fur today. I know, I know, if my biggest concern in life is my cat losing all his hair then my life isn't so bad. I do realize that. But still, just look at my previously totally handsome darling. If I just knew what was wrong with him it would be better. I'm talking to the vet tomorrow about this latest bald patch.

Bath II

I'm sorry, I know this ringworm stuff is probably pretty boring for everyone by now, but my life is kind of revolving around it at the moment. Today we did the lime sulfur bath the right way, by which I mean we didn't rinse it off. The smell is so strong that it's actually a bit tough to breathe in my room. Also his little paws are yellow.

The e-collar--which Wendy told me today stands for Elizabethan collar, which I think is really neat--is totally necessary because in between refusing to look at us and getting stuck while trying to slink he's desperately attempting to groom. As it is, he keeps grooming his e-collar instead of his fur.


Fortunately one nice thing about having a roommate employed by an animal hospital is that she has a generous supply of scrubs. Some of which are clearly massive on her because they fit me.

This week has been better in one respect. I made cocktails.
That's right. This experience is driving even my teetotaling roommate to drink. Lightly, anyway.

And I was hoping things would get a bit calmer...

Wendy and I spent most of Friday and Saturday cleaning and bleaching the hell out of our apartment. The kitchen, living room, and halls are about as clean as they've every been. Clothing? Washed. Sheets? Washed. Towels? Washed. And so on and so forth. One of the other big projects was clearing out a lot of my room. Because that's the place where we need to isolate Pyramus, it needs a daily bleaching. We figured the only way that would really be doable was if we got all the surfaces super clear. So I took all the books off the bookshelf, and the table behind my bed, and the dresser. We moved the bookshelf out to the living room and, after bleaching the shelf and vacuuming all the books, returned them to their places, stacking all the extras on top. Then everything else found a temporary home, either in my now stuffed drawers or in the rest of the apartment.

Today was then dedicated to vacuuming and rolling my carpet and then doing the same bleach job we'd done everywhere else in my room. It's now looking rather bare, sad, and colorless. Well, the walls are still colorful, of course, but my multi-hued quilt is packed away and my bright yellow chair all covered so it's far more dull and cheerless than it normally is.

So as you can see the last few days have just been a blast. Also exhausting. We have taken time to do some fun stuff though.

On Friday Wendy and I met up with a friend and her family and, after buying a picnic dinner at whole foods, went to the Prospect Park Bandshell to see the Metropolis Ensemble and Deerhoof. I enjoyed the ensemble's remix of Rite of Spring--although not as much as the regular orchestral version--but didn't like the other piece they did. Deerhoof was kind of hit or miss for me. What was really nice though was just sitting outside in the park on a blanket with people I enjoy. I'd never been to the Bandshell before and was a little worried that it would be like Central Park SummerStage, but it was much nicer.

Then yesterday, there was a birthday party on Long Island. I was so exhausted from cleaning that I wasn't really looking forward to the trip out there but unsurprisingly it turned out to be a nice break and the party was fun. Among other things I got to spend time with a friend who is moving back to Buffalo shortly. And we got gift bags with various fun stuff like this, which I think is too funny:

And since the last picture of Pyramus was so utterly pathetic, here's one from today of him sitting in my lap and looking far less miserable.
His next bath is going to be on Tuesday and this time we'll be better prepared. By which I mean I'm going to have alcohol on hand.

One Miserable Cat

So Pyramus has ringworm--where he got it we don't know--and is developing bald patches like it's going out of style. Wendy took him to the vet this morning and was given all sorts of instructions. Then she came home and proceeded to wash every washable piece of cloth in the entire apartment. Including my sheets, blankets, dirty clothes, and everything in the open drawers he likes to sleep in. Then she cleaned and vacuumed my room and the entire rest of the apartment. Then she went to PetCo and bought all the things we'll need while he is isolated in my bedroom for the next six weeks. All while I was at work and then doing the spending time with the parents thing. So basically I have the most awesome roommate in the world.

The primary aspect of his treatment is a weekly lime sulfur bath. It's every single bit as nasty as it sounds. Hours and about 10 hand washings after giving him the bath my hands still smell like sulfur. First we put on clothes that can be stained, take off anything metal, and empty the bathroom. Next we put a liter of water in a litter box and then add an ounce of the lime sulfur solution. Then we soak him in it while he freaks out. Then we rinse him off, put on the e-collar so he can't groom himself while drying, and sit with him while he shivers and sulks. He's actually incredibly good about it all, which somehow just makes it sadder.