lori lori bo-bori, banana fanna fo-fori, me, my, mo-mori. lori. GET IT??
My name is Lori Dawn. The name(s) that come after those two names have been varied and many, for unusual reasons. But no matter what, since I was born, I’ve always been Lori Dawn. My beloved grandfather called me Pete, and my dad called me Scout and Pete and Dawn Ann (no idea why, on that last one). My uncle called me LD. But for some bizarre reason, one of my old country relatives believed my name was Glorious Dawn. No matter how many times I corrected him, he was still certain that my name was Glorious Dawn. (I did have a cousin named Fantasy Sunshine — the “hippy” branch of the family that left Graham Tx and moved to the San Francisco area and never looked back.) But me, and my family? No Glorious Dawn for us. I suppose that old relative is dead by now……
oh, wait. Sidebar story here. That old relative’s last name was Peters. He had one arm. His first name was Slick. Slick Peters. With one arm. I always wondered why he only had one arm, and no one told us kids the reason.
ANYWAY. Back to Glorious Dawn. Mine is a simple name, four little letters. L. O. R. I. Lori. Not Laura, thank you very much, that’s a different name. Not Laurie, again — a different name, just as Mark and Michael are different names. You can see this is a pet peeve of mine. Lori. Easy. Lori. Lori.
For some reason, though, even though I enunciate as clearly as possible when giving my name, people think I’m saying Tori. Or most commonly, Glory. I always want to get real sarcastic and say REALLY? Glory? Do you actually know people named Glory?? But I just sigh, look down tiredly and enunciate clearly again: No. Lori. L-o-r-i. Lori. Lori. Just Lori.
I just got my monthly treat -- a Starbucks cappucino or something -- and here you go. The reason for this post. GLORY. sigh.
Maybe I should just give in, go with the flow, become Glory. It’s kinda cool. What’s your name? GLORY. I do feel pretty glorious, at this lovely stage of my life. I do kind of wonder, though, if I told the barista that my name was Glory, would they starting writing Lori on the cup? Maybe I can do a little experiment.
I wonder if s/he wants to put this in some wedding vows, or something?
THIS search brought them to me?? Really?
So much going on, of course, including an early-morning meeting with my dear son. Now: packing, cleaning, caking a skein of yarn, copying my pattern, general futzing, trash-taking-out, dishwasher-running, trying to hold my excitement to bearable levels.
it’s a small world after all / it’s a small world after all / it’s a small world after all / it’s a small, small world, dadgummit.
What are the odds:
Within 7 minutes, people in Brussels and Oregon both googled dadgummit and ended up with me. It’s a small world after all. But then — somewhat frighteningly — this, a few hours later:
don’t worry, be happy now!
brilliant
Remember that old Steve Martin bit about how to be a millionaire and never pay taxes? Basically, it was:
first, get a million dollars. NOW.
Then basically it was something about forgetting to pay the taxes, and when you go to court just tell the judge “Well excuuuuuse me!” But it was that “first, get a million dollars” part that cracked me up, and still does.
I was reading something about taking care of my bones, and the site had a fairly long questionnaire to answer and then they provided me with recommendations. They note that there are some things you can’t change, and some you can. Here’s what I received:
why didn't I think of this?!
That first one that I can’t change (or can I???) cracks me up. Ooops, risk factor = being a woman. But it’s the list of things I can change that made me write this post. All I need to do to help my bones is minimize worrying and maximize happiness! *Smacking my forehead!* Dang, why didn’t I think of that before? OK, I’ll do that starting right now, hello better bones!
I’ve had such a gross summer cold this week, and I’ve sounded like a lumberjack frog most of the week, except for the day and a half when I completely lost my voice (well, there were some audible squeaks, but that’s it). A quick trip to the corner drugstore for symptom relief suggested that all of Manhattan has been felled by colds and allergies; those shelves were a ghost town, man. I hope it’s better where you are!
i think i love you, isn’t that what life is made of, though it worries me to say, that i never felt this way (harpsichord interlude)
If you’re on facebook (friend me!!, see the icon in header, above), maybe you’ve encountered those crazy quizzes — what’s your soap opera name, what jewel are you, etc. I look at them now and then, as a psychologist, to see what ideas are underlying the questions, how they’d factor out. [nerd] This morning, a friend on my facebook wall took one called “What’s your hippy name” and I checked it out. This time, I even took it for a laugh. I’ve spent the entire morning cleaning out my closets and drawers, organizing for spring and my new interest in taking care of myself. Here’s what I got in the quiz:
Your hippy name is Phoenix: you’re deep red. Like a sunset. You are passionate. You put a lot of effort into everything you do and are an extremely caring person. You tend to put others ahead of yourself and would sacrifice a lot if need be. Sometimes you lose sight of yourself while helping others. You are artistic. You love to create and are disappointed when people ask you to do things which you reveal as mundane. You can be pretentious at times but are mostly helpful.
Well, like any of these kinds of things (including horoscopes), it’s easy to say yeah! yeah, that’s so me! to some of it, and wince at the rest. Pretentious? I don’t really think that’s true of me, but maybe I’d be the last to know. 
Still. My friend’s hippy name was Astrid. It feels timely and apt for me that my hippy name is Phoenix. I like it, maybe I’ll adopt it as a pen name for a while.
Here are some random things I’ve collected for you over the last couple of days:
i opened my bookmarked weather page, nothing unusual, it's exactly what I do several times a day, but this time some of it was in FRENCH!! I love a little pluie as much as the next girl, but what was this about?! and only bits were in French. hmm.
you've GOT to be kidding me. This was on the front page of the NYTimes. Maybe I won't pay for online access after all. was it a joke?
look at this AMAZING quilt by Carol Taylor, called Transitions. Stunning.
The sky is gray, the air is cool (which is great, because the furnace is blasting hounds of hell heat….when is the super turning off the heat, for god’s sake!), and it’s going to rain today. But I’m happy, and I hope you are too! Happy Saturday, y’all.
Oh, John.
you can click to enlarge, if you can't read it
Oh, John.
guess what? when people get jobs, their poverty levels improve. no, really. people in academia do research on that.
Let me start by saying that I loved being in academia. Even though graduate school was incredibly difficult since I did it while raising three kids, there were aspects of it that I really loved. I would’ve stayed in academia, if I’d been able to find a job there. It was painful turning away and moving back to the other world. I adored teaching and conducting my research, analyzing data, writing papers. There were certainly parts I didn’t like – the incredibly petty squabbles, the politics, the lack of perspective – but I’d have taken that life if I could’ve gotten it.
I must also acknowledge that people might ridicule my research, even though I found it terribly fascinating. I wasn’t trying to cure cancer, of course, but I thought my research questions were very interesting, and the data were often compelling. Still. I studied pronoun use and what it reveals about us, psychologically.
So I stand in my own glass apartment and throw a little pebble at this line from an academic paper I edited yesterday:
There is strong evidence that the drop in neighborhood-level white poverty rates in central cities has been caused by the decline in neighborhood-level white unemployment rates.
Really? When people get jobs, their poverty levels drop? REALLY? I am certainly not disparaging the writing (academic-style, such a wimpy passive voice but it’s how it’s done), or the discipline (sociology), or the finding (though I could’ve told them that). It’s just so ……… academia.
.
Cooking with the anal-retentive chef was always a clean experience.
Do you remember this? I always loved the character. I tried to post it on Luscious, but it’s a wordpress.com account so this doesn’t work. I’ll just share it here:
So funny! It was so sad when and how he died. My day will be full of thinking about my daughter Marnie, because I’m trying to finish her wedding dress, and work on her shawl. But that doesn’t mean I’m not also thinking about my other daughter Katie, my other daughter Anna, and my darling son Will. Hi y’all.
the fevered workings of my itchy mind
I know what you’re thinking – this post is going to talk about how itchy wool is. Well you’re wrong! Sorry, didn’t really mean to set you up like that. Instead, it’s about how my fingers and mind are itchy to knit with that pink Felici yarn. Or that new soft Noro. Itching, itching, itching. My mind, too, itching. Can’t stop thinking about it. Just want to cast on, see the stripes unfold, feel the softness.
Don’t do it, Lori. Don’t start something new. Satisfy yourself with touching the yarn, looking at it. Keep it on the table next to you so you can …. NO! Put it away! Go put it in the stash bins so you’re not so sorely tempted all the time! Do it now! Just get up, step away from the laptop, and store the yarns out of sight!
But it’s so pretty, that pink, and I don’t even like pink. The caramel colors of that one skein of Noro, so seductive. And the madelinetosh pashmina, bali hai come to me.
NO – finish at least one thing first. You know you have a lot of work to do, finishing the wedding dress, and don’t forget the shawl – not even halfway done with that and time’s a-ticking. The baktus, the blanket, the cardigan. You’ve got your train knitting project, you don’t need another one. Focus Lori, focus.
But just a little bit, just a swatchNO! NO!
help me……
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