The Anti-Anti-Anti-Pinterest Backlash

So, Pinterest. I looked at it awhile back and saw mostly pictures of models in pretty dresses, ambitiously-decorated baked goods, “thinspiration” bullshit, and maybe a funny baby or puppy pic here and there. Conclusion: it’s a cool platform to share banal, girly crap. So why have all my smart, awesome friends joined it in the past two months? (Edited to add: Including my husband).

Visiting its homepage today, the thinspo stuff seems to have gone away, but all else is unchanged. I suppose I can see the utility in having a convenient place to keep recipes and photos that you don’t want to lose (in case Evernote or good-old fashioned bookmarking d0esn’t work for you). But for the most part I see Pinterest as yet another high-tech avenue to make people (I mostly mean women here, the vast majority of Pinterest’s users) feel bad about everything they could be doing, but aren’t. People pin things that they clearly have no intention of ever attempting, because why? Because it tricks you into thinking that one day you’re going to get your shit together and be that crafty goddess. Spoiler alert: You will not.

I can’t find it now, but I remember a blog discussion about poor people who stupidly buy lottery tickets on the regular and maintain an unwavering sense of hope that they’ll win and all their financial problems will be solved. Someone pointed out that it’s really no different than upper-middle-class couples watching HGTV design shows or buying lifestyle magazines, thinking they’ll get ambitious and make their homes look just as beautiful one day. It’s all delusional, but at least those who buy a lottery ticket have a chance at winning the jackpot.

No to H2O

On Thursday night we were watching TV and noticed that a water bubble had formed in the ceiling. Then J. felt around and the entire ceiling felt cold. Then we traced this to its source, the upstairs guest bathroom. We discovered it had been leaking steadily for what’s probably several days, soaking the drywall and wood frame of the floor below it. ENSUE MASS PANIC.

This is a bathroom we never use, and we keep the door closed. If our bratty ex-roommate had still been living here, no doubt she would have caught this much earlier. LE SIGH.

J. had Friday off and took care of calling the insurance company and getting a contractor to come over. But he had been planning to go to the coast for the weekend with his buddies for a wine festival, as they do every year. I was looking forward to the nicest, quietest weekend at home, spent cooking, sleeping, and watching awful television.

“When you get home,” my betrothed wrote me in an e-mail, “Don’t look in the upstairs bathroom. Just don’t.”

So I walk in and the house is emitting a steady, deafening hum from no fewer than 4 industrial-sized fans and 2 industrial-sized dehumidifiers. 4 downstairs, 2 upstairs. I find I’m not supposed to turn them off all weekend, so they can dry out the ceiling and the bathroom.

Did I mention the entire bathroom has been gutted, the ripped-out sink is now in my office, and a patch of drywall about 3 X 10 ft has been cut out of the ceiling?

My nice quiet weekend shot to shit, I had a glass or three of wine and tried my best to not punch multiple walls. The cats are terrified. The neighbors probably think we’ve successfully set up a meth lab. I finally turned off the upstairs bathroom fan to help me get some sleep, then dutifully woke up at 6 to turn it back on.

We are covered for this mess, minus our deductible, and it’ll only take about, oh, 3 weeks to redo the ceiling and bathroom.

Meanwhile, it’s raining and I’m so desperate to get of the house that I’m very seriously considering seeing Wanderlust. F.M.L.

Homeownership: Do Never Buy.

150 Minutes

I think said I would write more about my 2012 goals. The one I wanted to harp on first was the goal to get 150 minutes of activity a week. Goals around exercise and/or weight loss are usually doomed from the start because they involve unrealistic expectations and/or timelines.

Experts would say that you should measure inputs, not outputs. Minutes completed, not pounds lost, and that sort of thing. So I decided to make it a goal to get 150 minutes of exercise a week. Or maybe I should say “physical activity” instead of “exercise.” I am told that you can consider as “physical activity” anything that gets your heart rate up and/or makes you sweat.

150 minutes is just 2.5 hours. Why so little? Because not only is it achievable, it’s the scientifically-proven level at which the relevant physical and mental health benefits accrue. (Doing more than 150 minutes a week is great but comes with diminishing returns in terms of overall health, interestingly.)

This video, 23 and 1/2 hours, explains the science and is really well-done:

Incidentally, the company I work for (again, rhymes with “Blaiser Germanente”) is keen on evidence-based medical practice, which includes encouraging its members to exercise regularly. Specifically, to walk regularly, for those who haven’t exercised regularly in a long time. Walking’s easy. Almost everyone can do it. They even have this little site where you can enter your minutes and it tracks your progress on a map of the Pacific Northwest. It’s cheesy and delightful.

Incidentally, one of my projects within said organization was to manage the launch of a new initiative where physical activity would be treated as a vital sign. You know how, every time you go to the doctor, you’re asked about allergies and smoking status? And your weight and blood pressure are taken? Every single time? The idea is that exercise should fit in with that roster of vitals, because the link between exercise and overall health status is indisputable at this point.

Anyway, seeing as how I’m working on this project to encourage doctors to talk with patients about exercise consistently, I thought I should try and tag along with my own personal goal to do 150 minutes a week. So far so good. A few gym trips per week along with a longer hike once in awhile, and there you go.

In Defense of Socialites

This whole Susan G. Komen/Planned Parenthood brouhaha these past few weeks had one unexpected benefit — it prompted my family to remember one of my great-aunts who fought for reproductive rights way, way back when it wasn’t particularly safe or easy to do so. My mom originally posted something on Facebook and it made its way around the walls of several aunts and cousins (though not those on the more conservative side of the family tree; yes, there are a few).

The gist of this is that my grandfather’s sister was a wealthy socialite who cared enough about women’s rights (among other causes) to help smuggle contraceptives into Dallas. She was, in short, a bad ass, and one to whom I’m indebted for the reproductive freedom I enjoy today (but which is still under threat).

From an old article in D Magazine:

The newly married and immaculately pedigreed Mrs. Shelburne (her father was an Aldredge, her mother, a Munger) didn’t really look like the kind of woman to get mixed up with a gang of smugglers in the 1930s, but under the circumstances there wasn’t much choice. The infamous federal anti-smut law known as the Comstock Act, later repealed, declared contraceptive devices to be obscene materials; therefore their transportation through the mail was illegal. So if an unlikely group of Dallas socialites drawn into the fledgling movement known as the Planned Parenthood Federation wanted to make diaphragms or condoms available to poor, mostly black women, they had to break the law. Week after week, empty shipping boxes from the Dallas-owned Ripley shirt company were sent to New York, then returned full-not with cotton, size 16-33, but with plastic or latex, one size fits all. Often as not, the boxes had been packed by Margaret Sanger, the New York birth control pioneer, whose visits to Planned Parenthood board meetings in Dallas always packed the ballroom at the old Baker Hotel.

She co-founded the local Planned Parenthood affiliate, served on its board for ages, and its annual humanitarian and volunteer awards are named for her.

Thank you, Aunt Gertrude.

Portlandia

I know you’re DYING to know how I, a not-at-all-legit Portlander, feel about Portlandia. Verdict? I like it. I think it’s hit or miss, but when it’s good, it’s pretty spot-on. And we all know Portland deserves to be mocked what with it being chock-full of ridiculous characters like freegans and urban farmers and mixologists (hi Jake!).

Plus, I can’t lie, I love watching and saying “Hey I’ve been there!” every time a new sketch starts.

PS, sketch idea: Carrie and Fred run a chicken hospice, for all the aging urban backyard chickens. That one’s free, you guys. You’re welcome.

House Non-Blogging

Remember this? Well. After a disastrous couple of weeks, we’re throwing in the towel. Basically, we did everything absolutely backwards. Like this:

1. We told our roommate we were putting the house up for rent and she needed to move out by March 1. I can’t even begin to put the ensuing drama into words.  Apparently, giving her 2 months’ notice, finding her a possible new place to live (with a friend of ours), giving her back her security deposit AND letting her live here free for the month of February wasn’t enough. After a lot of uncomfortable confrontations where she tried to guilt-trip us into giving her large piles of money for her inconvenience, she’s finally moved out except for a few things. Before this, she was literally the sweetest and most wonderful roommate we could have asked for. BTW, she wasn’t on a lease, so we didn’t do anything wrong here. Lesson: moving brings out the ugly in all of us.
2. Then we found a wonderful home to rent in North Portland. It’s small but well-maintained, walking distance to the Max, had a wood-burning fireplace and hardwoods, and even had a lovely backyard with a cherry tree, berry bushes and raised garden beds. The perfect Portland house. We told the lovely couple renting it we were a lock to sign a lease. Fast forward to…
3. We put an ad up for our current place that got, oh, 3 responses, 2 of whom scheduled a time to see it and then didn’t show, and a third that for reasons best left unblogged made us very uncomfortable renting to her. We panicked, pulled the ad down, and decided we have to stay put for a few more months while we determine if we can even get a decent renter in our area. We told the lovely Portland couple that we couldn’t rent their house.

There’s even more to this saga but I can’t bring myself to type out the bullshit minutia. On the plus side, we cleaned out a TON of shit and sold/donated/trashed it, plus our house is as clean as it’s even been. And who knows? Maybe Obama’s new refinancing proposal for underwater homeowners will pass and let J. refinance at as better rate (Note, it will not).

Sigh.