tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-154269872024-03-20T16:43:28.633-05:00My Little BloggyRiffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-13166729364497941352011-05-25T22:04:00.002-05:002011-05-25T22:04:44.834-05:00Tumblrnow also: <a href="http://riffo.tumblr.com/">http://riffo.tumblr.com/</a><div><br /></div><div>too much internets.</div>Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-20635009120007109822010-08-20T21:45:00.002-05:002010-08-30T14:17:01.246-05:00Right now<div style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); white-space: pre;font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:11px;" ><table style="width: auto;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/2_dNEZ8qlVw0nrtoGvYfTLIUPmeqZI6EXCeI-DNcLjc?feat=embedwebsite"><img style="width: 717px; height: 554px;" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_9rwyB2Ck-3o/TG89wRl309I/AAAAAAAAAXE/fFrxFGF0VOA/s800/i%20would%20like%20to.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px; text-align: right;">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/sarah.riffat/BloggerPictures?authkey=Gv1sRgCJS86OyYxL3ziAE&feat=embedwebsite">Blogger Pictures</a></td></tr></tbody></table></span></span></span></div>Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-25905049361374555802010-07-27T21:09:00.004-05:002010-07-27T21:21:27.793-05:00Memory Foam<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJ7As1wEvv-GjTXJTEnOqaCXULpx7_dfbBe4s4H9czV_rzSMZPwebB2_Xrd11xfoMRoe-O-rF6KEVYbI2BpNs_OleQ8nCSufu7UEPCP5pVJFkc_pMhkeJYtex2ESxWymfnXWSuQ/s1600/bed01.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJ7As1wEvv-GjTXJTEnOqaCXULpx7_dfbBe4s4H9czV_rzSMZPwebB2_Xrd11xfoMRoe-O-rF6KEVYbI2BpNs_OleQ8nCSufu7UEPCP5pVJFkc_pMhkeJYtex2ESxWymfnXWSuQ/s320/bed01.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498776347422145394" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 229px; " /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPP6NmseaHeDIEqkddIeJH6bBixE9yUaOupeg4YNyjN20Uf8-7ffEiYMzk3Bx9gGVStxuiczgayYZnsR0znzLKDa7wZ766PKsXU5YOJFqNB26m-J_BYXSVdUZU43H9rqOqAiGJNw/s1600/bed02.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 284px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPP6NmseaHeDIEqkddIeJH6bBixE9yUaOupeg4YNyjN20Uf8-7ffEiYMzk3Bx9gGVStxuiczgayYZnsR0znzLKDa7wZ766PKsXU5YOJFqNB26m-J_BYXSVdUZU43H9rqOqAiGJNw/s320/bed02.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498776350632477826" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><br />the dent you've made is bigger than we really realize.<div><br /></div>Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-81976556819315305272010-07-16T23:19:00.005-05:002010-07-16T23:31:52.375-05:00ScanneryI was going through my journal the other and decided to scan a couple of things that I still liked, even after months or years.<div><br /></div><div>I used to draw a lot more, but now the inspiration or urge comes less and less. I don't know why this has happened; probably something to do with a general deepening loss of self-esteem. Whoops!</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:11px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/4800440857/" title="birdies2 by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4096/4800440857_3071b23563.jpg" width="335" height="500" alt="birdies2" /></a></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Lucida Grande';"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/4801074476/" title="red lady by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4095/4801074476_980a82a518.jpg" width="500" height="404" alt="red lady" /></a></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Lucida Grande';"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/4801074664/" title="stripes dots by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4136/4801074664_05e8270b82.jpg" width="311" height="500" alt="stripes dots" /></a></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Lucida Grande';"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/4800447321/" title="sarahportrait by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4078/4800447321_315bc9dd77.jpg" width="318" height="500" alt="sarahportrait" /></a></span></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div>On another separate note, I feel very contented right now. I am swaddled in my tiredness, my apartment, and being locked away from the world on this very hot night in a cool room. I am listening to Psapp and have a darling kitty at my feet and I'm tending to my little artworks, and thoughts too; and I feel it's all I ever really need sometimes. Just some quiet time to be me.</div>Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-43140062247556726812010-06-26T00:37:00.002-05:002010-06-26T00:39:04.378-05:00Thursday is the new FridayFriday I went to the gym, OKAY!?<div><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap; "><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/4734391135/" title="gym reasons by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1388/4734391135_c4b0bffc40_b.jpg" width="635" height="1024" alt="gym reasons" /></a></span></div></div>Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-54810918935654949782010-06-24T21:32:00.003-05:002010-06-24T21:37:01.989-05:00On ParenthoodTRUE FACT: Cats ARE NOT babies<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap;font-size:-webkit-xxx-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:6;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: normal;font-size:19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:11px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/4732128124/" title="catdreams by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1371/4732128124_cfdf4eab95_b.jpg" width="676" height="1006" alt="catdreams" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">They are better.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-62563821809084631302010-04-05T21:53:00.008-05:002010-04-05T22:15:22.249-05:00AirI don't like writing posts about my feelings; I think it gets repetitive and boring after a while. But right now, I can't seem to help myself!<div><br /></div><div>I'm feeling some frustration with a change that's going on in my world. I am in transition mode; switching jobs, which is a totally new experience with me. I'm trying to pinpoint exactly what the icky feeling is that I'm trying to hard to shake off but I can't. Last week, it was the icky second interview at the place that eventually hired me, but today I realized that it's the strange things my boss said to me which sort of linger in the air and are hovering around me. And the ickiest part is, that even though I kind of stood up for myself, I could've done it a lot more, which sort of proves her whole point. Why do I have to be so damned diplomatic all the time? I'm not naturally aggressive when it comes to dealing with people, because frankly, that's not how I like to be dealt with. Do unto others, etc...</div><div><br /></div><div>I could continue to feel this way, which I probably will, until I leave. The stress of wrapping up, of knowing I'm finally leaving Awkward Boss Land, of planning a national event, it's all overwhelming. I'm excited but also petrified of starting at a new place where I know no one and feel like I will know nothing. But then thank God the Juanly voice creeps into my head. I have to reassure myself that I was hired for a reason, that I was deemed capable, etc. etc. etc. </div><div>...So I simply <i>must</i> have confidence.</div><div><br /></div><div>I suppose what bothers me most in all of this is that things go unsaid. People continue to be poor managers, and others, like myself, continue to let people be bad managers because they are timid and constantly unsure of themselves until someone really pushes their buttons and makes them think or even <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">GASP!</span> </i></span>act. Even though our society so often preaches confidence, I feel that very few people really have it. I guess confidence is all outward then, because I seldom truly feel it from within. The only reassurance I've gotten that I'm not a complete moron in the past 2 years is being in grad school. If it weren't for that, I think confidence would not even be a part of my vocabulary.</div>Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-23376619702909797382010-04-04T18:26:00.006-05:002010-04-04T18:40:58.505-05:00Portrait of the Cat as a Young Cat<div style="text-align: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:100%;color:#666666;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: pre;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'Lucida Grande';"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/dqnJIMjJPXvojGZ98AYayA?authkey=Gv1sRgCNmOobC6n8zKqwE&feat=embedwebsite"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLoPp0qHg6jLbHTryemIL7omvVD32DlkW5pHxeFBbW58PHaxDDyh8Pzl0Zx_zcn8M1OsWrL3CRJVXXvW2G95E5xr_XvbM7gutzqnM9LK8P2DXBGhd_vfBgwXRhRsaIWB_Gq9Vy2Q/s400/IMG_1960.JPG" /></a></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Reason number 1,094,028 my Romy is awesome: She knows how to model, and looks good while </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">doing it.</span></span></span></div>Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-52312150224930340412010-02-25T10:47:00.021-05:002010-02-25T16:01:59.657-05:00Past, Present, Pending<div style="text-align: left;">It's hard dealing with a death in the family. It signifies a lot of things; changes I had played around as hypothetical situations but couldn't entirely envision suddenly became real. These thoughts and feelings of loss have weighed heavy on my mind since May, when my grandfather passed away. I wasn't able to grasp what life meant until I saw it leaving someone I loved dearly. I still think about how he looked mere moments after he passed; not at all like the person I knew. His mouth was open and his jaw was askew, his nose had thinned and he had taken on a yellow color; the only thing I could think was that the life had been sucked out of him. I was not disturbed at the sight, only shocked because I had never seen a body before. I understood that his body and soul were no longer together; that his soul had left the world, but we still wept for him and for what we know is inevitable for everyone.</div><br />And now I think about it all the time, especially at night when I am drifting to sleep. Unfortunately because it's the most recent memory I have of his life, what has stayed with me is watching him in his last days, struggling with something; struggling physically and mentally to stay with us. Maybe he was trying to stay for us, to tell us something before he left; I am entirely sure he knew he was at the very end of his life, and knowing that he knew this was the hardest part of all.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">***</span></div>This ongoing feeling of loss has been complicated (in good and bad ways) by these pictures my cousin scanned the other day. It's bizarre seeing snapshots of family members you could never imagine as children; that they were young too, and never thought of the rest of their lives, and what we know about them now. These photographs also speak to broken bonds between brothers, sisters, and cousins; family members lost in the span of time and place--things we are still dealing with today in our family. I almost can't wrap my head around it; it brings to life all those memories my grandfather would share with me about his childhood.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsXy8NLC9d6Yet0mI7_rMWLsycWHvgFm0aCe2h6X4LI56ASW_lzag3M5loesYoYemoWmfK_CBUsNWuesClsWVlyEZxONSoWAyHEyEVgmD7dgSOix4JY1BSY-q9wwDRhw24B1ozPg/s1600-h/photo3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsXy8NLC9d6Yet0mI7_rMWLsycWHvgFm0aCe2h6X4LI56ASW_lzag3M5loesYoYemoWmfK_CBUsNWuesClsWVlyEZxONSoWAyHEyEVgmD7dgSOix4JY1BSY-q9wwDRhw24B1ozPg/s400/photo3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442224458155063298" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">My great-grandparents and all 8 of their children. Dadu is the boy on the right holding his baby brother</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><br /></span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRfW_PoIqVnQCe9Rp_nuoC0o1qu_LowLKSUqiXIWyzIsZ2EvMZUCJUOG8DG1AxzceIG3YPVg16HlzTTc7zO1Vfk0ZNoi1u9Yq0zeFj1D-V9wqBl16h5Jfrtc3RkmqDebE07sp5g/s1600-h/photo2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 359px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjRfW_PoIqVnQCe9Rp_nuoC0o1qu_LowLKSUqiXIWyzIsZ2EvMZUCJUOG8DG1AxzceIG3YPVg16HlzTTc7zO1Vfk0ZNoi1u9Yq0zeFj1D-V9wqBl16h5Jfrtc3RkmqDebE07sp5g/s400/photo2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442225205152972546" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">Five of the siblings together. The kid in the white kurta on the right is Dadu. The resemblance to my one of my cousins at that age is uncanny</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><br /></span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNMTDbLCUIetCKwrbNipvSCB_QXDOrECE0QOIz_kIVf3vU0JdqgjayCu6seY2vZNEfKkpe1EHZIWYMglqW7BFuFNXp3FMg6OugaB6SY5wMSzZxMb_g_crr9z0TLX5mlw_sB6qPrg/s1600-h/photo7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 369px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNMTDbLCUIetCKwrbNipvSCB_QXDOrECE0QOIz_kIVf3vU0JdqgjayCu6seY2vZNEfKkpe1EHZIWYMglqW7BFuFNXp3FMg6OugaB6SY5wMSzZxMb_g_crr9z0TLX5mlw_sB6qPrg/s400/photo7.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442226331859459986" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">The girl reading is my grand-aunt (my grandfather's sister he was closest to, especially when they moved to New York). I'm guessing that's my great-grandfather and another sister to her side, and possibly Dadu in the background<br /></span></i><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjREozBVz4o_3QfYpOdArZtZM2DaK3gGJ9pdtcpo2BO-NqSMj3-Q_fG11gsLPY_ASonxbghB52CcjWqxg5TD2_G7K48s3giAfJFdJ_Ok0-X-ArgCRYJ0awH4fUuhhaSCy9KGKE-jw/s400/dadi.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442283393915759922" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 294px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;"><i>We guess this is the wedding procession (either before or after) my grandparents' wedding. My grandmother is in the in the center, wearing a garland, dark lipstick and glasses</i></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk2QruYDU4VQVo-51C5gG3ES8Sx8uT8hnqBszuwq_m9xZMjGAHx4xhMG2sLe8I1CPZ7X-Qi0vQrE8WlDFeeQXVrk_nsvVXZ07hURx6ixWGZdKFtuI83aQvWdaz7K9vJQ7LNPaGcQ/s1600-h/photo6.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 328px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk2QruYDU4VQVo-51C5gG3ES8Sx8uT8hnqBszuwq_m9xZMjGAHx4xhMG2sLe8I1CPZ7X-Qi0vQrE8WlDFeeQXVrk_nsvVXZ07hURx6ixWGZdKFtuI83aQvWdaz7K9vJQ7LNPaGcQ/s400/photo6.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442227274438009922" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">Dadu's closest brother, grown up, with my uncle in the backseat. He's also the other boy in the second picture</span><br /><br /></i></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVydOqWeOD92RQU6GbuAC3ANlbU0SXfDuxui6JlEMGE5mdE1Lqhv-WZCx_UrLyOtizwA8G6qoEqyjvMZfsFXOs77pl_CR1tewnPhSX7hWqCTTK0mW1g2bSuF1z7VJxS8XNoLdX_g/s1600-h/photo5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 304px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVydOqWeOD92RQU6GbuAC3ANlbU0SXfDuxui6JlEMGE5mdE1Lqhv-WZCx_UrLyOtizwA8G6qoEqyjvMZfsFXOs77pl_CR1tewnPhSX7hWqCTTK0mW1g2bSuF1z7VJxS8XNoLdX_g/s400/photo5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442227728920220338" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">My aunt and uncle (brother and sister) on the right, and their first cousins (they were pretty much all like siblings since their father was killed when they were babies). My guess is that this is before 1953, when my dad was born</span><br /></i><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWiPsOjzsSl6g8CAIkAwtaDYxn_dQc3eoQNmo9rkXcX5ajAImonwHLbOw0rH5tDSiKYngwoDgwCph4VBYbR3gdnJNlUYl6GVM48RvDmMmXP8Yiw6TSZFr99PWucBYJPF4EwrW1aQ/s1600-h/photo8.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 397px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWiPsOjzsSl6g8CAIkAwtaDYxn_dQc3eoQNmo9rkXcX5ajAImonwHLbOw0rH5tDSiKYngwoDgwCph4VBYbR3gdnJNlUYl6GVM48RvDmMmXP8Yiw6TSZFr99PWucBYJPF4EwrW1aQ/s400/photo8.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442228356236767922" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">The same 4 a little bit older; my guess is 1954. Sweet sweaters</span><br /><br /></i></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKues2uOdv8pp1bkSSqkXy_nyToJZJGSTigvkAMiKeVqXdX8aKpJ9QsRTOmYgryJzQgk9x2xder0f-zdXKySZtjqp6l2m9MMiJ41-qVi1RBKWmMN6Mi5Uz2sZSaJt4dnsvYl2_Q/s1600-h/photo4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 385px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKues2uOdv8pp1bkSSqkXy_nyToJZJGSTigvkAMiKeVqXdX8aKpJ9QsRTOmYgryJzQgk9x2xder0f-zdXKySZtjqp6l2m9MMiJ41-qVi1RBKWmMN6Mi5Uz2sZSaJt4dnsvYl2_Q/s400/photo4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442228574081682498" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">The little boy is my dad, and next to him his big sister, playing with their cousin in the background. When I saw this, I instantly knew it was him. I had the same baby-arms stance, the same little face and big eyes</span><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNLED2S3Ws5bwrYqT9wN_iTV6VW2a0uo8J2oTRjmLUP8wGBLu9kGk_zBlXoOPmoqphr1pqfY_S7IPg6eK30GRMRPQk1JL6H8rXdc_-ZiHGryNjhK4xX1fwHLR8dcC-0F1jbUdh4A/s400/little+baba.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442282702993000722" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 397px; height: 400px; " /><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#666666;">My dad posing with his tricycle. This one just tickles me</span><br /></i><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div>For me, it will take a while to process these images, and all that my generation carries on our faces & in our blood: the unmistakable resemblances to our mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts and great-grandparents. But as we look back we can't help but mourn those who were like us at one time; young, healthy, living life and looking ahead.<br /><br />I think what strikes me the most is the legacy of the photograph. One day our grandchildren and great-grandchildren will look at the thousands of pictures of us (all in color, and far more candid), and try to write narratives about our histories and our relationships with one another. They will know far more, and they will carry something too, I guess.Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-35646267659669484222010-02-15T10:54:00.002-05:002010-02-15T10:56:45.204-05:00SCHWES<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoMqIN-OKSufs5IT04GQEb5F8ykF5-cKiYtLCVh9BjRcCHi0vpvETk-S5imwXGDm4Prx4WmZomNGX20QLtIuOGx9vw_M53mis-HYiUH6Cah6r0-yApDJLRIbtp2T5TVltmIydRUA/s1600-h/schwes+mug.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 395px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoMqIN-OKSufs5IT04GQEb5F8ykF5-cKiYtLCVh9BjRcCHi0vpvETk-S5imwXGDm4Prx4WmZomNGX20QLtIuOGx9vw_M53mis-HYiUH6Cah6r0-yApDJLRIbtp2T5TVltmIydRUA/s400/schwes+mug.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438499527143538354" /></a><br /><br />It's almost my Schwes's birfay! Which means, in essence, it's almost my birthday and I should be getting presents too, but I probably won't.<br /><br />Sad :(Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-22927304602289304232010-01-27T21:21:00.002-05:002010-01-27T21:24:15.713-05:00Cats<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgOyJ2dlE0Vv5yIRm3hm3e-x4eUILeSUh4PutDMnrQ_4S_cfUtxT9K4NqjtINz3IQxOLLPn-MeNXJUocz-XMilMobuPSXwi7V3LQ0TEgzSeJ39qMW8FE611lHHEIig4YqK04RpWw/s1600-h/kats.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgOyJ2dlE0Vv5yIRm3hm3e-x4eUILeSUh4PutDMnrQ_4S_cfUtxT9K4NqjtINz3IQxOLLPn-MeNXJUocz-XMilMobuPSXwi7V3LQ0TEgzSeJ39qMW8FE611lHHEIig4YqK04RpWw/s400/kats.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431610539022009682" /></a><br /><br />I like cats, and draw them on the back of my business cards (putting them to better use).Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-6359223178257420592010-01-26T13:47:00.008-05:002010-01-26T15:13:30.833-05:00The Burqa Dance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwZrXQ-vPvn_H_GYVFxuGHjz3R3WDaG47egGAeridBqvaTMBUkVmn9ID8WP0EZGcyyyGAILjqnycFWL6hWfqKVo-kw4KRtKmr8n_2SUr8ioRImJXd762B2YJmJ0TQ0Zy0K6fG-yw/s1600-h/1223-france-burqa-muslims_full_600.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwZrXQ-vPvn_H_GYVFxuGHjz3R3WDaG47egGAeridBqvaTMBUkVmn9ID8WP0EZGcyyyGAILjqnycFWL6hWfqKVo-kw4KRtKmr8n_2SUr8ioRImJXd762B2YJmJ0TQ0Zy0K6fG-yw/s400/1223-france-burqa-muslims_full_600.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431123950540398834" /></a><br />So I'm pretty uncertain where I lie on this issue. While I do not support the burqa or niqab, I think that going as far as outlawing a garment, and not adhering to the Western liberal principle of giving people the right to express themselves seems like a form of reverse fundamentalism to me. Tolerance is what so-called "progressive" Western European nations pride themselves on, yet this is a popular movement based on intolerance of personal religious faith (even though I take this form of adherence to Islam to be utterly wrong and even embarrassing). Still, I think taking the burqa or niqab as a stamp of religious extremism is an incorrect assumption. A symbolic war is no way of addressing fear of terrorism, and actively excludes populations who already feel hostility from the government for simply existing. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/27/world/europe/27france.html?hp">This Times article</a> says, "Critics of the veils have described them as a tool of extremism, a hindrance to women’s rights and an affront to France’s cherished secularity." I understand and obviously support secularism; but it's not like Islamic militants are imposing Shari'a law on the French government. What's really amazing is that the French government feels like it's being invaded by extremist Muslims, which gives you an idea how it perceives and deals with its immigrants. <br /><br />For the record, I'm okay with the hijab (head scarf), but I don't understand women or girls who wear a hijab but then pair it with a tight pair of jeans and a tiny shirt. I guess that's done more for the appeal of looking exotic or something, but it screams ignorance to me. I've also only ever seen a small handful of women wearing niqabs or full-blown burqas out in public in NYC. It actually scared me a little, seeing someone in a giant sheet, with no face, not really moving, just sitting there on the N train. Not knowing what's underneath gives me the creeps. So, in short, burqas make me cringe; and I do not think that anything was written in the Qur'an that ever intended women to cover up to that extent. <br /><br />I am still not sure how I feel about the 2004 ban on all religious gear in public schools. In grade school, seeing someone wearing a hijab, a cross, an Om, a star of David, or whatever else was a way of learning about who they were and what they maybe believed. Taking that away from children is removing a form of tolerance that needs to be developed in order for there to ever be dialogue. In any case, it's fascinating how committed France is to its identity as a nation, and what they will strive to do in order to think they are getting all of its different populations on the same page...because I don't think that can ever happen.Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-45740929092865589442009-12-29T12:55:00.011-05:002009-12-29T13:45:51.027-05:00Urban Farming!Over the past couple of days, I have been reading Novella Carpenter's "Farm City: The Education of an Urban Farmer". I was initially drawn to the cover, which was featured on some design website; it looked awesome so I decided to do a little research and ended up buying the book.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hYXjHfoXx-eGDWL4oHl4eFNdbSfNB-qaaLmvIWmsZ1DTkg31H0QgewIktz1A2wZWsMxqcO45niq1SWCvu9UCFiS0NKQEUElEUiEzfVCTIQlVgmH4c6hRKPmdve4iSZxq5uA06w/s1600-h/Farm+City.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 265px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hYXjHfoXx-eGDWL4oHl4eFNdbSfNB-qaaLmvIWmsZ1DTkg31H0QgewIktz1A2wZWsMxqcO45niq1SWCvu9UCFiS0NKQEUElEUiEzfVCTIQlVgmH4c6hRKPmdve4iSZxq5uA06w/s400/Farm+City.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420722002534047906" /></a> <br />It reads just like someone telling you about their experience in creating a farm, complete with chickens, turkeys, ducks and a beehive. As an urbanite who knows nothing about farming, animals (except cats!...which we don't eat!), and I'll admit, nature, this book is really an education to me. Novella sets up her own farm in an abandoned lot in Oakland, and seems to learn as she goes, keeping an open mind to whatever she sets out to do. I'm not even half-way through yet, but I think it's the best book I've read in a while. My favorite excerpt thus far:<br /><blockquote><span style="font-style:italic;">"Back in Seattle, our first chicken was an Americauna named Agnes. She was a lesbian chicken who crowed like a rooster but also laid eggs with bluish shells."</span></blockquote> I need to get more in tune with what's happening within my 5 boroughs. I know there are urban farms in Harlem and Red Hook. I should really figure out where they are and what they grow. Next semester, I am going to be doing an independent study focusing on food systems in New York City, and policy initiatives set to improve food security and access to nutritious, fresh foods for low-income New Yorkers. This book is making me think, which is unusual given I'm on winter break!Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-2914443888658227322009-12-21T14:34:00.001-05:002009-12-21T14:34:11.600-05:00Living in a Terrarium World<div class="pp_items"><div class="pp_item" align="center"><img src="http://static.pixelpipe.com/01fcbdb8-917b-4a7e-9be5-42ef011ab501_b.jpg" style="max-width: 100%;" /></div></div>Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-16629180368854624842009-11-18T18:49:00.001-05:002009-11-18T18:49:35.664-05:00Old Lady Syndrome<div class="pp_items"><div class="pp_item" align="center"><img src="http://static.pixelpipe.com/9f324c03-80c8-48e0-8bcb-bbfa724f73c8_b.jpg" style="max-width: 100%;" /><p>My truly embarassing work drawer. Contents: socks, oatmeal, teas (assorted), tissue packets, vitamins, and an assortment of plastic bags. I don't use any of these things regulary. Really, the drawer should be filled with candybars and bad magazines.</p></div></div>Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-4068699676209435782009-10-29T10:29:00.003-05:002009-10-29T12:57:07.519-05:00How to Get Gifted: An Education on Presentation<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/2339379130/" title="Polish. by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3224/2339379130_07c1f3f5fb_m.jpg" width="180" height="240" alt="Polish." /></a><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/2338545747/" title="Polish & Talk. by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2087/2338545747_93ff047df4_m.jpg" width="180" height="240" alt="Polish & Talk." /></a><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/2339378246/" title="Polish with Concentrations. by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3290/2339378246_3c8e29a4e3_m.jpg" width="240" height="180" alt="Polish with Concentrations." /></a><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/2339376782/" title="Examination. by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2269/2339376782_683344e462_m.jpg" width="240" height="180" alt="Examination." /></a><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/2338542571/" title="1 by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3133/2338542571_a95ff4441e_m.jpg" width="240" height="180" alt="1" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/2338540899/" title="2 by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2353/2338540899_37b50e4959_m.jpg" width="240" height="180" alt="2" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/2339372014/" title="3. My gift. by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2162/2339372014_df0a4d4efd_m.jpg" width="240" height="180" alt="3. My gift." /></a>Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-65573399353560658882009-10-20T13:15:00.003-05:002009-10-20T14:31:06.578-05:00That Ain't MY Motherland!As I sit here, warm in the confines of my office, downing daal, chawal + achaar that I made last night, I'm reading about the suicide bombing at the Islamic University in Islamabad. At this point, I've numbed myself to hearing news on what happens "over there", though when I really stop to think about it, it's beyond disturbing that nothing worthwhile has ever been done to save this failed state. <br /><br />Being born and raised in New York City, Pakistan never seemed the way that it does to me today. It was easy to imagine that you'd take a visit and enjoy the couple of weeks you'd spend there; shop, eat, play with your cousins, visit relatives you'd never heard of, go to weddings, travel to different cities, etc. It seemed entirely plausible that you could spend months there if you wanted to, being spoiled by your khalas, mamoos and naanis. Part of this is a simple nostalgia, perhaps an inkling of all that "imaginary homeland" crap I studied in college. So, yes, my nostalgic tone does stem from a desire to feel connected to a nation my parents once belonged to, and I don't deny that it runs through my veins. But my feelings on culture, assimilation and immigration have changed significantly over the years. I think I've come to a very strong understanding of who I am in the scheme of my country (U.S.) and my "motherland" (Pakistan). I don't confuse the two anymore: I am very simply an American-born person of Pakistani descent. <br /><br />With that said, I am actually shocked at how the frequency of bombings and raids has increased significantly in the past few months. Whereas I would once be shocked to hear about a bombing anywhere in Pakistan, it has now become daily news and I expect to see it when I open up my browser in the morning. Pakistan, in my mind, has officially reached a status akin to Afghanistan and Iraq, which is truly pathetic, and weirdly, makes me ashamed.<br /><br />Like I said, I do think of Pakistan as a failed state. Whereas there was some kind of dysfunctional but functional order to civilian life in the previous decades, there is nothing now because the government does not have the resources to control its borders because there were never any systems put in place for that. So, of course, the U.S. has once again inserted itself into "protecting" a Muslim country, all the while fueling extremist rage and detached-from-reality "Muslims" killing normal-people Muslims. Great. <br /><br />All of these problems are deeply rooted in how this government was formed coming out of the partition. Simply put, it wasn't. Rich landowners were getting theirs, making sure they stayed on top. There wasn't a constitution for several years after Pakistan was established, and when it finally appeared, it wasn't worth shit because it was changed so often. You look at India in stark contrast to Pakistan, and you wonder, how did this happen? It really is "Midnight's Children", if you think about it. Though India doesn't have the cleanest human rights record either, at least Hindus aren't killing Hindus (save the poor Dalits). What makes me weary of Pakistan is simply the complete lack of political structure which has inevitably failed each and every leader of the country, and therefore failed the people. You can only expect people in all levels of government to be either stupid or corrupt (probably both), lacking education and ignorant to the needs of the people they should really be serving. <br /><br />I know it probably seems like I am coming at this from a privileged American standpoint; I have no qualms about that. I accept my culture and my roots, I love all of it. What I don't love is all the millions of displaced Pakis around the world having to shake their heads and somehow explain the 1,001 ways this country has deteriorated; and much like Afghanistan and Iraq, we wonder if things will ever get better. It's not simply an issue of militants needing to be eradicated, but if Pakistan does get better, Pakistani officials need to meet some kind of criteria for holding public office (after all President Zardari most likely isn't even a college graduate). Even now, they don't truly seem to be grasping the problem (or describing it well, anyway). Look at this quote from the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/21/world/asia/21pstan.html?hp">NYTimes</a>:<br /><br /><blockquote>“To target Islamic University is equivalent to targeting Pakistan,” said Rehman Malik, the country’s interior minister, while talking to a local television news network. “Students from 47 Muslim countries are studying here. To attack here is to tell the Muslims of the world that Pakistan is not safe for anyone.”</blockquote><br /><br />What is this guy really trying to say? Did it just occur to him that Pakistan <span style="font-style:italic;">is not</span> a safe place? He seems confused--Of course targeting an Islamic University in Islamabad is an attack on Pakistan and an attack on Muslims! It seems like a really stupid call to action, as if they don't know who could've possibly done this. What an effing moron.<br /><br />Anyway, this whole rant was triggered by that quote. There's really no nice way of saying any of the things I just said. Needless to say, I am not visiting anytime soon.Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-18224637754913726212009-09-09T10:49:00.010-05:002009-09-09T11:23:45.270-05:00Asterios/I'm SeriousI was at Shakespeare & Co. a while ago and was attracted to this new graphic novel by David Mazzucchelli...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih1fB6PRgEXgcHfkGlaAQaQQdP2FB11EpNx0od-fC0jUztSayT8RO7Bv1zThKeR46kqNONnEp_XkvMLdoryxV_YcsxW6VVb13y4z5yWdNiLDk2igo4VgZW8JbrGeyBa_duQRS6eg/s1600-h/asterios-polyp-cover.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 393px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih1fB6PRgEXgcHfkGlaAQaQQdP2FB11EpNx0od-fC0jUztSayT8RO7Bv1zThKeR46kqNONnEp_XkvMLdoryxV_YcsxW6VVb13y4z5yWdNiLDk2igo4VgZW8JbrGeyBa_duQRS6eg/s400/asterios-polyp-cover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379501399737017634" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe8wrTIpDcILDoeL9e9tkGVQ-RTeuX9Vwi0SNJ1fZourOnGmP3FutY5ep-6ZIJePjujuRMLVSHtMy6ct9pFZPojwJtpbFLuALZ0xRBlFuNqDx7-oLtrOxmG2CrUtL4Rc3lgOjrgg/s1600-h/asterios.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 276px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe8wrTIpDcILDoeL9e9tkGVQ-RTeuX9Vwi0SNJ1fZourOnGmP3FutY5ep-6ZIJePjujuRMLVSHtMy6ct9pFZPojwJtpbFLuALZ0xRBlFuNqDx7-oLtrOxmG2CrUtL4Rc3lgOjrgg/s400/asterios.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379501514026588210" /></a><br />Asterios reminds me somewhat of a sophisticated version of <a href="http://meggospurls.blogspot.com/">Meggo's</a> make-believe but possibly real future Greek billionaire shipping tycoon husband, Kronos Megalopoulos.I love this style of drawing, and the use of color; reminds me of retro 1950s ads & cartoons. I also love that his last name is Polyp...GROSS.<br /><br />I must find my tablet stylus so I can finally do some real drawing instead of this bullshit secret drawing and scanning at work business. <br /><br />While Alek was here last week, through our usual fare of ridiculous voices and made-up words, we stumbled upon two characters (Eunice & Eunice) who would make a good short comic strip. They are sisters-in-law of 120 years who live in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lincolnshire">Lincolnshire</a> and go on adventures. I have to really work on drawing these ladies because I can't draw old people very well. This is why I need to find the lost stylus because it would be more efficient to copy the faces for the sake of consistency (so they don't look different every time!).<br /><br />Oh, they also have an ambiguously gay nephew named Klosty (I know right, wtf?).Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-21469337641913930192009-08-17T17:41:00.004-05:002009-12-29T13:48:51.054-05:00Just a Couple of Sea-Cows, Us Two...<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/3831064453/" title="manatees_inverted by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2482/3831064453_d8de8ecc78_b.jpg" width="707" height="1024" alt="manatees_inverted" /></a><br /><br />According to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manatee">Wikipedia</a>:<br />The name manatí comes from the Taíno, a pre-Columbian people of the Caribbean, meaning "breast".<br /><br />I also learned that my doodle is physically inaccurate because "the females tend to be larger and heavier". Another little known (but sad) fact I learned is that "the current main threat to manatees in the United States is being struck by boats or slashed by propellers" because they inhabit shallow waters.<br /><br />Now you know everything you need to know about manatees (but not my relationship).Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-64649771968575439532009-08-13T15:28:00.004-05:002009-08-13T15:43:23.799-05:00Head-Shrinking<div class="pp_items"><div class="pp_item" align="center"><img src="http://static.pixelpipe.com/b52aced0-9097-4ee6-b74f-6b270b37bf47_b.jpg" style="max-width: 100%;" /><p>My coworker recently purchased a small package of modeling clay, of which one-quarter was shared with me. When I get bored, I reach for this. Though I'm no sculptor, I think it's a good try! And I just discovered that using a blunt tip of a pencil makes a decent modeling tool. Now I must wash my hands for they are green!</p></div></div><br />*EDIT*<br />Worked on it some more. The head is situated on this weird rotating thing; I think it's the back piece of a nametag holder or something...so the head rotates. I am a genius!<br /><table style="width:auto;"><tr><td><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/Z-8Hx0kswiyMEZhnE7fEAA?authkey=Gv1sRgCNmOobC6n8zKqwE&feat=embedwebsite"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAn4JeQ5DWQXFif00Vbhc23700PPEP3UJOgRBvEi7ReWFP1NWbHdlhXwSTBH9TH9Tb9f7R9k5jhA1r1aAxtyLz5AyJ_3Ruh-cpwgSz1pqCCMCHEViy977v7woChSAyfC93SxsDug/s400/2009-08-13%2016.36.33.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="font-family:arial,sans-serif; font-size:11px; text-align:right">From <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/sarah.riffat/MyLittleBloggy?authkey=Gv1sRgCNmOobC6n8zKqwE&feat=embedwebsite">My Little Bloggy</a></td></tr></table>Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-36474272831619131132009-08-11T14:59:00.003-05:002009-08-11T18:04:06.054-05:00My Heart Almost Dropped<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/3813171204/" title="heartsleeves by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2538/3813171204_71b3f66cf0.jpg" width="500" height="376" alt="heartsleeves" /></a><br /><br />I really need to set up my scanner (but I really don't have a desk at home) because the PDF machine just don't cut it. I had to convert this into a jpeg through Microsoft Publisher, which is just sick and sad. I can't even download PrimoPDF or any of those conversion programs because I don't have administrative rights on my own stupid work computer.Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-90433017103727643452009-08-05T20:32:00.009-05:002009-08-06T09:24:07.785-05:00Veronica Turns 66<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/3794028030/" title="Veronica on Monday by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3457/3794028030_f2275e7609.jpg" width="500" height="255" alt="Veronica on Monday" /></a><br /><br />Based on real-life events.Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-4564046847710309182009-08-03T10:00:00.007-05:002009-08-03T10:56:43.322-05:00Peacock Walls & Coffee LoveStealing potential fodder from my <a href="http://alek-things.blogspot.com/">schwes</a>, I came across <a href="http://www.hudsonpaint.com/">Hudson Paint's series of colored chalkboard paint</a>, via <a href="http://www.designspongeonline.com/2009/08/interior-idea-colored-chalkboard-paint.html?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=interior-idea-colored-chalkboard-paint">Design*Sponge</a>. They feature two dozen colors at just $7 a can. I used to think chalkboard paint was cool, then I thought it wasn't because people seemed to like to cover entire walls with it. I thought the end result ended up looking messy because the wall looked too busy from all the scribbles, and it didn't erase clean. Essentially I thought it was too much maintenance (you know, another thing to wipe down or clean). Now, <a href="http://www.hudsonpaint.com/our-ideas/">I think it looks kind of cute</a>, especially in small areas, and in bright colors! <br />***<br />On another homey note, I need a new french press. I saw <a href="http://www.starbucksstore.com/products/shprodde.asp?SKU=168978">this one</a> at a local Starbucks the other day.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVYXhhQbseXKTY81rF2_KA5_ZCf9yWI-hjpNSMzjm1B2Uw5LvdajjtLnK3EVXWZ2nWHfjaXb2l-OHh5cbAkOiuX25d1b2GhqUw35FgShOkbcfA8d74cAuWAtQE4OXi6mjDdGAFLw/s1600-h/168978.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVYXhhQbseXKTY81rF2_KA5_ZCf9yWI-hjpNSMzjm1B2Uw5LvdajjtLnK3EVXWZ2nWHfjaXb2l-OHh5cbAkOiuX25d1b2GhqUw35FgShOkbcfA8d74cAuWAtQE4OXi6mjDdGAFLw/s400/168978.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365764147248499666" /></a><br />I think it's the same one. The 3-layer filter is joined together into one piece, unlike many other french presses, which come apart. I like this feature because the grinds tend to come up as you push the plunger down, because the strainer piece becomes warped after years of use.<br /><br />And because I'm becoming a more refined coffee fanatic, I figured I should probably do some research on how to properly store my coffee. Normally I store in an airtight bag in the freezer. But I'm guessing that those bags aren't <span style="font-style:italic;">really </span>very airtight at all. <a href="http://www.ncausa.org/i4a/pages/index.cfm?pageid=70">According to the National Coffee Association of U.S.A., Inc.</a> you should store coffee in an airtight glass or ceramic container, in a cool dry location. Freezing, on the other hand, should only be employed <blockquote><span style="font-style:italic;">If you've purchased a large quantity of coffee that you will not use immediately. Small portions, wrapped in airtight bags, can be stored for up to a month in the freezer. Once you have removed them from the freezer, however, do not return them. Instead, move them to an air-tight container and store in a cool, dry place.</span></blockquote><br />Good to know! I think a trip to The Container Store is in order, as well as one or two cans of Hudson Paint...et voila!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://assets.designspongeonline.com.s3.amazonaws.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/img_3256.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 475px; height: 317px;" src="http://assets.designspongeonline.com.s3.amazonaws.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/img_3256.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />via <a href="http://www.designspongeonline.com/2009/08/interior-idea-colored-chalkboard-paint.html?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=interior-idea-colored-chalkboard-paint">Design*Sponge</a>Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-28247901611749442092009-07-30T13:19:00.008-05:002009-07-30T14:08:30.996-05:00Ode to Romy: One Year with BabycatPeople who know me, know I like cats. But anyone who <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span> knows me, knows how secretly obsessed I am with them. Last year, after moving out, I couldn't wait to get a kittycat of my own. I tried to settle in without a pet, but after holding out, I decided to check out an adoption fair being held by <a href="http://anjelliclecats.homestead.com/">Anjellicle Cats Rescue</a> at Columbus Circle. I was forewarned by <a href="http://alek-things.blogspot.com/">Alek</a> that it would be difficult to see all the kitties in their little cages, and it was. I wanted all of them! After looking around, but not holding any, my mom pointed out a small black cat who was standing at attention, staring out at us with round, yellow-green eyes. I asked if I could hold her, and I did, even though she was squirming and shedding like crazy. It was not a Hallmark moment. But after weeks of not being able to get the furry round head out of my mind, I decided to put in an application for the little black cat I met in front of Central Park.<br /><br />Two weeks later, she arrived. She seemed okay the first few hours, but never having owned a new cat before, I wasn't expecting all the crying she did the first night. I didn't sleep a wink. I was stressed out from having realized I would have to be the caretaker of a little creature, not really taking into account how unimposing pets are after they get used to you and vice versa. During the first week with my very own pet, I struggled with wanting to keep her. I felt awful about it. She pooped in funny places the first day (I bought the wrong kind of litter), and peed on the cushion of one of the kitchen chairs the next. I feared her behavior would persist, and wanted to return her. Ultimately I didn't have the heart to do it (which I was happy to find out meant that I'm not a monster). In the end, I knew I was being irrational and waited it out.<br /><br />Several days later, I was reading in bed. Romy came up and joined me. She came to my stomach and placed a paw on me. Paw by paw, she came closer until she settled on my chest, curled up on top of me, and buried her little head in my neck. I had never witnessed such affection from a cat, and my heart melted! She's a sweet little thing, and I got so lucky to find a furry little babycatchild like her. You can't beat a cat who's licked your tears away when you cried! <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarahriffat/3184139740/" title="Romy by sarii, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3267/3184139740_5379fe157f.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="Romy" /></a>Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15426987.post-72280348689906780722009-07-28T13:54:00.009-05:002009-07-28T14:33:20.682-05:00Awful = Awffice +/- Cawfee<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcn1sOhW7DZVm-0ukJ6j-85QL2wJxewbbKzzedg-eY1QkUUZndsRw67Owcua9B4wcMFx0pjWwO2wk0VbxQcCx2LRUA7r5AABVgnGuROMxZpWVHL33d6b_74Zx_T5TVr2adh6CY7A/s1600-h/88.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcn1sOhW7DZVm-0ukJ6j-85QL2wJxewbbKzzedg-eY1QkUUZndsRw67Owcua9B4wcMFx0pjWwO2wk0VbxQcCx2LRUA7r5AABVgnGuROMxZpWVHL33d6b_74Zx_T5TVr2adh6CY7A/s400/88.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363586906873465522" /></a><br /><a href="http://www.morenewmath.com/88/office-coffee/">office coffee</a><br /><br />Shared via <a href="http://addthis.com">AddThis</a><br /><br />SO TRUE. I hate getting stuck talking to people in the copy room. Office coffee is <span style="font-style:italic;">SO</span> terrible, and fake laughing at people's boring anecdotes is even worse.<br /><br />Anyway, I happened upon this on FFFFound. It's called "New Math" by Craig Damrauer (<a href="http://www.morenewmath.com/all/">http://www.morenewmath.com/all/</a>). Some of the stuff is funny and some of the stuff I don't completely get because I'm pretty slow these days.<br /><br />Everything feels slow, actually. My workcomputer is so slow, I've had silent fits of rage and needed to walk away. And it seems as though the days go by quickly but the hours I spend in the office drag on & on. I wish in between the hours I spend here, I could engage in some things I actually enjoy. I'd like to finish my book (currently reading <span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Other-Rooms-Wonders/dp/0393068005">In Other Rooms Other Wonders</a></span>), or start some new drawings, or finish some other ones I've started, or flesh out ideas & illustrations for a longer length comic. It's sad- I pretty much give up when I get home; either immersing myself in cooking or cleaning or cuddling, somehow actively avoiding things that require imagination and creative effort.<br /><br />Boredom is a horrible state to be in. It never happens to me unless I'm at work. It makes me wonder why we can't drink at work to make it more enjoyable, or at least have an excuse for falling asleep at our desks.Riffohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07047239968767328600noreply@blogger.com1