Postcard from Ukraine

This is from Sofia who has the hobbies of photography, painting and listening to rock music.  She reports that “I also listen to such world-famous groups as Scropions, the Beatles, AC/DC, Metallica and others.”

Also, this painting is a Ukrainian National Pattern.  Man, we don’t have any national patterns here in the US!

It arrived bearing some great stamps.
 

Big Trimet day.

Wanna come along?  Well, you missed the first part, because I didn’t think to take pictures.  Imagine the Lombard Transit center, where I picked up the #4 and rode it over to Vancouver street.  There, I disembarked and went to the Dishman Community Center to swim.  Finished there, I walked to MLK to grab the #6.  Here we can switch to photos.

Across the street from this stop for the #6, are two houses, both alike in dignity/ in fair Portland where we lay our scene.  They are also apparently owned by the same person, who painted them the same color.
 

Where I came from:  Dishman.
 
I disembarked at Burnside and MLK to switch to the #20.  I probably had enough time to walk up to the theater, but was hungry, and wanted to leave time for a lunch more substantial than popcorn.  While at this stop the gentleman waiting with me asked me what I took the picture of.  When I explained it was for my blog he asked, “Who reads it?”  I told him that friends did and his reply was “Oh” and he ceased talking to me.  This amused me.  I guess I wasn’t a famous enough blogger for him.
 
I went with Tapalaya for food and had a very good pulled pork sandwich with two sides:  collards with bacon and a black-eye pea salad.
 
My movie destination was right around the corner.
 
Waiting for the #20 again.  This was my longest wait of 20 minutes.  O! Sunday schedule, why must you thwart me!  Happily, my time was taken up by watching a disaffected youth cross Burnside, forcing cars to stop for him while he flipped them off.  He then stood behind a pole that was part of the building across the street and in short order a police cruiser pulled up, parked and talked with him then searched. him.  A second cruiser arrived to help with the search and a third cruiser showed up, searched him again and then took him away.  He didn’t seem to be opposed to the idea and I wondered what story I missed there.  Of note:  the first police officer was a man, but the other two were women.
 
The #20 deposited me a block from my work, where I ran a quick errand.
 
Then walked to the Yellow Line and had to wait another 10 minutes.

From the Yellow Line, I disembarked and walked the final four blocks to my home.  Thanks Trimet for ferrying me around.

Three sentence movie reviews: Rush

On a scale of one-to-ten, my interest in Formula One Racing hovers somewhere in the negative numbers. However, on a scale of one-to-ten my interest in Chris Hemsworth hovers somewhere above an eight.  So it was I attended this picture show about a subject I care nothing about, directed by a director I find semi-okay* and strangely, I found myself loving this movie for its characters, especially Niki Lauda who was the “head”-approach in contrast to James Hunt’s “gut” approach to racing.

Cost:  $3.00
Where watched:  Laurelhurst

I went with this poster because the US version only has Chris Hemsworth on the front.  Because those marketing people know their audience.  But Chris Hemsworth–as enjoyable as his dreamy looks and massive physique and incredibly deep voice is/are–was not the star of this movie, Daniel Bruhl was.  Watch it and see if you disagree with me.

*Aside from Parenthood and this film, I find all Ron Howard movies a bit draggy in the middle.

Requiem: shirt and skirt

You wouldn’t know it by looking at me, but I have a great affinity for clothing.  Sometimes  I look at J.K. Rowling–she of the vast wealth–and think, “Were I suddenly to find myself in a position to not think about money, I would most likely look as good as she does.”  Not that it’s that easy, of course, but the money does help.  I could have a good hairdresser that didn’t just disappear, I could schedule Pilates sessions with Deanne, I could have someone else do the cooking, and I could hire someone to find me incredibly beautiful clothing that looked great on me.  Don’t get me wrong, I think I do okay clothes-wise, but my wardrobe is quite minimal and largely consists of second-hand goods, because that’s what the budget provides.

Which brings me to this shirt.  I found it in a consignment store (the spendy one I don’t go to anymore, partially because we’ve moved and it’s not in my normal trajectory of things and partially because the prices are a bit high) and loved it, both for the designer name and for the colors and the fit.  Alas, the fit is no good anymore so it needs to move on to brighten someone else’s day.  The material feels great.  Quality material makes such a difference.
 

I’ve rarely been the kind of girl that guys notice and comment on.  This is okay by me, as I place the random guy commenting on the random girl in the category of I have named: sexist things we are hopefully moving beyond as we slowly but steadily progress to a gender-neutral society. (A girl can dream.)  I can report that guys adored this skirt.  I have never had so many random comments (“nice skirt!”) as when I was wearing this.  It was bizarre, as it seemed to be no different than any other skirt I owned, none of which invited comment.  I told a friend of this strange phenomena and once she found herself walking behind me she understood and explained.  Apparently the two separate layers shift with the normal walking motion and make a rather mesmerizing spectacle.  Ah.

Good to know.  And since it doesn’t fit me anymore, someone else can enjoy the ogling.

Astounding things from Parade Magazine.

“With the former Miss Independent now officially Mrs. Blackstock…”  Why is it that we need to make a point of a woman not being independant when she marries?  I never hear this about men.
 
It’s a turkey?  No!  It’s a cake that looks like a Turkey!

I must confess that this genre of cakes pretending to be something else delights me, though I would never eat one.  My favorite check stand headline reading is the magazine First For Women which always has a  cover featuring a way to lose large amounts of weight in tiny amounts of time, plus some cake that looks like another object.  My favorite was the cake picnic basket complete with ants, but this “turkey” is totally in the running now.

Three sentence movie reviews: Hunger Games: Catching Fire

O! Excellent adaptation of the Hunger Games second book, I salute you for cleverly changing over the book’s Katness perspective to a broader perspective, while still keeping all the Panem plates spinning.  And I salute all the actors who have brought their A-game making this a gripping and fast-paced movie, which is incredible given the bladder-straining 146 minute length.

Cost:  $8.50
Where watched:  at the new Baghdad with Matt.

poster from: http://www.impawards.com/2013/posters/hunger_games_catching_fire.jpg

Hot tip for the new Baghdad:  If it’s opening weekend and you want a choice of seats rather than just settling for what’s available, plan to arrive 45 minutes before the show starts.  We got there 30 minutes early and ended up in balcony seats that were okay, but also gave me a clear perspective on just how many people wander in and out during the movie.

Three sentence movie reviews: Goodfellas

Some elements of this movie (the multiple freeze frames, the voice overs) seem a bit dated, but overall, it’s still a gripping and enjoyable descent.  There are plenty of scenes that are magical in the configurations* and the acting is fabulous.  And, holy crap, there’s Samuel L. Jackson playing the doomed Stacks Edwards.

Cost:  $3.00
Where watched:  at the Laurelhurst

*My favorites:  the trip through the kitchen of the Copa followed by Karen’s wide-eyed question “What do you do?”; the perfection of blending “Layla” with a montage of dead and discarded gangsters; the claustrophobic build of the busy last day before the Hills got busted.  It also has one of the best lines in movie history:  As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster.

Essay: Calf Circumference.

I’m in college and sitting around with my boyfriend John, his brother Mike and their friend Jeff.  John and I haven’t been together long and this may be the first time I’ve met the brother and also the friend.  The TV is on and the boys are talking, seeming to mostly ignore me, but also checking me out as the new girlfriend.  Eventually conversation turns to Mike saying:  “I swear on the the three women I’ve had sex with..”
“There is no way you’ve had sex with three women.” John interrupts.
“Yes I have.”
“Bullshit.” Jeff retorts.  “Amy Lawrence, one.”
“And Jennifer Farnsworth, two.” John picks up the list.  “There isn’t anyone else.”
“Yes there is.”  Mike turned a shade of pink and was pursing his lips at their doubt.
“Who?”  both John and Jeff insist.
“Ellen Chadwick.” Mike nods, a small smile on his face.
“With the huge calves?” John asked.
“Her calves aren’t huge” Mike protests.
“Oh my god, they are!  They’re tremendous.” Jeff interjects.  “Very intimidating.”
“Her calves are very large.” John loops me in with an aside.
“I got that.”
The conversation goes on, establishing time and place (last summer, after work) and ends with John still skeptical that Mike actually slept with Ellen of the huge calves.  But I was frozen from the moment her calf size was brought up.  It had never occurred to me before, but did people identify me by the size of my calves?  I was wearing shorts and it took all my willpower not to look down at my own legs, or shift in my chair, for fear the boys would realize that Mike was not the only one of the brothers who had slept with someone with large calves.
So my calves.  Not very small.  And they are larger now than they were then. This has become a problem of late, because I would love a comfortable pair of boots and very few boots are to be found that fit me.  When I mentioned this conundrum to my brother he observed, “Yeah, you totally got Dad’s calves.  I wish I had your calves.”
That comment had nearly the same effect on me as the long-ago calf assessment of poor Ellen Chadwick.  I had never stopped to contemplate my brother’s calves, but his assessment of mine was spot-on.  My father’s calves are also huge, very manly and DNA has bequeathed them to me.  Now that I’ve looked, I wouldn’t mind trading calves with my brother, his are a bit less robust, more likely to fit into some cute boots.
But something else has made that conversation above stick in my heard all these years.  It was the simple pulling apart of a woman and classifying her.  Someone recently pointed out to me that we fixate on “parts” in our culture.  How it’s kind of odd to see just an arm, or just some abs, but that we have broken down the body into pieces so of course we just display bits and pieces of the body.
I’ve put in my time around guy talk.  Hanging out with boyfriends, drummers, chefs and drivers at Pizza Hut, Park Rangers, coworkers at Whole Foods.  I’ve head versions of the above conversation over and over again.  And, you know what?  That conversation bugs me.
Women talk about the men they sleep with, don’t get me wrong.  But there isn’t that level of parsing and partitioning of the person they shared a bed with.  I feel like this is one of the ways men and women aren’t equal.  Men still have the power, by and large, so they can feel free to divide women into bits and pieces and classify them.  Whereas women just don’t.

That’s not to say that they never remark on the physical attributes of the men they sleep with, descriptions can be helpful, but I haven’t ever heard a woman boil down a guy to “weird daisy tattoo on his back” or “long earlobes” or “third nipple.”  There tends to be a taking in of the whole person, even if it is someone they intend not to sleep with ever again. Maybe this is because women are more verbal, but I think it’s because we’re still in the position of less power.

Is this the kind of killing frost in which Wildfire was lost?

It’s been coooooooollllllllldddddd in Portland (getting all the way down to the high 20s)* so our frosts have been fierce.

Whenever there is a heavy frost I think of the Dave Barry column about the worst songs ever written, which thanks to the internet, is available here to read for yourself.  However, for those of you who are not going to click, I’ll just excerpt the Wildfire part:
Many readers are still very hostile toward the song “Wildfire,” in which singer Michael Murphy wails for what seems like 97 minutes about a lost pony. (As one voter put it: “Break a leg, Wildfire.”) Voter Steele Hinton particularly criticized the verse wherein there came a killing frost, which causes Wildfire to get lost. As Hinton points out: … ‘killing’ in ‘killing frost’ refers to your flowers and your garden vegetables, and when one is forecast you should cover your tomatoes … Nobody ever got lost in a killing frost who wouldn’t get lost in July as well.”

*And yes, people who live in places that actually experience cold, I KNOW that isn’t very cold.  But I’ve acclimated.