Tips for women dating


Tips for women dating older men (link via Vodkapundit). I’m particularly fond of #3 & #12. Anezka likes #14.

Never really got into the whole scotch thing, though. I suppose if you sat me down with a few bottles of good stuff, I’d probably like it just fine, but as a rule, I’m a vodka girl…with the occasional foray into the evil distilled Central European liquors category (slivovice-type stuff). And, as my “about” page will recount, it’s gotten me into trouble before…that 1991 incident at the Babylon-A-Go-Go, for example. Or the time the castle guard in Prague held us at gunpoint in the middle of the night while we tried to explain in very bad Czech why killing us would be a poor contribution to international relations. Hmmm.

Pepperidge Farm Sedona cookies say on the package that they’re “the best chocolate chunk cookie in the world.” How are they quantifying this? Is there someone somewhere whose job it is to taste all chocolate chunk cookies in existence and then compare? Is it advertising hyperbole? Inquiring minds want to know.

Harry Potter, Harry Schmotter.


Harry Potter, Harry Schmotter. Lemony Snicket is coming to the big screen! Hurray! If you have children, if you know children…hell, if you’ve ever made the acquaintaince of a child in your life, you should know about the Lemony Snicket books. You should read them, too. They are exactly the sort of twisted, angst-ridden books I would have loved as a child…and consequently love all the more now for having been deprived of them.

Number eight. Not bad.


Number eight. Not bad. But why does everyone always feel compelled to make the bitter / sweet joke? If anything, I’m sugarfree.

While I’m thinking of it, don’t forget the Boston blogs event this Thursday!

This afternoon we had a lovely rainstorm which caused me to promptly fall asleep. Maybe it’s stress, maybe too much sun walking home from Harvard Square. If it’s the former, I could use a large Guinness right now. Mmmm, Guinness. When overly stressed, I’m fond of Irish Prozac (Guinness and potatoes) – it’s a happy combo. Too bad I’ve none in the house. So I’m knitting instead…with the dog on my lap and all the windows wide open. Let the storms come!

Here we go again…


Here we go again… but first, a quick warning: this paragraph’s going to be link-intensive to give you some idea of what’s informing my take on the current debate. Back in February, the lovely in all respects Natalija Radic got herself into a inter-blog commentary-fest (you can follow the link-trail backwards from there) about the relative merits of porn. At that time, I posted about the website Suicide Girls, which many of my friends (male and female), enjoy. Now, in the latest explosion of porn-related blog posts, Armed & Dangerous provides a thoughtful take on bad porn, which has in turn generated an excellent response at Gene Expression:

Yet my notion
(based on anecdotal evidence mostly) is that erotic stories — regardless of content — appeal mostly to nerdy Usenet types (at least among men). And so (my theory goes) the appeal of bad [visual] porn is mainly due to the prevalence of unimaginativeness.

Meanwhile, the Professor gets email from the Suicide Girls, where they explain that some other sites call them “blogger porn,” since the girls have online journals in addition to their photos. Whew. Where to begin?

In the real world, sex is often treated as a commodity. Well, I suppose I should qualify that…let’s say sex appeal is the commodity, otherwise we’re venturing into another issue altogether. Look at this article, for example. Politicians using topless women and beer to promote their cause. At least they’re honest about what they’re doing. When I lived in Prague, they had nude weather forecasts on Nova, the cable channel. Guess what program had the highest number of viewers each night? Sex sells, and it does a good job of it.

In that same vein, bad porn is popular because it is readily available and doesn’t take a lot of effort. It’s the McDonald’s/wedding banquet differentiation Natalija referred to in one of her discussions on the subject… sometimes you don’t want to bother with cooking, you want fast food. We get into Gene Expression’s comment about unimaginativeness here. If you had the time, you could probably come up with something better, but the Big Mac will satisfy you for now.

Real sex appeal is 100% mental. How could it be anything but? If you aren’t attracted to someone’s mind, then you’re not attracted to them, period. I think Tommy Lee from Motley Crue is kind of cute, and if that infamous video isn’t digitally altered, I’m sure he has a lot to offer in the boy toy department. But would I consider dating Tommy Lee in a billion years? No. If I had a sinus infection, and wanted to do nothing but sit on the couch with the Sunday New York Times, blowing my nose incessantly, Tommy’s not the one I would want next to me. I want someone who is intelligent, and kind, and…if the right mood strikes, will distract me from all the sinus drainage issues with a well-timed, well-placed kiss or a funny comment. Not the guy they strap into a drum cage and spin around in a music video. And if you ask most people, they’d say the same. The teased-blonde Jenna Jameson thing only goes so far in the real world. I believe most people instinctively know this, and they
haven’t given up entirely, as Eric Olsen would have you believe. They’re just going through the drive-through while they wait to find the person who will make the wedding banquet worthwhile.

Not content to be


Not content to be merely an idiot, I had to compound the problem. I am in the middle of switching hosting providers, updating my NIC handle and domain reg records and switching to Movable Type. If you need to reach me and I don’t email you back quickly (I usually answer emails within a few hours), send to my sashinka@yahoo.com address instead. Thanks! back soon…

UPDATE 11 June 02, 7:00 p.m.

Or maybe not (back soon). Network Solutions is pure evil & they are holding my DNS info hostage (oh, I could pay them a bribe in the form of a $75 “expedited service” fee, but they can kiss my ass on that). My former hosting provider shut down my space prematurely, until I called to bitch, and I wrote a cranky customer service letter worthy of Rebecca, too. Thanks to my nearest and dearest who are helping me through this trying time – you know who you are.

Hey… I want to


Hey… I want to read this, too! We Blog: Publishing Online with Weblogs. Anyone have an advance copy? I’m interested to see what Meg & compadres have to say about the blogging phenomenon, and there hasn’t been much press about this book yet. After reading the somewhat snarky Metafilter thread on the New York Times’ blog article just now, I feel the need to read something a little more positive on blog potential. Can’t we all just get along?

Princess Henrietta the Navigatrix,


Princess Henrietta the Navigatrix, that’s me. My housemates can’t read a map to save their lives, so they took me along to the outlets in Kittery, Maine yesterday. Never mind I loathe clothes shopping with a passion – it was a chance to eat at Bob’s Clam Hut and knit somewhere which not only smells of the sea but is also 10 degrees cooler than Boston. I sat in a field near a swamp, which was covered in purple and blue lupine flowers, and worked on the sweater’s sleeves with my cell phone at the ready (“you’ve bought out every store? it’s time to go? ok, I’ll meet you at the car”). The sky was clear, deep blue and the wind was blowing off the ocean. Lovely. It also gave me a chance to ponder some knitting superstitions I was recently taught and will share with you all at a much later date. When I got home my best friend Tamas called, which was a joy. He should call more often. (hint, hint if you are reading this, Macska!)

Vague sense of unreasonable


Vague sense of unreasonable depression has kicked in. I tried in vain to amuse myself – went to the gym, lifted weights, soaked (sulked?) in the whirlpool, went grocery shopping, made an astounding bourbon mustard-vinaigrette with caramelized pecans for my salad, contemplated reading, knitting and any number of other things which generally please me. Nope. Nothing worked. So I sat in our watermelon-red living room, hoping the bright colors and shiny objects would bring me out of my funk. Nada.

Dug through some archive CDs and found a lovely portrait of myself by the photographer from the newspaper where I was the staff art writer. Here is my eye. Shannon's eyeCan you tell I have been at the art museum all day and am reviving myself with coffee? For those of you who know Cleveland, the photo was taken in front of the neon sign at the Coventry Arabica (now defunct, sigh).

In a last ditch, counterintuitive cheer-up effort, I pulled out the high school angst music – yes, oh yes. Nine Inch Nails, Pretty Hate Machine.

Tangent time! Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails totally checked me out once. Really! I went to a show at the Agora with my dad (he’s a blues musician, he just bought a Harley, he went to art school…not your typical Ward Cleaver dad, he’s cool), and I was talking to a friend of mine who worked there. She kept glancing over my shoulder, and finally whispers, loudly: “Trent Reznor keeps looking at you!” Uh huh, sure. Trent-most famous Cleveland musician ever even if he’s really from Pennsylvania-Reznor is scoping my 17-year-old ass. (I was wearing my leather jacket with John Frusciante painted on the back. Frusciante was and is once again the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ guitarist…my friend Rachel painted the jacket in 1991, before his heroin addiction, when he was still really hot). Reznor keeps looking directly at me. I’m playing the “is he still looking?” game with my friend, trying to be nonchalant. Yes, big famous synth-angst men check me out all the time. No, I’m not 17. Sure, I’d love to come on tour with you. Let me ask my mom.

I told my dad the exciting tale later in the evening and he said it wasn’t Reznor, it was probably this other music producer guy who looks just like him…blah, blah, blah. Then the show review came out in Scene, giving me a reason to let out a war whoop and run screaming down the hall: “…also in attendance, Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails…” Proof!

Yeah. Trent Reznor, liking the bitter-girl booty. Or my taste in leather. Either way, it’s a funny story.

Oooh. I feel better now. Thinking about how punk rock adorable I was when I was 17 has cheered me up. Isn’t that sad? And the vocal stylings of Reznor (now playing: “kinda i want to”) didn’t hurt, either.

Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!


Danger, Will Robinson! Danger! I must sew a pair of pajamas from this fabric as soon as I possibly can. Too cool. You could sing “Mr. Roboto” to yourself as you fell asleep. Or not.

(I think this handily answers Ken Layne’s question of the other day…yes, we are all secretely twelve. And we’re having a slumber party, and you are like, so not invited or something!) As a sidenote to that sidenote, read the comments thread on that Layne link – I particularly like the bit about the flying robot monkey butlers!