The genuine article
January 6, 2010
Genuine Pooh is something from my childhood that I would never part with. This is not that bear; it is Green Genuine who stood in for Genuine for this photo because Genuine is at my mom’s house and wasn’t available. So I guess technically I have parted with Genuine, even though I know exactly where he is.
Genuine is an old Steiff bear that was my Grandma H’s and that she gave to me when I was a youngster. I named him Genuine because he reminded me of the original Winnie-the-Pooh illustrations. I loved that bear hard. After he had been dragged around for years, my mom got into Teddy bear collecting and we began to realize that he actually had some collectable value. Fortunately, I was older by then and didn’t mind treating him more reverently.
He wasn’t my first Teddy bear. When I was really small, I had an amorphous brown thing that I was attached to. When he became threadbare and ratty, he was replaced with what was purported to be an exact replica. My mom tried to convince me that it was just as good, but New Teddy was nothing like Old Teddy. I continued my devotion to Old Teddy, and New Teddy sat alone off to the side. I also had Big Teddy who, at the time, was almost as big as I was.
Genuine became a minor celebrity in the bear world, or rather a photo of my grandmother as a girl clutching him did. Among other places, it appeared in Peter Bull’s 1984 book A Hug of Teddy Bears. I don’t have a copy of the photo, so this poor drawing will have to do.
In doing a little research this evening to find a photo of a similar bear to Genuine, I figured he’s a 1905, 1908 or 1920 Steiff. There were similar and different looking bears for all three years, so I don’t know exactly which it would be. The two above look most like I remember Genuine, and I think he looks more like the one on the left with the pointier snout, smaller nose, and more slender limbs. Grandma was born in 1903, so maybe it was a 1908 bear as she would have been about five or six as I remember the photo.
(I haven’t seen Genuine for many, many years as he has been residing in my mom’s bear room, which, incidentally used to be my bedroom.)
Green Genuine is a souvenir from my first trip to England, which was with my mom on a group Teddy bear tour. I found him at Teddy Bears of Whitney. He was a one-of-a-kind prototype by bear artist Sue Lain (hence the odd color of mohair) and he reminded me of Genuine, so I bought him. Now that I see him next to the Steiff bears, he doesn’t really look that much like Genuine. I think we have a photo of the two bears together.
And now that I think about a photo of Genuine and Green Genuine together, I remember that my mom also bought a Second Genuine that was in better condition than Original Genuine. So there are two Genuines and one Green Genuine.
And now I have to stop, because the letters that spell G-e-n-u-i-n-e are beginning to take on a life of their own and look weird.
Bucket list item #1
January 4, 2010
I have always thought it would be interesting to see the stars in the other sky, though until I became a fan of Anthony Bourdain, there was never any Southern Hemisphere destination that particularly appealed to me. Now I think it would be quite nice to visit Melbourne or Montevideo or Buenos Aires. When my dad was a boy, my grandparents took the family to Lima for a year, but that’s practically equatorial. I find the notion of the extremes more intriguing, with the lopsided daylight/darkness ratios—as long as it’s long daylight!
There would also be penguins. Image from, and an interesting article, here.Chick in a tin can
January 3, 2010
“Show us the road ahead.” How apropos that this came up at the new year. This is a subject I’ve been giving a lot of thought to lately. I feel like I am at a crossroads in my life. It might even be a midlife crisis, as it is only three and a half years until I’m 50 and I don’t feel like I’ve done anything particularly outstanding in or with my life.
There. I said it. 50. God, that sounds horrible when I say it out loud, especially since most of you (who I know) are younger than I, in some cases quite a bit younger, or even so much younger you’re like the children I never had! Well, at least I don’t act that old. I take some comfort in that.
You may rest assured that I will not be purchasing a red convertible.
What this crossroads business boils down to is that I feel under some time pressure to accomplish my goal of getting to London. I have set an arbitrary time frame to do it by the time I’m 50—my geographical clock is ticking. The older I get, the less job-marketable I will be, especially in another country. Hell, the less job-marketable I am in my own country. The older I get, the older my parents get. Think being an only child’s a breeze? I’ll have no one to help me with my parents in their dotage. I would like a few years to enjoy myself in England. Selfish? Yes. When I was in my 30s, I figured reproducing was the way to achieve fulfillment. That didn’t happen. Now all I can come up with is doing this huge thing for myself that at the moment seems quite monumental indeed. I ponder the idea of volunteering as a different way of developing inner peace, but it hasn’t quite taken hold.
So what I said this afternoon was that I need to resolve to put effort into taking the steps necessary to achieve the London goal, or I accept that my life will go on as before because average is just the way I am. I have ambitions but little followthrough.
And that’s what I like about sharing, even though I hardly know most of you. I was quickly encouraged to be better than average. I was quickly admonished for “premeditating” to choose to remain average (I interpret it as admonishment, let me run with that). Both sentiments are inspiring in their own way.
I feel change pecking at the shell, trying to get out.
Image from Shutterstock
My favorite scar
January 2, 2010
Of my four scars whose stories I remember, my favorite (big surprise) is the rabbit-generated one, resulting from a bunny kiss FAIL.
The other three stories that I remember, in age order are as follows:
Right eyebrow: My parents tell me that when I was about five years old, I fell out of the car head first into loose gravel. I don’t remember the incident, but there is a slight bare spot in that eyebrow, so I’ll have to take their word that something happened.
Left knee: Virtually immediately after getting a brand new, red Schwinn 3-speed bicycle when I was about 9 years old, I rode it down to the end of the street, made too sharp a turn to come back, and promptly wiped out.
Left breast: When I was in college, I had a small lump removed. Nobody ever thought it was cancerous or had the possibility to be, but it was one of those peace of mind things. My surgeon was Dr. John Najarian, a pioneer in organ transplant. I did not know that at the time. He went from fame to infamy to acquittal.
Lower lip: My second rabbit was Hilda. (For those of you keeping score, she is the rabbit who Chris Gargan named. (I should really give Chris his own tag!)). She was a regal Checkered Giant (aka Papillon to you Europeans). The breed is described as “lively” and it’s no lie!
I had decided on her breed long before it became necessary to have something in mind, and picked her up at a rabbit show in Hutchinson, Minnesota, when she was about eight weeks old. She was a large personality from the get-go. She and the cats (my two former cats, Dhia (tortoise shell) and Yul (black)) had a mutual admiration society.
Hilda and I got along just fine, too, after I learned about her personal space issues.
One evening when she was still fairly young, she was lounging (rather than chewing) on the couch. She just looked so adorable that I had to lean in for a bunny kiss. My previous rabbit Hazel had been good at that, my current rabbit Robbin is very good at that. You meet the rabbit halfway, and he or she bumps noses with you.
Well, not Hilda, bless her sweet heart. There were still inches between us, but she lunged up and grabbed my lip with her pointy teeth. I think we were both surprised. I looked in the bathroom mirror and through the blood, discovered that there was a V-shaped piece of skin flapping in the breeze.
In hindsight, I certainly should have gone to get stitches. Instead, I’m left with a permanent reminder of my Peanut.
Before: G4 // After: Mac Mini vs. iMac
December 31, 2009
This past weekend I spent time with geeks who, on their resumés, sport former and current employers such as Apple, Yahoo!, Topix, and Activision. When I proudly added my iPhone to the collection on the table and it was observed to be a first-gen among all the 3GSs, I was asked if I still liked my 128k Mac, too. Well, touché. I still use a G4.
I have the mirrored drive doors dual 867MHz, just the lowest model. I’ve had it since 2002 and it has been a tank for me (like most Macs, except maybe G5 desktops). The thing still works just fine. But the software I use as a graphic designer is at the point of superceding the hardware. Therefore, when I get my next income tax refund, a new Mac is in the cards. I don’t need much; I have maintained for a while that it wouldn’t be that much longer until my puny human brain would be unable to discern performance increases. Sure, maybe for heavy duty video and animation you can tell, but for what I do, not so much. So I only have my sights set on a Mac Mini or an iMac. There is no reason why a Mini wouldn’t be just fine. I have a monitor and display. But after working on a 30-inch Cinema Display at the office for the last few years, I think it would be nice to have that quality at home, too, hence the consideration of an iMac. But the one huge advantage the Mini has is that if I up and go to London like you all know I want to, I can pack it in my suitcase. There is at least one of you out there who reads this who could tell me if it’s as simple as getting a different power cord to take a Mini international. Because I plan on my next Mac lasting seven years like my G4 has. If it isn’t possible to just plug in a different power cord in another country, then the iMac would inch up in the standings. I suppose there are laws about taking software over national borders. I’m probably hosed. In that case, the Mini would still be the front-runner. If I were going to have to discard my fine Mac after a two or three years, then I wouldn’t want to spend more money than necessary. Hmm. Looks like the Mini wins either way.My crazy Dasie
December 30, 2009
Related to things that make me happy are things that make me smile no matter what. My cat Dasie is one of those things. I like to think that all three of my critters are well-adjusted creatures with good mental health, but none of them exudes pure, infectious joy like Dasie does.
I adopted her from Feline Rescue in St. Paul last February. I had previously had two cats who lived to ripe old ages; then I started over with CJ in May of 2008. When CJ and my rabbit Robbin didn’t develop a close relationship, I decided it was time to find a feline companion for her. Robbin at the time had another rabbit, Bibi, but she’s no longer with us.
I met a number of cats, both at Feline Rescue’s shelter and in their foster care system. The front-runner was Pi, a beautiful long-haired white boy with a grey tabby cap, but he was in the middle of diagnosis and treatment for a heart murmur and wasn’t ready to go home yet. From his foster home I went out to human Stacy’s house and met Dasie, who at the time was called Sadie (the anagram is where the unusual spelling of her name originated).
In that environment, she was fairly reserved on the two occasions that I went to see her, but I could tell she was a nice cat. I had kind of thought that if I went black and white, I wanted a tuxedo but, as I learned when Robbin was picking out Bibi (I took him on rabbit dates and he met five or six other bunnies), your preconceived idea is often quickly usurped by the reality of personalities.
I confess that my impatience chose Dasie over waiting for Pi. I was perfectly willing to deal with the meds he’d have to take, having nursed my previous two for the last couple years of both their lives, but I have teeny tiny issues with willpower and instant gratification …
(Stacy, don’t worry, I am not the least disappointed that I did decide to adopt Dasie! Though I do wonder where Pi ended up, and if he did still happen to be available, I have thoughts of still making him Number 3.)
Dasie does everything with enthusiasm and flair. She doesn’t just change direction, she changes direction with a bouncy flourish. She understands that a particular head nod by me means she’s invited up. She doesn’t just jump up into your lap, she jumps up and butts her head into your chin to express affection. She doesn’t just sit in front of the space heater in the bathroom while you’re taking your shower, she sticks her head inside the curtain and is fascination by the water.
I can’t think of anything that she does that doesn’t make me smile and forget everything else for a few special moments.
My quintannual trip to the hairdresser
December 28, 2009
1. Before: I cut my own hair. It’s curly enough that mistakes don’t really show, unless they’re truly egregious. I enjoy cutting my hair—it allows me to be spontaneous.
2. After: Nevertheless, every now and then I decide to turn myself over to a professional. I tried to tell him that I don’t use product and I refuse to spend more than 60 seconds with the hair dryer. Regardless, he did this to me. It was blow dried straight and secured in place with clouds of hair spray. 3. Bike helmet: All stylists present were horrified when they realized that I’d immediately be mashing the style under my bike helmet. 4. After bike helmet: It still looked okay, but not quite as good. 5. After bike helmet pony tail: One thing I like about straight hair is how the pony tail looks. 6. Back to normal: The next day we were back to 30 seconds of blow drying, which is to say virtually none in styling years. 7. Back to normal pony tail: And back to the regular frizzy pony tail. p.s. This is the first blog entry written completely on iPhone 🙂Favorite vacation pic
December 27, 2009
Whatever vacation I’m engaged in is my favorite at the time, but regardless of the pleasure of subsequent vacations, the UVIC rabbits rate close to the top of my favorite vacation moments ever.
In 2004, my parents and I went on a Canadian Rockies train trip extravaganza. We flew to Seattle, motorcoached to Victoria BC and then to Vancouver, where we boarded the Rocky Mountaineer to traverse the Rockies by train.
While toodling around Victoria, our motorcoach driver took us through the University of Victoria where there was a population of feral rabbits. Well, you can imagine how my mom and I were squealing about that. Later, I took the city bus back to spend more time with these rabbits.
It was novel to me, but both the rabbits and the humans were quite blasé about each other. I stalked the rabbits and got good photos. The fellow in the large picture was more curious than the rest and was quite happy to cooperate with the photoshoot. In fact, he hopped right up and nibbled on the rubber ring around my lens.
I liked Victoria generally—because it was very British, imagine that!—and I’d love to visit again.
Evidence of Tiny-bunny
December 26, 2009
Tiny-bunny made his getaway from the woodpile. And it was almost a clean getaway, except the heat of his retreat burned his snowtracks into the pavement. But there was no turning back from his exile from the woodpile. He had to keep moving.
Tiny-bunny had connections on the frozen planet of Cube, Ice Cube. He would get in touch with Wendell Francis the Otter, commonly known as Snarf, and Steve the Goat, about whom it was commonly known that he had taken the fall for his previous boss of ill-repute. But Steve, with the help of Snarf, had been working on rebuilding his reputation as the proprietor of a ski resort on the frozen planet of Cube, Ice Cube. Tiny-bunny knew he could go there and Steve and Snarf would help set him up in a new enterprise. First, however, Tiny-bunny had to cover his snowtracks, and it wouldn’t be easy.My horse notebook
December 24, 2009
When I was a tween and young teen, I went through a horse phase. I managed to talk my parents into riding lessons for six months. But most of what happened with regard to me and horses was in my imagination, and a lively one it was.
I developed an entire stable of horses. It was called Mescorola Park Farms and it was home to 111 horses, mostly Thoroughbreds and Arabians. There were also several Quarter horses, a few Appaloosas, and a smattering of Lipizzan, Saddlebreds, and Morgan horses. For each horse, I wrote out the pedigree and made a crayon picture. I would sit in my dad’s den, listening to the radio and recording songs, and making my horses and reading the three or four horse magazines that I subscribed to. As my original stock reproduced, I followed the conventions for each breed in naming the offspring. I was a big Queen and Elton John fan by then, so the names were also influenced by song titles. My horse phase also resulted in my only completion of a longer piece of fiction writing, a story about—you guessed it—a horse farm. I got all sentimental about my horse notebook recently due to having been thinking about my other childhood obsession, the Ford Mustang (from my earlier years); that was the story that began my current spate of blogging. I was certain of the notebook’s location my corner of my parents’ basement so I commissioned my mom to bring it along for their current visit. It’s been 30 years, but I recognize the horses like it was last week. It’s fun to be so utterly transported to another time.
Kelly’s Unnecessary Blog 