Monthly Archives: March 2005

A letter to Joe Lesher, listed contact for the Longbaugh Film Festival:

I'm a film fan, and love to support a good festival...but what's up with the degrading television spot? It makes me feel like I just ran a phalanx of longshormen. Worse, it makes me angry enough to completely avoid Longbaugh and any films associated with it. Angry enough to rattle off an email to a stranger--not something I do on a regular basis.

The woman in the ad is only there to be humiliated and ogled. She means nothing as a person--she's just a victim for some crafty little boys. I imagine a lot of women could relate to her, with memories of adolescent harrassment and street hassle. Is that really how you want your female audience to feel when they view a commercial for the Festival?

Depending upon Joe's answer, there may be further letters to Comcast, and any other sponsors.

Sad thing is, the spot is really well done. Someday, when women aren't bombarded with the message that they're only good for sex, an ad like this will be funny. But not today.

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The last few weeks have been very full.

On February 19, we spent the day looking at houses. It was our first outing, and our fantastic real estate agent, Kellie Jenkins, ran us all over the place looking at stuff. We had a great time.

When we got home, we noticed that Prisolm, our 15-year-old kitty, hadn't moved from her spot on the couch all day. I had noticed some lethargy the day before as well, so we took her to the wonderful folks at Dove Lewis. The details hurt too much to type, so I'll just say that we lost her the following Wednesday. She received the best of care, and had the easiest passing we could give her. She had a very long, very good life with people who loved her. We should all be so fortunate.

We spent a few days incognito (and we will be grieving for a long time), and by Saturday we were able to get back in the saddle and look at another house. We had seen the listing, and been able to just drive by the weekend before. I had a feeling about the house, and put my checkbook in my back pocket in case earnest money was needed. It was. By Monday, the kinks were worked out and offers accepted. Soon we'll be living in Woodstock--a great home in a great neighborhood.

The idea of owning a home is hard to wrap my head around. Much less a home with room for a library, a guestroom, a vegetable garden, an office--not to mention a kitchen that makes me bounce with glee. It's just about perfect. We've been staying up late just talking about paint colors and room uses.

Finally, yesterday I faced something that I have been putting off since August, 2003. When I first did the Blogathon, I was single. I watched a movie every night, rarely went out, and spent a helluva lot of time on the computer. Now I have the Spousal Unit, and with him comes this incredible life of art and gardens and cooking and homekeeping--all the things we share and love. I found I balked at giving up those things for six months out of the year. Bill was great--he was ready to take on my share of the household responsibilities so I could do the 'thon. And I found myself with a horrible thought: "I wish I'd never done the first one." That's when I knew I had to let go.

The Blogathon has always been my trump card--the thing I thought made me a "good person". It was a part of my identity, and very hard to let go. But I did. Others will be doing the event this year, and though I'll still own the domain, I'll be pointing it at their project.

I still feel the sting of guilt, but I just couldn't face giving up half of my life forever. There are those who argue that I don't have to do that. Maybe they're right--for them. But for me, it is a consuming task that must be done properly or not at all. I did it for three years. I started an amazing thing that will be, as it was in 2003's Project-Blog, carried forward by others. That's a damned good contribution, and for now, I'm going to rest on those laurels.

And now, there are books to pack, gardens to plan, guest beds to buy, and a little cat to pet.