mydogischelsea's Xanga

Ending Xanga for now...

Sun, 15 Feb 2009 00:25:17 GMT

Hello, Xangasphere.

So, here's the deal: for the past 3 years, I've been double-posting my blog entries to my website (mydogischelsea.com) and my Xanga site. This made sense when I first made the move, because the vast majority of my readers were in the Xanga community.

That has changed. Now, most people read my site at mydogischelsea.com, accessing it via Facebook and Twitter and various RSS feed readers—or simply going to the site directly. Many of my longtime Xanga readers have either disappeared altogether, or come from somewhere other than their Xanga subscription module.

Double-posting my entries has always been a pain in the arse. But, more important: I didn't realize this, since I use Ad Block on Firefox, but some of the animated ads that Xanga runs on my site are disgusting, obnoxious or downright inappropriate. Though I am not ready to delete my account altogether (I'd still like to comment on your sites, and not all of you allow outside commenters), ads like these make me want to scrap the account. But for now, I won't.

All of this is to say: if you mainly read my blog from this address (xanga.com/mydogischelsea), you will no longer be able to. Instead, please bookmark mydogischelsea.com. You can also find me on Twitter: twitter.com/mydogsichelsea. Or, add my site to your RSS feed or a feed reader.

I'll still be here. Just not actually here.

See you in the blogosphere,
mydogischelsea

PS: No, I did not win the stand mixer. Sad, isn't it?

Tuesday, February 03, 2009

Tue, 03 Feb 2009 04:03:58 GMT

In which I shamelessly solicit the help of the blogosphere

I need your help. NEED it. Like, really badly. For this:

Here’s the thing: I have wanted one of these retro-looking KitchenAid stand mixers since before I even had a kitchen to put it in. Heck, since before I even knew how to bake! Yes—it’s true, I have a hand-held mixer, and he is a great little guy—he gets the job done and everything—but there are just some things you need a real powerhorse of mixer for. A mixer who can stand up to the challenge. And one that comes in such a sleek physique? It’s enough to make my mouth water.

So here’s how you can help: join culinate.com (my absolute FAVORITE cooking website) and then add me as a friend. I know, I know—you’ll have to create a login and who needs another login ID, yada yada yada, believe me, I know. But I wouldn’t be asking for your help if I didn’t need it. (Remember: beautiful stand mixer!)

This is the deal: the more friends I add on Culinate, the higher my chances of winning the mixer. It’s kind of like the opposite of that Burger King deal where you drop 10 Facebook friends and get a free Whopper (um, by the way, ew. You couldn’t PAY me to eat one of those deathtraps let alone give it to me for FREE). But in this case, I’m adding friends and possibly getting something INCREDIBLY AWESOME, and you, my friend (my Culinate friend!), will benefit:

If I win the mixer, I will use it to bake something for everyone who adds me as a friend on Culinate. Even if you don’t live in Portland. I’ll mail it to you (with the mix CDs I promised two years ago). THAT’S HOW BADLY I WANT THIS MIXER.

So to recap:

And lest you be worried about what you’re signing up for—I kid you not when I say Culinate is my favorite cooking site. It has GREAT recipes—seasonal, simple, delicious. The recipes work (and not in that “slave away through seventeen fiddly steps” Cooks Illustrated kind of way, which is enough to make yourself want to crawl into a 450 degree oven)—and they work well. And if you don’t cook, no matter—you won’t get spam.

OK. Sorry for the solicitation. But rememer: you could get something yummy in return and MDIC NEEDS THAT STAND MIXER! This is a matter of utmost importance.

Thank you!

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Sunday, February 01, 2009

Sun, 01 Feb 2009 23:43:01 GMT

The Calla painting

I’ve been getting back into making art. It’s been years, truly, since I’ve done anything like this. I feel old saying this, but (yikes) it’s been nearly a decade. Here’s Calla:

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Thursday, January 29, 2009

Thu, 29 Jan 2009 05:21:32 GMT

It’s been a year!

Today is Calla's one-year adoption anniversary! A lot has changed since she and I first met:

Her name was Rosie.
She was 13 pounds skinnier and every rib stuck out.
She was skittish around all human beings, myself included.
Walking her on a leash was like playing tug-of-war.
She peed and pooped in the house.
Two weeks after bringing her home, her separation anxiety became so bad I thought I would have to give her up.

Consider this excerpt from a post last February:

My new mantra is: Every day is an adventure.

Yesterday’s adventure involved a half pound of baking chocolate and a late-night (and very expensive) trip to the emergency vet. She and Hanu (who I am dogsitting) are both fine, but are getting a healthy dose of liquid charcoal every 8 hours. And why was the chocolate in a doggy-accessible place, you ask? Well—I had no idea that the top of the refrigerator was fair game. Apparently, either this dog can jump to the moon or she’s learned how to use the stove as a step stool.

Will I come home to find shredded recycling all over the house? Rolled oats scattered on the living room floor? The coat rack knocked atop of giant piles of diarrhea? It’s anyone’s guess—because every day is an adventure.

But what is life without adventures?

Then of course, there was the infamous door-eating episode. Not sure what is particularly appealing about particle board, but I guess when she got bored with the moldings, blinds, trims, coat pockets, headphones and books, she decided, why yes! I think I'll eat a door:

These days, it's a different story. She is by no means perfect—heck, she knows how to open the refrigerator!—but she's making progress. For instance: She's learned to love the car, which means that I can go out for a few hours while she snoozes away in the front seat. She's picked up a bevy of commands, including: sit, stay, down, drop it, leave it, come, hold steady (for balancing a treat on her nose), wait, in your crate, where's Monkey? (her favorite toy), and go potty (AWESOME!). She's calmer—not serene, of course, but calmer. I can now leave my house confident that I will not return to find a) that major parts of the house are missing or destroyed or b) fecal matter in the living room.

But most of all, she's opened up. She's let people and dogs into her life in a way I never thought possible a year ago. This was a dog who wouldn't let you touch her with a ten-foot pole. Now? She curls up next to me and nudges her nose under my arm, rolls over onto her back with arms extended and says (in doggy language), "Mom, gimme a damn belly rub already!"

This was her a year ago:

This was her in early December, after the back-to-back fridge and freezer break-ins:

She has since gone on a minor diet and has successfully lost the 1 pound I was hoping she would.

Last night I made pupcakes. She scarfed one this morning:

Happy Callaversary!!!

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Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Tue, 27 Jan 2009 04:32:28 GMT

Weirdest dream ever

Last week I had a somewhat disturbing dream. Not for what happened in it, per se, but for what I felt.

So I was walking down the street—it was my mother's street—and outside of her building was a loitering stranger. The front door was wide open, and I was immediately suspicious. But just as I was about to approach the man, a sudden loud blast exploded in my ear. It felt like the sound of incredibly voluminous speaker feedback at close range—that is, deafening, shocking, ringing, unbalancing. In my dream, I had been shot in the ear by some sort of ear-blasting dart that rendered me deaf in the left ear.

Livid, I ran up to the man and began to yell: "WHAT THE F--- WAS THAT?! F---ING HELL THAT HURT! OUCH! WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST DO TO ME?" (Yes, I have a potty mouth even in my sleep!)

He didn't answer, and I went inside to make sure my mother was OK. I remember talking to someone and saying I couldn't hear out of my left ear. Slowly, it started to get better, and eventually my hearing returned. I woke up, unsettled, a few minutes before my alarm.

What happened? Maybe nothing. I may never know. But that pain was so real, so ridiculously amplified and tangible, that I find it hard to believe I dreamt it. My ear felt fine when I awoke, but a little off. Not painful, for sure, but off. Still—at 5:57 a.m. it's hard to tell what's on and off.

Even now, a week later, I can still feel the pain in my inner ear when I recall the dream. I feel it down my spine and in the back of my head and when I yawn (this is the oddest thing), I know something is off. It feels almost like I'm on an airplane and the damn thing is popping from the pressure drop.

Who knows. Dreams are so odd. I guess it doesn't matter whether or not it happened in real life—it really hurt. And I hope it (whatever it is) doesn't happen again.

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Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Wed, 21 Jan 2009 20:12:07 GMT

My mother: aka the Quick Cook

I just got an email from my mother. My friend from Portland is staying with her for the week. The report:

"I threw together a meal for her in about 10 minutes with those French white beans, chicken sausage, red peppers, cilantro, tomatoes. She said I cook a little faster than you."

Classic, if not slightly unfair. Using prepared beans to make a quick meal for two is MUCH different then feeding a multi-course meal entirely from scratch to 8 hungry friends. But regardless. It cracked me up.

That's it for now. I hope you're enjoying Day Two of the Bush-Free Era as much as I am!

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Sunday, January 18, 2009

Sun, 18 Jan 2009 04:57:38 GMT

Calla pictures!

January 17th, 2009 · No Comments

Picture time!

But first—I dropped off four rolls of film today at Walgreen's. While I was waiting for someone to notice that a customer had arrived, an older crazy-looking lady with headphones on cruised right on up to the counter, completely oblivious to the line she was cutting. Of course, that’s when one of the Walgreen's staff showed up.

“I want my pictures,” she said.

“Okay, ma'am. Last name?”

“I want my pictures!” she said again.

“Last name?”

“Huh?” she asked, pulling one of her headphones off her ear.

“Last name?”

“A-L-L-E-N.”

The clerk bent down to the A bin and fished out her roll. He read a label on the film packet and looked up. “It's blank,” he said.

“Huh?” she asked.

He reached into the packet and pulled out the curled up film strip—with no negatives on it. The translucent brown unfurled and bounced its way to the ground. “The roll was empty.” He explained.

“Well I don't want to pay for that!” she demanded.

“You don't have to pay for it,” he said calmly.

“I'm not paying for that!” she said again, and stormed off.

He stuffed the empty film pack into the packet and tossed it in the trash.

Anyway—now it's picture time. Most of these are out of focus. However, I would like to point out that it is nearly impossible to capture a dog running at the speed of a cheetah in low light without a little bit of blur. Just sayin'. Behold the Do Rag (aka Calla) at Kelly Point Park in Portland:

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Friday, January 16, 2009

Fri, 16 Jan 2009 05:51:18 GMT

Michael Pollan: my hero

Several people have asked me: "How was it?"

The answer: "It was totally awesome."

But first—just how did I score tickets to Michael Pollan's totally awesome and totally sold-out Tuesday night appearance? Well, there is a freeze on annual raises at my job, and my boss gave me these tickets in lieu of a raise as part of my annual review. She offered them to me tentatively: "It's just a small token, so don't get too excited," she warned. I opened up the envelope and pulled out two tickets that each carried two magic words: MICHAEL POLLAN.

"Omigod omigod omigod!" I shrieked like an 11-year-old. "OMIGOD!!!"

My boss looked a little surprised. She had been expecting a look of feigned interest, or at best a polite smile—and instead it was as if she'd just handed me two plane tickets to Fiji.

"He's my favorite—I've been obsessed with reading his—he's one of my—I love his—He's—He's—He's—" I had lost my ability to speak. "He's my hero!" I blurted.

He is my hero. He is doing with his life what I only wish I could—researching and writing about the food industry. His work is engaging, well-written, funny, inspiring and exhaustively researched. In short, he is awesome.

Which is why it should come as no surprise that his Tuesday night lecture was totally awesome. If you are familiar with his work, you wouldn't have found his speech particularly new or groundbreaking, but no matter. It was enchanting nonetheless.

Here's the part that moved me the most:

Someone from the audience asked what his hopes were for change with the incoming Obama administration. Pollan responded by saying that he has seen some encouraging signs—most notably, Obama's mention of Pollan's recent New York Times Magazine article—but that he suspects that Obama doesn't feel like there's enough popular support for an overhaul of the food and agriculture industries. He told the story of a chef friend of his who had recently cooked a meal for Obama. This friend had asked the President-elect about whether he had plans for tackling the food industry.

Obama had responded: "Show me the movement."

Really? Is that all it will take? To show him the movement? If we can prove to Obama that there are enough Americans who want a better food system, then he will stand up to the agribusiness and food processing lobbyists and demand that WE'VE HAD QUITE ENOUGH of corporate interests being placed ahead of the health and livelihood of everyone else?

I sure hope that's all it will take. Because for crying out loud, there's a movement.

Go ahead: show it to him.

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Friday, January 09, 2009

Fri, 09 Jan 2009 04:12:15 GMT

Welcome to my first podcast ever!!!

Two summers ago, while I was home for my grandmother’s 90th birthday party, I interviewed my Aunt Joanne telling the story of fulfilling (albeit briefly) her lifelong dream of working in a bakery. Now, mind you, when she took on her Saturday shift at the retail shop of the Balthazar Bakery—a high-end wholesale bakery that supplies bread to many of the top New York City restaurants—she already had a demanding full-time job as executive director of a mental health association.

In the background you’ll hear me, of course, plus Carole (who has known me since I was the size of Cabbage Patch Kid and frequently comments on this site under the handle Malahat Sunset) and my mother, who is doing dishes and periodically chiming in from the kitchen sink.

The clip is a little over 14 minutes long—I know! I know! That’s sooooo long!—but I promise I’ve shortened it a LOT from its original state. So think of this not as a quick YouTube break but instead like a segment on This American Life, minus all of the production value, musical interludes and the famous Ira Glass cadence:

(click the greenish button above to start)

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Thursday, January 08, 2009

Thu, 08 Jan 2009 04:08:29 GMT

OUCH.

I haven't played frisbee in over a month—doctor's orders.

Actually, physical therapist's orders. I've got tendinitis in my left rotator cuff, thanks to too much disc-throwing. So, for now, it's weekly PT appointments for a dose of battery-powered anti-inflammatory (seriously! She sticks little nodes on my arm!) and daily shoulder exercises with a nifty latex stretchy resistance band thing. And NO FRISBEE.

(Calla is none too keen about the exercises, by the way. She sits and watches me like I've gone insane as I swing my arm back and forth and then pounces when I look away.)

So, there I am, not allowed to play frisbee. It's killing me slowly. But then! On Friday, my physical therapist announces that I can make 25 short throws every other day. Excited by the prospect of this, that night I dream I'm tossing a disc. Suddenly, the disc wisps passed my head and, with Matrix-like instincts I reach across my body (with my right arm, because somehow even in my sleep I know I'm supposed to take it easy on the left) and dive after the disc. My hand touches plastic and—

OUCH.

I wake up with a start as my right hand slams into the wall above my pillow.

I guess I was so into my game of imaginary catch that I was actually going through the motions in my sleep. I wonder what Calla must have thought about all of that: What the hell? Mom's acting weird. First that whole arm-swinging thing and now she's punching walls in her sleep. She should get up and feed me breakfast, fer feck sake. I think I'll pounce on her now.

OUCH.

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