Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart share a kiss in the backseat of their car as they leave an after party following the New York premiere of Pattinson’s new movie, “Water For Elephants.”
Showing posts with label relationship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationship. Show all posts
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Robert Pattinson & Kristen Stewart Caught Kissing (Photo)
Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart share a kiss in the backseat of their car as they leave an after party following the New York premiere of Pattinson’s new movie, “Water For Elephants.”
Sunday, April 24, 2011
sheen goddess broke up
sheen goddess broke up
Sheen, continuing his traveling "Violent Torpedo of Truth" variety show at the BankAtlantic Center in Ft. Lauderdale Saturday, said "goddess" Rachel "Bree" Olson broke up with him via text message.
The fired star of the television comedy "Two and a Half Men" said he would like to hug troubled actress Lindsay Lohan and tell her that everything would be all right.
Sheen also said he wants his old job back.
His guests included former NBA player Dennis Rodman and comedian Jeff Ross, who said he is used to roasting "classier people," and challenged Sheen's rants of "winning."
"If you're winning, there must be something wrong with the scoreboard," Ross said.
Sheen's show hasn't won much praise, but he continues to draw fans.
"I was curious. And like every American male, I fantasize about all of things he's about, like the sex, the drugs and the prostitution," said Mike Zyla, 40, of Deerfield Beach.
Zyla said bad reviews of the show didn't bother him.
"I spent the money. I knew what I was in for," Zyla said.
Sheen told the audience billionaire Donald Trump allegedly gave him a set of fake cuff links. He offered gift-givers a bit of advice.
"Don't give fake jewelry to someone who can figure out if it's fake," Sheen said.
Source: Official Wire
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Will Chelsy Davy ever join the royals
Will Chelsy Davy ever join the royals
She's chummy with Prince William and his bride-to-be Kate Middleton, but will Harry's on-again, off-again girlfriend Chelsy Davy ever make it official with her prince?
Source : Yahoo
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Miley Cyrus is not single
Miley said: “I don’t want to cross out the Australian boys but I may or may not be single ... I love Australian boys though obviously.
“Liam and I are very close, I’m not going to comment too much, but you guys don’t have to worry about that ... I’m definitely not coming to Australia single.”
Miley, 18, also revealed she is not a fan of social networking site twitter because she doesn’t want to be “hypocritical” by encouraging interest in her personal life.
She told 2Day FM’s Kyle & Jackie O Show: “I do not tweet, I do not social network, I try to stay out of it ... for me, I complain enough about people knowing too much about my private life, so to go out there and exploit myself would be silly and hypocritical of what I stand for.”
The ‘Last Song’ actress was said to be “inseparable” from Joshua at the wrap party for ‘So Undercover’ earlier this year, but were taking things slowly.
A source said: “They were inseparable at the movie's wrap party but Miley's back in Los Angeles at the moment and Joshua's in Louisiana, so they're going to see how it goes."
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Who advises whom?
-
Honors students can be such a pain. They’re bright, they’re gifted, and they’re all over the place. Never ever expect an advising session to last less than 30 minutes. More like 45. Or an hour. (Honors students constitute around 10% of my advisee case load.)
There’s the questioning of myself: If I answer what this student just asked, will I prove I am less intelligent than she is? And how about she asks twelve questions that go into a diaspora of topics, each of which by itself would take a minimum of an hour to discuss? Annoying.
Somewhere in my nine years of academic advising at the university I’ve learned to flow with these grand minds. Answer only the questions they ask, one at a time. Slow them down. Tell them, Let's talk about that topic another time, stay with this for now. They look at me with sudden gratitude when I say that, as if only I can control their tortuous panoply of interests. This is a weighty responsibility for an adviser: How to rein in, but not deaden enthusiasm?
There is Catherine, for instance. She’s about the size of a small thirteen-year-old girl, with a young face to match and shoulder-length wavy blonde hair. She enters my office wearing her gargantuan backpack like a tiny turtle who inadvertently grabbed her father’s shell and left for the day. She painstakingly unloads it to the floor and sits. But don’t let her size and girlish countenance fool you. She is probably the brightest light I’ve ever advised.
I had a choice the first time we met. Resist, or flow with her. No matter what I advised, she responded with another, more ambitious idea. I had experience on my side, but she had vision on hers. So what if it took 20 credit semesters to accomplish it? She had so many things planned out. The intensive and demanding English teaching program was her main focus. But she wanted to add a minor in theater, study abroad in Malaysia, an extra teaching minor in Spanish, and a slew of other “electives” that would not contribute to her requirements whatsoever. I kept telling her, That will add another year to your time here, you know. “I know,” she’d reply. And we’d stare each other down.
Because I chose not to resist, I became altogether charmed by this young woman. Having 1,000 advisees, it’s not easy for me to connect names with faces in that sea. I hate this, because relating to people on a personal level is important to me. A few students stand out, and I remember their names, either because they have so many problems that I can’t wait for them to walk the stage at Commencement, or because we connect so strongly that they are unforgettable along with their names. (And truthfully, those who have the most problems often fill a big place in my heart.)
Catherine is one quirky girl whose name I remembered from the second or third appointment. She doesn’t smile a lot, but from her words, you know she is smiling inside. Confidence oozes out her nostrils. Quickness and wit are her allies. She could stand on a stage and soliloquize Shakespeare or write a major paper on Joyce's Ulysses and convince you she interpreted both impeccably. She has no tolerance for silly and boring and will tell you so, in no uncertain terms. Over the years she gave me a litany of the professors who were intolerable for their blandness. She had that rare combination in a young person of high intellectual intelligence and common sense. Sort of Zorba meets Boss. (Or rather, Boss meets Zorba, Boss being the bookish, mind-driven one, and Zorba being the common-sense-gut-instinct-heart-driven one. Have you read Zorba the Greek by Kazantzakis? You should, I'm reading it now, it's brilliant. Thanks, George.)
So this week Catherine came in for her final check as a senior. Were all her ducks lined up all right before her student teaching placement next year? I panicked when I couldn’t find her file in my drawer. We had met a dozen times at least, and no file! Did the secretary accidentally purge it with the old files? All our checklists, my notes, her added minors, later dropped, our entire history, gone, poof! I stood at the drawer and frantically searched out of alpha order. How could this be? I ranted out loud, “I’m miserable, I can’t find your file!” while she sat on the other side of my desk and chippered in her droll yet sympathetic commentary. Finally I gave up and sat down, pulled out a new, blank checklist, and started all over again. What had taken three and a half years to produce with its scratches in three different colors of ink and highlighters was reduced to a clean form with entries made in one sitting. It felt wrong, because I was reducing the academic diary of her undergraduate years to mere facts.
And so, as if that reduction required it, since neither of us could bear to leave it there, we reminisced, we laughed, we remembered all those times I had advised her to not do something because it would be too much, and she had done it anyway and proved me wrong. And there were the times she did change her mind and drop a plan. She wondered aloud, "How did I possibly think I could do all that?" Hahaha, we laughed some more. She told me about her five weeks in Malaysia in the summer, how miserably bad the professor was and how unorganized the trip, but how extraordinary the people were, which made it worthwhile and changed her views on teaching forever. We didn’t want to stop, but it was time to go.
She stood up in all her five foot two inches, picked up her fifty-pound bookish carapace and struggled to get her arms through the straps and settle it into place on her wee back. She stood in front of me, just on the other side of my computer. It was all I could do not to take her up in my arms, backpack and all, and carry her into the next stage of her life. But the thing is, she doesn’t need me to carry her. She's gotten the best kind of education: trial and error, trial and success.
Reluctantly, I told her I’d see her at Commencement in May. With a look of youthful, sentimental intelligence, she left.
Honors students can give you such a pang.
-
-
There’s the questioning of myself: If I answer what this student just asked, will I prove I am less intelligent than she is? And how about she asks twelve questions that go into a diaspora of topics, each of which by itself would take a minimum of an hour to discuss? Annoying.
Somewhere in my nine years of academic advising at the university I’ve learned to flow with these grand minds. Answer only the questions they ask, one at a time. Slow them down. Tell them, Let's talk about that topic another time, stay with this for now. They look at me with sudden gratitude when I say that, as if only I can control their tortuous panoply of interests. This is a weighty responsibility for an adviser: How to rein in, but not deaden enthusiasm?
There is Catherine, for instance. She’s about the size of a small thirteen-year-old girl, with a young face to match and shoulder-length wavy blonde hair. She enters my office wearing her gargantuan backpack like a tiny turtle who inadvertently grabbed her father’s shell and left for the day. She painstakingly unloads it to the floor and sits. But don’t let her size and girlish countenance fool you. She is probably the brightest light I’ve ever advised.
I had a choice the first time we met. Resist, or flow with her. No matter what I advised, she responded with another, more ambitious idea. I had experience on my side, but she had vision on hers. So what if it took 20 credit semesters to accomplish it? She had so many things planned out. The intensive and demanding English teaching program was her main focus. But she wanted to add a minor in theater, study abroad in Malaysia, an extra teaching minor in Spanish, and a slew of other “electives” that would not contribute to her requirements whatsoever. I kept telling her, That will add another year to your time here, you know. “I know,” she’d reply. And we’d stare each other down.
Catherine is one quirky girl whose name I remembered from the second or third appointment. She doesn’t smile a lot, but from her words, you know she is smiling inside. Confidence oozes out her nostrils. Quickness and wit are her allies. She could stand on a stage and soliloquize Shakespeare or write a major paper on Joyce's Ulysses and convince you she interpreted both impeccably. She has no tolerance for silly and boring and will tell you so, in no uncertain terms. Over the years she gave me a litany of the professors who were intolerable for their blandness. She had that rare combination in a young person of high intellectual intelligence and common sense. Sort of Zorba meets Boss. (Or rather, Boss meets Zorba, Boss being the bookish, mind-driven one, and Zorba being the common-sense-gut-instinct-heart-driven one. Have you read Zorba the Greek by Kazantzakis? You should, I'm reading it now, it's brilliant. Thanks, George.)
So this week Catherine came in for her final check as a senior. Were all her ducks lined up all right before her student teaching placement next year? I panicked when I couldn’t find her file in my drawer. We had met a dozen times at least, and no file! Did the secretary accidentally purge it with the old files? All our checklists, my notes, her added minors, later dropped, our entire history, gone, poof! I stood at the drawer and frantically searched out of alpha order. How could this be? I ranted out loud, “I’m miserable, I can’t find your file!” while she sat on the other side of my desk and chippered in her droll yet sympathetic commentary. Finally I gave up and sat down, pulled out a new, blank checklist, and started all over again. What had taken three and a half years to produce with its scratches in three different colors of ink and highlighters was reduced to a clean form with entries made in one sitting. It felt wrong, because I was reducing the academic diary of her undergraduate years to mere facts.
She stood up in all her five foot two inches, picked up her fifty-pound bookish carapace and struggled to get her arms through the straps and settle it into place on her wee back. She stood in front of me, just on the other side of my computer. It was all I could do not to take her up in my arms, backpack and all, and carry her into the next stage of her life. But the thing is, she doesn’t need me to carry her. She's gotten the best kind of education: trial and error, trial and success.
Reluctantly, I told her I’d see her at Commencement in May. With a look of youthful, sentimental intelligence, she left.
Honors students can give you such a pang.
-
-
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
eggs & eggplant
-
-
Some husbands give their wives flowers. OrCadbury Kraft chocolates. Some get robin's egg blue Tiffany boxes enclosing something shiny. I watched old movies when I was little where tuxedoed men gave mink stoles to their wives, who then twirled round and round, diaphanous gowns flaring at their calves as they buried their lipsticked smiles in fur.
Happily for me, my husband gives me photo ops.
Like ornamental chickens with Samuel Beckett hairdos (see Honey on my sidebar). A weather vane named Carl the Cutter. A row of heavy bent sunflowers left for chickadee feeders and corn stalks that radiate the January sun. Gifts that are stealthy and still life-y, such as veggies in September just off the stem resting on the turquoise metal garden chair where I can see them when I pull in the drive. Or gourds and pumpkins lined up on fence posts.
Sunday it was the day's just washed eggs arranged by color on a dish towel showcase. Better than jewels. He said he was really just seeing how many he had of each color.
So what does the wife offer the leaver of egg art? His favorite vegetable that happens to have egg in its name, in a winter-warming soup: roasted eggplant with garlic. Even I who am not the #1 fan of eggplant's texture loved it, because it was pureed and super yums. Why do you suppose they're called eggplant? Sometimes Don's hens lay long eggs shaped this way, poor things. Well, apparently some cultivars of eggplant in the 18th century looked like hen's or goose eggs and were yellow or white. And, who knew? They originated in India, where they are known as brinjal, and that sounds something like the name I think is most beautiful for them: aubergine.
eggplant roasted with mashed roasted garlic mixed with Herbes de Provence
-
Some husbands give their wives flowers. Or
Happily for me, my husband gives me photo ops.
Like ornamental chickens with Samuel Beckett hairdos (see Honey on my sidebar). A weather vane named Carl the Cutter. A row of heavy bent sunflowers left for chickadee feeders and corn stalks that radiate the January sun. Gifts that are stealthy and still life-y, such as veggies in September just off the stem resting on the turquoise metal garden chair where I can see them when I pull in the drive. Or gourds and pumpkins lined up on fence posts.
Sunday it was the day's just washed eggs arranged by color on a dish towel showcase. Better than jewels. He said he was really just seeing how many he had of each color.
So what does the wife offer the leaver of egg art? His favorite vegetable that happens to have egg in its name, in a winter-warming soup: roasted eggplant with garlic. Even I who am not the #1 fan of eggplant's texture loved it, because it was pureed and super yums. Why do you suppose they're called eggplant? Sometimes Don's hens lay long eggs shaped this way, poor things. Well, apparently some cultivars of eggplant in the 18th century looked like hen's or goose eggs and were yellow or white. And, who knew? They originated in India, where they are known as brinjal, and that sounds something like the name I think is most beautiful for them: aubergine.
eggplant roasted with mashed roasted garlic mixed with Herbes de ProvenceEggplant-Garlic Soup
Ingredients:
1 cup roasted garlic
1/2 cup Herbes de Provence (available bottled, or dried herbs of your choice)
Drizzle of olive oil
Kosher salt and black pepper to taste
2 large eggplant
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 cup minced onions
1 tablespoon minced garlic
1 1/2 quart of vegetable (or chicken) stock (I added more stock to leftover soup the next day and liked the thinner consistency better)
1 cup coconut milk (or heavy dairy cream)
Cayenne pepper to taste
Directions:
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. In a mixing bowl, combine the garlic, herbs and drizzle of olive oil together. Season with salt and pepper. Mix thoroughly. Split the eggplant in half, lengthwise and smear the garlic mixture over the top of each eggplant half. Place the eggplant on a baking sheet and place in the oven. Roast the eggplant for 30 minutes or until the eggplant is tender.
Remove from the oven and cool. Using a spoon, remove the flesh of the eggplant and discard the skin. Heat the oil in a 2-quart saucepan. When the oil is hot, add the onions. Saute for 2 minutes. Add the roasted eggplant and garlic and continue to saute for 2 minutes. Stir in the stock and bring the liquid to a boil. Reduce to a simmer and cook for 10 minutes. Using a hand-held blender (I don't have one, so I just put it in a regular blender), puree the soup until smooth. Stir in the coconut milk or cream and continue to simmer for 3 minutes. Season the soup with the salt and the cayenne.
Modified from a recipe found here.
-
-
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
friendship in a mobius strip
-
-
The best most amazingly wonderful boss I ever had was a mathematics professor named Ed. Once he tore off a strip of paper, twisted it and then joined the ends to show me what a mobius (or moebius, or moëbius) strip is. In case you don't know, as I didn't, it's a surface with only one side. That's right, if you run your finger along any surface, you'll see that there is only one. It is one of those deliciously annoying impossibilities that tells me I can't be a scientist. I just can't get my head around it, and that bothers me. If I couldn't get my head around it and it didn't bother me, I might be scientist material. (You scientists are going to correct me now.) A mobius strip is also a non-orientable surface. If you want to understand that physical concept, try this. "Orientability is a mathematical property of surfaces in Euclidian space measuring whether or not it is possible to make a consistent choice of surface normal vector at every point dot dot dot"
Whatever. So this is a mobius strip bangle.
I have this friend, a person in authority and power. This is her bracelet, which I admired on her wrist. One day many months later, she publicly scolded me very vehemently over something I thought trivial, and I didn't deserve it. After that I had to seriously consider whether I wanted her to remain in my life as a friend. It took several days and a mini vision quest of sorts to really search out my heart about her and what had happened. I decided I did want her in my life, in spite of her sometimes abrasive ways. There are many things I love about her and our relationship, so I talked with her about it, we patched things up better than before, and a few months later she came for a gathering at my house on my birthday. She handed me a gift box, and when I opened it there was the bracelet. The significance of its twisting and single surface touched me as a symbol of our friendship, one that was pliable enough to go on after a rift that almost tore us apart.
I love it so much that if a fire broke out I would grab it with the photo albums, camera and the external hard drive with all my photographs - after making sure Don is out ok.
-
-
-
The best most amazingly wonderful boss I ever had was a mathematics professor named Ed. Once he tore off a strip of paper, twisted it and then joined the ends to show me what a mobius (or moebius, or moëbius) strip is. In case you don't know, as I didn't, it's a surface with only one side. That's right, if you run your finger along any surface, you'll see that there is only one. It is one of those deliciously annoying impossibilities that tells me I can't be a scientist. I just can't get my head around it, and that bothers me. If I couldn't get my head around it and it didn't bother me, I might be scientist material. (You scientists are going to correct me now.) A mobius strip is also a non-orientable surface. If you want to understand that physical concept, try this. "Orientability is a mathematical property of surfaces in Euclidian space measuring whether or not it is possible to make a consistent choice of surface normal vector at every point dot dot dot"
Whatever. So this is a mobius strip bangle.
I have this friend, a person in authority and power. This is her bracelet, which I admired on her wrist. One day many months later, she publicly scolded me very vehemently over something I thought trivial, and I didn't deserve it. After that I had to seriously consider whether I wanted her to remain in my life as a friend. It took several days and a mini vision quest of sorts to really search out my heart about her and what had happened. I decided I did want her in my life, in spite of her sometimes abrasive ways. There are many things I love about her and our relationship, so I talked with her about it, we patched things up better than before, and a few months later she came for a gathering at my house on my birthday. She handed me a gift box, and when I opened it there was the bracelet. The significance of its twisting and single surface touched me as a symbol of our friendship, one that was pliable enough to go on after a rift that almost tore us apart.
I love it so much that if a fire broke out I would grab it with the photo albums, camera and the external hard drive with all my photographs - after making sure Don is out ok.
-
-
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
for you, for me, for all of us
Can’t take my eyes off of you
I follow you, like you are a woodsy deer, and I am your tail.
There is no movement I do not feel and see, for I and my eyes are fixed on you,
the way these shiny black stones are fixed in the path’s snow.
With each leap over a log, each delicate side-step around a foot-sized hole I can’t see, with each hand stroke of a low branch held until I am clear,
I am one with your movement - protected, because you are ahead of me.
The scratches that scar your face, don’t scar mine.
As Leonard Cohen’s hunchback says, you say:
Your pain is the shadow of my wound.
Who is becoming my tail?
And what follower is bearing the shadow of my wound?
We are all. We are one.
-
I follow you, like you are a woodsy deer, and I am your tail.
There is no movement I do not feel and see, for I and my eyes are fixed on you,
the way these shiny black stones are fixed in the path’s snow.
With each leap over a log, each delicate side-step around a foot-sized hole I can’t see, with each hand stroke of a low branch held until I am clear,
I am one with your movement - protected, because you are ahead of me.
The scratches that scar your face, don’t scar mine.
As Leonard Cohen’s hunchback says, you say:
Your pain is the shadow of my wound.
Who is becoming my tail?
And what follower is bearing the shadow of my wound?
We are all. We are one.
-
Sunday, January 4, 2009
green-eyed lady
When my edges feel too rough.
When I need to remember that circumstances are not what give, or take away, peace.
When complications of the human exchange seem beyond my ability to maneuver.
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
When I need to cool down.
-
When I need to remember that circumstances are not what give, or take away, peace.
-
-
-
When I need to close my eyes and feel Nature's riches.
-
-
-
-
-
-
My elegant green-eyed goddess barncat comes to the rescue.
-
She looks into my eyes.
She eliminates Time, and Distance, and Separateness.
She says, "I love you."
-
-
And I say, "I love you too."
And I say, "I love you too."
Monday, September 8, 2008
another new gig!
Who is this man snuggling with our daughter?! Clue: he makes her very, very happy.
THIS MAN IS GOING TO BE OUR SON-IN-LAW!
Having him join us as our son and a new brother for Peter makes us very happy too! Brian, welcome to the family! We won't tell anyone about the arrow and the barn (. . . for a long, long time).
Brian proposed to Lesley on a beach at Cape Cod August 30. The wedding will be next summer.
♥
When love opens a new room in your heart, you realize its effortless capacity to increase and multiply.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
yin yang shoes
Taoists say: Nothing is created without opposing forces, or something like that.
These are both pairs of Paris shoes. Oh, look at that,
'p-a-i-r-s' and 'P-a-r-i-s' have the same letters.
The black pair I bought in Paris in 2003 when Don and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary. The trekkers I bought for Paris in 2006 when I stomped around with my camera for a week alone to celebrate my 50th birthday.
I like the flirty appeal of pointy toes and high heels, and I like the comfort of round toes and arch supported flat ones. Big cities pull me in, and so do mountains. The cool feel of smooth white sheets in a hotel is a luxury I love, but I also relish the warm flannel of a sleeping bag in a tent. Dressing up fancy for the symphony is something to look forward to, but let me wear my thick ugly soft grey robe on the couch with my laptop every morning. I appreciate fashion for its beauty, but I hate it for its consumerism and planned obsolescence. I live to communicate with people, but I also love to be alone with my thoughts, books, a pen and a notebook. Don and I get a big kick out of chickens, but Sherwood Anderson's narrator in 'The Egg' would have liked to kick them.
I'm learning to tolerate my own discrepancies, and those of others, and also how their opinions might conflict with my own. I'm trying to balance skepticism with open-mindedness. I want to recognize that I am a sometimes chaotic mess of contrary opinions and perspectives, and so is almost everyone else. I resist fitting into categories. I no longer want to fix everything, or to find self worth in what I accomplish or in how people view me. I'm learning to be suspicious of my biases, and not treat them as good or bad, right or wrong.
Tolerance is one thing, and it's good I think. Yet it sounds pretty passive. What if these tensions and opposing forces actually create something new and better? Maybe allowing them to co-exist is the first step. Looking for ways to carve out new territory from there is maybe the next.
Please don't ask me what this means for two pair of Paris shoes. I haven't got a clue. Maybe you do.
Anyway, I do know one new thing that's been created out of seemingly opposing forces. I used to write poetry. When the photography bug bit me, poetry took a back seat, I had no energy for it. I'd open my notebook and sit staring out the window, but nothing would come - except photos that wanted to be taken. So my notebook sat in a pile under the camera bag. Suddenly last month it occurred to me (after going to the county fair and taking pictures) that the photographs themselves could be prompts for writing. Voila! The two 'opposing' forces came together like magic.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
