Year of the Pig - 2007

Probably the most generous, intelligent & honorable sign of the Zodiac, the Pig possesses impeccable manners, taste & knowledge, and cares a great deal about friends & family. Helping others is a true pleasure for the Pig, as well as working hard to keep everyone in their lives happy.

The Year of the Pig is a year for love, friendship & career advancement through dedication & great team spirit.

1911, 1923, 1935, 1947, 1959, 1971, 1983, 1995, 2007

MB's Ugandously Insipid Book List of 2006

Because I love books, love making lists, and love reading other people's reading lists, here's the list of books I've read (or recall reading at least one page) in 2006 ...

The Robber Bride by Margaret Atwood. Interesting read, my first exposure to her writing. The tone - and plot - are slightly unsettling; but this definitely conveys the uneasy mood of the main characters. I'd rate it a 6.

The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood. A must read. Excellent. One of those rare books that the entire book club read and discussed at length. And my book club is not hard core. A contemporary classic that I'll reread.

Empire Falls by Richard Russo. A few friends love this author, and this novel, in particular. I enjoyed it, but it is slow paced and not nearly as funny as his novel Straight Man.

The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova. Quite the page turner. I enjoyed the story within a story layers and the fact that it's the author's first novel, took her over ten years to write, and is rich in history, travel, mystery, and a father-daughter relationship. One of my favorites of the year.

The Plot Against America by Philip Roth. Fascinating. It takes a look at WW II, twists history ever so slightly to show us what might have happened. Another favorite of 2006.

The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett. Sam Spade. Need I say more?

Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell. A book club book, I own it, but haven't yet finished it. Fully intend to, just probably not in 2006.

Moon Tide Dawn Clifton Tripp. Another book club book. I have it, but have yet to even start it. Along with a few others from this year's book club collection ...

Atonement by Ian McEwan. My first exposure to McEwan's writing. I've always heard others ooh and ahh when Ian McEwan is mentioned ... I liked it, but I don't feel the urge to gush about it.

Geek Love by Katherine Dunn. Horribly engaging, like watching a train wreck. I forced myself to continue reading it - thinking my pal Rache had actually read and loved it. (I was wrong) But, before I knew it, I was hooked. Freakishly fascinating. I might describe it as memorable like Ignatius J. Reilly in Confederacy of Dunces but with circus freaks.

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy by John Le Carre. Good Cold War spy story. Unfortunately there are times in Le Carre's story where he lost me a little. Fortunately I found out that he is known for changing perspective/point of view which can be confusing to the reader - which was a bit of a relief. Felt less like a dumbass after learning this.

Random Family - Love, Drugs, Trouble and Coming of Age in the Bronx by Adrian Nicole Leblanc. I've had this book on my reading list since it was first published. Remember hearing an interview on NPR. It's an intimate look at a completely different socioeconomic group - as compared to white, middle class me. It follows four teens in the Bronx and gave me a better understanding - albeit disappointing - of the failures of the "system" and the vicious cycles that trap generations upon generations in repeating the past.

Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. I've always thought of this as a "boy" story. But it is a great pirate tale. I read it after seeing Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean II. A classic worth reading & rereading. I'd also highly recommend The Strange Case of Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde, which can be read in one afternoon.

The Archivist by Martha Cooley. Got this recommendation from Left Bank Books. Fell in love with the premise - the fact that TS Eliot's friend/love interest sent all of his letters to her (against his wishes) to Princeton. These 1000+ letters over 20+ years are sequestered until 2020. After reading this I want to read all his work (including those tidbits I've read in high school English class) AND be first in line to read the letters he wrote to Emily Hale on January 1, 2020.

The Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri. Bought it awhile ago - on one of my many occasions of falling for the Borders "buy 3, get one free" impulse purchase. Didn't know it was a collection of short stories. So far have read three of them. Pretty good, all in all. Book club's January 2007 book is her novel, The Namesake which I'll read next!

I Spy

I spy
with my little eye
Little Cindy Lou Who's
brother
Bailey Ru Who
lives
outside the Lou Who
among the Whoville Whos.

And hear Grinch shout
from exile on the mount
"Hoo"
and 23 responses
"Hoo."

I do. Do you?

Chilly, wet and dark here

All the more reason to mentally escape - right now - to this hammock.

Waiting

Monday afternoon I waited for one hour in my rheumatologist's waiting room ... no Mr. Toto or other odd creature sightings, unfortunately.

I then spent another hour waiting in the exam room.

I nearly napped on the exam table but I have an aversion to those things, so instead spent another hour in an institutional chair. The magazines were old and mostly Better Homes and Gardens types so no good mindless distractions to be had.

I did notice however that the fluorescent lighting, large mirror and sink in the exam room would be perfect, if I only had a pair of tweezers to shape my brows and pull out a few gray hairs.

But I didn't.

So instead I scribbled some ideas for my next short story submission, made a mental note of a few brow hairs to pluck at home in my non-fluorescent lighted bathroom, and chatted on my cell.

And then my doctor came in, uttered a thousand apologies (her partner wasn't there and thus she had twice the number of appointments), checked me out and off I went for another four months. . .

Bowling, bowling, bowling ...

So today I took two nieces and two nephews - ages 8 to 15 - bowling.

One nephew sports a black eye, another a sprained ankle - both from junior high football.

My oldest niece has a t-shirt with a rubber band fastening it taut at the waist. The youngest niece sports pig tails and fills the air with chit chat as her teenage siblings (try to) play it cool.

It's funny how it starts out all mannerly - please, thank you, helping the little sister bowl - to little taunts here and there. Changing a name on the scoreboard above the lane to "gidygidywah hah" or "butt munch."

They're good kids, really. I wouldn't tackle all four at one time (without reinforcements) if they weren't.

On the drive back to their home, after 4 games, they get a little more rowdy.

The eldest dons the parental role from the shotgun seat as the three youngest - two of which are tall lanky teens/pre teens - are in the back seat. The boys look a little smashed in the back of my coupe - not too comfortable for growing adolescents. Perhaps that's part of the reason they're gently bullying their litle sister on the ride home.

As we head towards their subdivision they tell me they've moved. Didn't I know? Just turn here instead. You're going the wrong way, to the wrong house. They all gang up on me and become a team with one goal ...

I don't buy it one bit.

I am flattered. Afterall, this teasing is a sign of approval, of inclusion.

Mood Lighting ... at work?

Fluorescent lights are never flattering. I avoid looking in the mirror at work too long - each blemish, errant gray hair, and other flaw seem to be on spotlight. I guess it's the next best thing to daylight?

Which brings me to an interesting phenomenon developing in my workplace ... mood lighting. Two of my coworkers, who joined the department in the past year, do not use their overhead lights. I've never seen this before so it's fascinating.

Instead of those awful, fluorescent overhead lights, these colleagues have either a table lamp or torchiere which ever so subtly casts shadows on their workspace.

Very curious, I must say. One of them almost looks like a gamer: door closed; laptop and torchiere glowing through the window (which looks out into a maze of cubicles); earbuds always in; and shoulders slumped towards the computer screen. I keep waiting to hear beeps from Donkey Kong or Super Mario Brothers when he makes it to the next level. Or at least the yelps and yahoos of a record breaking game. (Yes, I know there are much more advanced games these days, but this colleague and I are both 30-somethings from the good ol' days of Atari.)

What makes me smile most is the fact that when my colleague is actually out of the office, his overhead light is on. So it's brighter in there when he's not working, than when he is.

Just the opposite of 99% of the rest of us ...

More Important Than ...

"A mini-break means more than just shagging," as Bridget Jones once said.

Is it true?

Mini-breaks offer rare opportunities to step out of everyday life and spend 24 hours a day with someone. Complete with less distractions, less personal space, and less housecleaning.

It's been awhile, maybe never, since I've spent 96 hours - 22 of which were in a car - with a guy I'm dating. Until two weekends ago.

I went to his hometown, met the friends, tailgated, watched a football game, met some family.

It went well. I had a good time. My foot remained several feet away from my mouth. No major foibles.

Except one ...

SDG is a die hard, college football fan. He hasn't missed a home game in 15 years. He wears his oversized U of M jersey, cap, and even logoed pants.

Having gone to a university that wasn't particularly known for its sports, this is all very foreign to me. At the tailgate spot we ate made to order omelettes pre-game. Bloody Marys and a rather extensive bar was set up. Post-game menu included soup and steak sandwiches. I knew I'd eat and drink well, I just wasn't sure of the game itself.

College football is SDG's passion, or perhaps his vice. There are worse vices, to be sure. But SDG has his game day routine down, and it's pretty much a full day event. He doesn't drink alcohol or much liquid pre-game. This is to ensure that he remains on his bleacher seat for all four quarters. No breaks. Can't miss a thing.

He set fairly low expectations for me. He said he'd be happy if I made it through half-time. After that I was free to go back to tailgating or walk a few blocks to the local shops. I thought this was do-able. After all, I'd been to a game at Purdue before and found it entertaining enough. I can people watch and daydream with the best of them.

First quarter zipped along quickly, until I saw lightning. Then the rainfall. I tried to make a quick exit for shelter while SDG remained. No sweat, I'd wait it out and we'd meet back up.

Or not. There was a mass exodus and not enough exits and/or covered areas. I waited, ten steps from my bleacher seat and ten steps from the exit as the fattest raindrops pelted down. The U of M ballcap he bought me came in handy - but I still got drenched.

Because of the lightning, the game was delayed. Of course the football players took shelter, but the poor band - complete with tubas - remained on the field. Hello? Does anyone else see a problem with that?

SDG and I met up as everyone exited the stadium. He apologized a thousand times over. I was so ready to go - soggy and cold - and thought he was ready, too. Wrong! I quickly remembered that he sat through entire games - rain, sleet, snow - and that a silly girl might break his 15 year record. And that his request that I stick it out through half time was currently at risk.

Over time we compromised. The game started up again one hour later. We stayed awhile at the tailgate, watched part of the game on the satellite, and then left. The weekend was packed with time with various friends and family, and that night we had dinner with his oldest, best friends.

We negotiated and, while he was disappointed to leave, and admitted as such, he also said that I was more important than football; but if they had been playing team a, b, or c (he limited it to three, I think), he'd have had to kill me. I appreciated his honesty. The second comment (even with the caveat) also garnered mega points - though I'm sure I'll repay him someday.

Ok, so now that we've jumped this hurdle, this 96-hour trial, perhaps I need to embrace that term ... boyfriend. He's my boyfriend.

Just Plain Wrong

MORE AMERICANS PASSING UP VACATIONS TO GET AHEAD.

The official end of summer is approaching, signaling the end of peak vacation season and the return of the working masses to the daily grind. But many of us aren't trudging back to work well rested from a couple of weeks of lying on the beach.

Increasingly, Americans loaded with work are foregoing their vacation time and clocking more hours on the job, widening the disparity between the U.S. and other countries where vacations are mandatory and often stretch to a month of idle bliss.

The U.S. is the only industrialized country that does not require employers to give workers paid time off--vacation leave, sick leave or maternity leave.

It's up to employers to design vacation policies, and about 25% of U.S. workers get no paid leave at all, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. (Chicago Tribune.com/Business, 9/13)

Follow my Finger with your Eyes, Hester

This Labor Day weekend included a trip to the wineries. We went to one of the more popular ones, with a big patio, live music, etc. It was crowded, but with a little ingenuity we were able to find a table and extra chairs to join the throng while having our own private feast.

Of course the dance floor provided the most excellent people watching. Talk about sea of humanity. Wine, it's not just for the discriminating palate anymore. There were the requisite Paris HIlton-esques crowd mixed in with the hillbilly couple (he with suspenders, she with long gray hair in a braid) and those folks you'd expect in a dive bar, drinking beer on tap and holding belching contests. Of course, this is Missouri. And there are those wine cooler-esque concoctions that taste more like a sugary Kool-Aid than a Shiraz.

Equally intriguing was the wedding reception going on the north side of the seating area. Not sure I'd want the Bayou band and VP Fair crowd elbowing up against my wedding party ... but, hey, it was cheap entertainment, I suppose! The bride's gown included a band of red at the top and bottom, about an inch or two thick. Someone said this was the latest trend - a white gown with a splash of color. Traditionalist that I am, I was reminded of Hester Prynne in The Scarlet Letter rather than a fashionista.

But back to my group. EG, the DD, got a nauseating migraine. I think the mix of cigar smoke blowing in her face combined with a few other factors jump-started it. She wasn't feeling all that great so I drove her car back to STL. She has a manual, and since stick shifts are a dying breed, there weren't many in the carload that were experienced and/or not totally tipsy.

Winding back to the highway, we came upon a sobriety checkpoint.

I've never had experience with a checkpoint really. Except a year ago after having been at a 50th Anniversary party in which no liquor was served. The cop simply asked where I'd been; I pointed about a block backwards and said "that Southern Baptist church. I had lemonade." Why I felt the need to call out - twice in one sentence - my absolute lack of liquor - is my self-inflicted guilt syndrome. For some reason I immediately feel guilty at the sight of a cop.

So this time, having not anticipated being the driver, and coming upon a ten cop-car checkpoint, I felt instantly guilty. How many drinks had I had? I didn't really know. More than the migrained car owner but less than the other two passengers.

I felt my face flush - which happens when I drink alcohol, or am overheated, or embarrassed, or all of the above ... while waiting for my turn, I started chewing gum, but trying not to smack it like a "mad cow" as I tend to do in stressful situations.

I rolled up to the first of the line of cops and stopped. I pushed the button to roll down the window. Oops, that's the rear window. Play it cool and push the button for your window, dumbass. He asked where I had been, what time I had got there, how many drinks I'd had. Oh, and license and registration. I answered these questions. And then wondered what was next?

I saw my life flash before my eyes. By some fluke my ankle would give out while walking a straight line, I’d fall and he’d issue a DUI. Talk about Scarlet Letter. . . I’ve always prided myself on not driving drunk, suddenly to be caught unawares and be the next schlub with a drunk driving violation.

Luckily, I didn’t have to move. My clumsiness would certainly have betrayed me, sober or not. Instead he raised his index finger and told me to follow it with my eyes only and not move my head. He moved his finger from a center point to the far right, center to the far left, center to the far right, etc. etc. I’d say at least 8 times. It felt like an eternity.

Sometimes he’d stop midway, other times he went slowly and nearly exceeded my peripheral vision. A few time I expected my contact lens might pop out from staring out of the corner of my eyes. Course I wasn’t going to mouth off to the cop about this – unless it really happened. And it didn’t. I did move my head once though, and he called me on it. Sorry, said a small voice inside me as my jaws clamped tighter.

I was free to go after the 'follow the finger' exercise, but had an awful adrenaline rush. Poor EG, still recuping from her migraine, had to deal with all of our animated talking the rest of the drive home.

And of course, in my usual clumsy way, right before handing over her keys and going to my own car, I drove over a curb. Just one back tire as I took a turn onto a one-way street. Yup. Classic.

I’m sure they were all thinking “Yup, she’s drunk. We dodged a bullet back in Augusta.”

To which, I said, out loud, “I have a problem with curbs.”

Because I do.

Psychological Munster Family

A friend of mine gets the St. Louis Review. I've never heard of it before, probably because I'm not Catholic and thus completely unfamiliar with the weekly paper of the St. Louis Archdiocese. In this newspaper they review movies. Also learned about the USCCB - United States Conference of Catholic Bishops' Office - which has its own Film & Broadcasting rating system.

I find this fascinating. My friend made a copy of this week's review of "Little Miss Sunshine." The one sentence in the entire review that I agreed with compared the movie's Hoover family to a "pyschological Munster family with the one normal kid." I actually laughed out loud. Great comparison. Very true. To be fair, the review wasn't bad. I can see their points. I wouldn't take an ten-year old to see it. Course, the R rating by the secular film rating system identifies it properly, without the Catholic paper chiming in with their two cents.

Unfortunately "LIttle Miss Sunshine" was not rated by the Bishops, only a film reviewer on staff. However, they did rate other movies ... and their ratings start at "general patronage" for movies like "Cars;" to "adults/adolescents" for "The Devil Wears Prada."

Things get slightly more racy with the label "limited adult audience," which is reserved for films whose content "many adults would find troubling". Current movies that fit this bill include "Accepted," "Night Listener," and "Talladega Nights."

Topping the charts like a category five on the Safir-Simpson Hurricane Scale is drum roll please, "morally offensive." Yes, this is the equivalent of X-rated to ye of little faith. Now showing at a theatre near you, are such morally offensives as: "Miami Vice," "Snakes on a Plane," and "Beerfest" - all tainted by an "O" rating by those wild and crazy bishops.

To check it out yourself, click here. They also have television ratings, top ten movies by year, and the Vatican Top 45 movies list. Who knew?

While I'm not an organized religion type gal and never have been/never will be Catholic, I must confess that if I had kids I just might check out these reviews before allowing a kid loose at the cinema. I am embarrassed to admit this (and hope I'd find something similar that wasn't tied to a faith), but they certainly outline all of the potentially objectionable aspects that a parent might like to know up front ... From advance warning of the "menacing sequence that may be scary for very young children" in "Ant Bully" to "sexual elements including brief footage of an orgy with partial nudity" in "Night Listener."

I remember seeing "Creepshow" and "Down & Out in Beverly Hills" with my parents as a pre-teen/young teen. Both were "R". My Dad had no clue of their rating till we were in the show. I still can't believe that my mom endorsed it. "Creepshow" was my first taste of horror (and enhanced my repugnance of cock roaches and increased the frequency of nightmares). "Down & Out" was my first glimpse of sex ed, front and center, on the big screen. I died a little during the sex scene ... not something you want to see with your parents. Betting my dad died a little too...

Whoops ...

Well, thank heavens today ended better than it started. Two nights in a row I schlepped a pile of work home and didn't do it. Each morning as I careen to work (tardy, as usual, with sunroof open to blow dry my hair en route), I feel a little guilt about it and then rationalize that having to carry it across the highway into work is punishment enough.

In addition to today's morning of guilt and typical late arrival to work, I speed walked across the parking lot. Halfway up the hill, I heard someone call my name. I looked back to see my car no longer in its parking spot. My car was in the middle of the aisle, in fact.

Luckily it had stopped coasting and had not hit anything. Being late and having to park in the flat section was actually a blessing today! (I can rationalize anything apparently...)

For some reason I walked back to the car ever so slowly, at a much slower pace than my departure. Why I didn't feel a sense of urgency, who knows. It was certainly shocking.

I threw my pile of files and papers onto the sloping blacktop, slid into the car, rolled it back into its parking spot and put on the parking brake. This time. Always a good thing to do in a stick shift, but for some reason I broke habit today.

Of course a few other wonky things happened while walking into work but no major catastrophes, just close calls.

I'm not normally superstitious, but today I was.

And now I'm home. The car brake is on. Nothing's burning. My smoke alarms have new batteries. The gate is closed. The dog's in for the night. The doors are locked.

Phew.

Men Only?

You've got to be kidding me.

I'm working on my essay submission for writers group and took a moment to check the headlines. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, but one headline just hit me.

I should probably start by saying that the essay I'm writing is about a mix of things - one of which concerns the ugandously insipid topic of religion. It goes without saying that this is a very personal topic, with a deluge of different interpretations and beliefs.

But (rant begins here), one thing I struggle with is intolerance. Intolerance of other people's beliefs in particular and the dangerous reaction when mixed with a so-called literal interpretation of the Bible or any other work that forms the basis of a religion.

One key objection I have to certain organized religions concerns gender. When the leaders of a religion must be male and only male, when females are not given the same opportunities, my normally tranquil feminist attitudes fly off the handle.

Here's the latest absurdity Sunday School Teacher Dumped for Being Female.

Basically this woman has been a Sunday School teacher for the past 50+ years and suddenly the obviously infallible (not) leader - whatever his title (reverend, preacher, or master of his domain) has decided this is no longer appropriate.

Equally troubling is the fact that he is also in local government ... which reinforces my anxiety when it comes to the ever-dwindling separation of church and state.

On a personal note, a friend encountered such discrimination. Granted, this does not mean the entire religion is flawed, but demonstrates how important balance is within leadership of any organization (religious or other) is. Raised as Jehovah Witness, my friend J married someone in the religion, as recommended. When her husband suddenly left her, the elders in her church (who happened to all be male), judged her. Until her ex-husband admitted to adultery, she was the sinner in the eyes of her congregation - to a certain extent. She was treated differently, judged, and at risk for being excommunicated/disfellowshiped. Basically her support system - family, friends and spiritual foundation - were in jeopardy. Once her ex came forward, she was forgiven though it left an indelible mark on her faith. Understandably so. Granted this is second-hand and biased, but such incidents make me indignant. They reinforce my harsh impressions of most organized religions and my reluctance to get back into a church-going ritual ... ever.

I could go on & on about religion and women's rights, but I'd much rather hear from you. Any thoughts, opinions, comments welcome.

In the meantime, now that there is color in my cheeks and an increase in beats per minute, I'm going to focus this fervor into my essay which is due in nearly 48 hours ... and needs much more work!

Yo Ho Ho ... and a Bottle o' Rum

I just finished Treasure Island. First time ever. It's particularly interesting after seeing Johnny Depp channel Keith Richards in two Pirates of the Caribbean movies, not to mention reading the preface and how so much of the pirate lore we know today is based on Stevenson's novel. Long John Silver and Jim Hawkins are products of this novel.

I can't say I would've ever picked up this book had it not been for J-bo recommending it. I've always considered it a young adult, or rather, young boy, story that would not appeal to me. On the contrary, I really enjoyed it. It's written in bite-sized chapters, each chapter making you want to read the next, and the next, before dozing off.

Also in the past year I have read another classic by Robert Louis Stevenson, equally entertaining and a little creepy ... The Strange Case of Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde. I would highly recommend - I liked it much better than Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, though not sure I can pinpoint the reason. thus raising my expectations ... kind of like hearing all of the early reviews/hype for a movie and then feeling let down once actually seeing it. Perhaps?

Needless to say, all of these suspenseful, strange classics take you out of ordinary life or add a bit of spice to everyday life. These works get me to thinking about my own writing and future creations.

There's something very intriguing about a world different than your own - particularly ones involving hidden treasure, marooned pirates, or scientific experiments gone awry. The fascination and curiosities that result and transport you to other time periods and/or fairly improbable situations (though credible enough so that you wonder what if ...)

Aaaaahhhh

Very nice weekend. It felt like it was longer than two days, which was excellent. My buddy Jbo was in town so hung out with her - brunch, shopping, drinks out, etc. Also had really great dates with SDG.

This week MJ comes for a visit, so it's a month of UF reunions. Quality time with some of my dearest friends can't be beat.

Saw "Little Miss Sunshine" - I highly recommend it. Great cast, funny and quirky as hell. It manages that fine balance of addressing serious themes, spiked with large amounts of humor. Plus you can't not love the character Olive and Alan Arkin is great as the grandfather. It reminded me a bit of "The Royal Tenenbaums" in that it's about a dysfunctional family, has some great music, and an ensemble of actors/characters all muddling their way through life. I can't say there are many other parallels but to a certain degree, in spirit, they are similar. And, I'd be interested in seeing both again (and again, eventually).

Also started reading "Treasure Island" by Robert Louis Stevenson for the first time. I'm really enjoying it. After reading a few contemporary books back-to-back about dysfunctional families, societal issues and rather heavy themes ("Geek Love," "Running with Scissors," and "Random Family"), reading about pirates, rum, tropical islands and hidden treasure provides a welcome respite. Although I've had some very odd, vivid dreams after reading a chapter before dozing off. The blind pirate in particular made a rapid leap from the page to my dreams. Creepy dude.

And now it's time to do the practical weekend stuff - laundry, some groceries, etc. Back to the grind manana.

Ta ta.

Almost

I feel like I've had four work weeks, crammed into four work days.

Creativity

Last weekend I went to a reception at a local gallery. It was out in commie land but a great venue so worth the trek.

While there, I spoke with one of the artists about her process. She said that she comes up with the title of the painting first, and then paints it. So it's a concept, a witty title, then a creation.

As I flounder around with the art of writing, her process intrigued me. I struggle with the title - it's usually one of the last things I do before submitting it. More like an afterthought than an integral part of the creation. Which made her order all the more intriguing.

Her titles were witty, a bit tongue-in-cheek, and the paintings themselves were humorous commentaries on life.

Obviously there is more than one way to create, and what works for one person may not work for another, but I appreciated gaining a little insight into her process, routine, and seeing the fruits of her labor.

Movies and Votes, Votes and Movies

Just a little political endorsement one week prior to our next local elections.

First of all, please vote in the primaries. Your vote matters!

Secondly, please consider placing your vote for Jeff Smith, Democrat for Senate.

I've known Jeff for years, our fathers are long-time friends. As a kid, Jeff was high-energy - an excellent trait that he's harnessed to power his political campaigns. In 2004, Jeff came a close second to Russ Carnahan. Quite the feat for a 20-something guy with no previous political connections.

His campaigns are grassroots. He's frequently canvassing, door to door, sleeves rolled up and beaming. Leaving Forest Park a few weeks ago on a Saturday afternoon, I saw Jeff canvassing the big homes on Lindell.

He's managed to persuade a self-proclaimed Republican (my father) to support him, because of his beliefs and integrity, not because my Dad has known him since he was a kid.

Anyway, just a little endorsement and background information from yours truly. Please look at Jeff's website and think about voting for him on August 8th.

PS - There's also a documentary on his 2004 run called "Can Mr. Smith Get To Washington Anymore?" at the Tivoli through August 10th.

Truthiness

Quotes of the Week, uttered by VP at Henry's:

"Think how much time we'd waste if we told the truth all the time."

and Steven Colbert:

"I love Wikipedia. Any site that's got a longer entry on 'truthiness' than on Lutherans has its priorities straight."

Message to Class F Drivers

If you drive an earth destroying SUV and cannot efficiently navigate parking lots, for hell's sake please downsize.

It's a win-win all around, trust me.

Depends, on the Dog

So I'm dating this new guy. And my pooch, very much accustomed to being the center of attention, is adapting. Several times we've (me and the dog) gone over to his house to visit.

In some ways she's been great - no growling, barking or biting - but in other ways she's expressed a certain level of, let's just say, dissatisfaction.

The first time we were over he couldn't understand why I wouldn't leave Ru (the dog) alone in his house. "What could she do," SDG asked, "it's a bachelor pad?"

I couldn't form the words for a proper response. So Ru responded, 30 minutes into the visit, by squatting on his brand new carpet. Carpet that has never felt canine paws before that night, much less hot liquid sinking into the fibers.

I hadn't expected she would show her disdain by becoming The Urinator. As a deaf-mute, I stood there in disbelief. Right in front of me she had peed. My (allegedly) perfect dog, with that sweet face and calm disposition. My dog, a spoiled dog-child deprived of attention for an entire half hour.

I let her outside to give her the opportunity to void any other materials and then resumed the visit. By the way, SDG was great about it. Not sure I would be as cool if the roles were reversed.

Like clockwork, 30 minutes later, was a repeat performance. This time I managed to utter some words before putting her outside. The Resolve bottle came back out along with the paper towels. My head was about to explode as the two beings I most wanted to get along were striking a few discordant notes.

Fortunately that ended Ru's silent strike on SDG's home. For that visit.

The second visit lasted three whole hours before she wet the carpet. So, it's an improvement and perhaps now it's simply a training phase.

I think we're finally getting it under control. Last week during the power outage we camped out over there in the air conditioning and never needed the Resolve.

Phew. Didn't want to have to choose between dog and man ...

Memoirs

I'm struggling with the blurry line between fiction and non-fiction when it comes to memoirs.

I just read "Running with Scissors." Overall the book was an easy read. I knew the basic plot so the first fifty pages were gripping because I wanted to understand how and why his mother's psychiatrist became his legal guardian. Of course there was plenty of shock value in some of the circumstances but after awhile (perhaps 2/3 of the way into the book) the ridiculousness of his childhood seemed almost mundane. Throwing the hotel bed and tv out the window? Not surprising. Showering with a whole turkey defrosting in bathtub? Mind-numbingly normal.

Today I googled the author. Apparently he's being sued by the Finch family with whom he spent a large part of his childhood. The lawsuit is a bit reminiscent of James Frey, but probably not nearly as controversial or fictitious, I guess.

In my writers group we've talked about writing from personal experience and that fine line with "storying up" life experiences into something more interesting.

I suppose Burroughs did this exact same thing. However he's getting sued and some items, such as the frequent references to how roach-infested filthy the Finch household was (or wasn't) are in contention. Apparently a journalist who visited the Finch home said it wasn't disgustingly dirty. And of course there are bigger allegations that are being scrutinized. Just think it's fascinating. Click here to read an article on the lawsuit.

What I also find interesting is that some of the details in our writing, which stick out like sore thumbs in how ludicrous and unrealistic they seem, are the true, real-life tidbits which were dropped in, as is. Just reinforces the adage that truth is stranger than fiction.

Anyway, I welcome input and comments on fiction vs. non-fiction, and just how accurate memoirs should be. After all, memoire (the French word) means memory, and if it's as you remember it, it can be a helluva lot different than another's recollection...

And in the dictionary, memoir is defined as:
1 - An account of the personal experiences of an author.
2 - An autobiography. Often used in the plural.
3 - A biography or biographical sketch.

Summer Storm

So last night we had a big summer storm. Half million homes in St Louis are without power, homes north of interstate 70 are under boil order, and my office, for the first time in 20 years, is closed. Yipee for that though my home has no air co either.

My little old house stayed pretty cool last night - under 80 - and the pooch and I slept well. This afternoon I stopped by again and it's over 80 inside but the old tree and bricks (despite poor insulation) are keeping it fairly cool. Thank heavens I have some dear friends, who have air conditioning - welcoming me & the canine into their homes. This afternoon I'm over at SAB's and we're half-watching some very bad 70s tv on the Game Show Network. My dog has stopped growling/sniffing at her dogs so it's a chillfest for the moment.

Driving around the area last night and today has been interesting. There are huge trees down in my neighborhood - luckily not my old black walnut. Many, many of the stoplights are dark, not even flashing red, traffic is slow going everywhere and trees/branches are down everywhere. It's amazing how short the storm was, but how powerful.

Ode to Poons

It's funny how everyone has their own personal thesaurus of nonsensical nicknames for everyday things.

Of course, there are the terribly common and rather horrid references to private parts, oft used by parents to their kids. These terms are heard, loud and clear, in many a public place. 'Woo woo', 'hoo ha' and 'keester' echo throughout the food aisle at Dierbergs or public restroom at Target, making the non-believer in such tomfoolery cringe.

I like to believe that people graduate from these juvenile repetitions (don't forget 'bo bo'), though many never do. Fortunately my mom started early with the training of the proper references. Granted, I occasionally forgot these terms, but mainly because the birds & bees talk flew over my head and caused me great anguish. For a long time I wouldn't eat eggs for fear of getting pregnant. As a young kid, I knew that I was not yet ready to graduate from caring for my poodle (in a rather haphazard way) to taking on a baby. The egg making a baby visual just left me reeling and my new vocabulary was momentarily lost.

Now, what I think much more interesting are the quietly kept monikers of adults. Those not uttered outside an elite group, hush-hush, and purely goofy. Rarely do these see the light of day to reach outsiders.

For instance, R&J, who are trying to conceive, call their future fetus "Peanut." This slipped out in a conversation so now I'm in on their little joke.

Another friend, while chatting on the phone today, mentioned that she was buying a case of poons online. Her favorite type was no longer available in stores so she was going to stockpile.

Now what is a 'poon'? Is it something found in a Dr. Seuss book? Or insider slang for harpoon?

Well, in addition to being a southern Asian tree (which I just learned), it is slang for a tampon in M's family. Something oh-so-very-original that her father coined, living in a household with four menstrual women.

In my own world, I have seemed to refer to bras as 'arbs' for 25 years. But only to myself - using this when making shopping lists, but never in conversation. Writing this out, I wonder why I did this ... I think because, in those awkward pre-teen years, poons and arbs seemed less embarrassing when referred to in code.

Hildy Sighting

Just last week I saw the real Hildy. This was probably the 3rd sighting ever.

This time Hildy was talking to a neighbor and had her gas mask off; it was hanging around her neck. Prostrate.

If I hadn't been a passenger in a car headed somewhere, I would have doubled back. Maybe even parked and passed by on foot. Just for a longer look, an opportunity to soak in the physical being which inspired my conjured up creation.

The Me in We

"Hi. It's me. Call me back."

Simple enough message, very often heard and uttered.

And yet not so much.

Let's just say it's been awhile since I've heard it from someone other than a friend or my father. I think the last male "me" - that lasted beyond a one-off date or two - was involved in the Moby Dick incident of 2002. And as a result of said incident, all ties were severed and the crazy roller coaster relationship fell off the tracks. Which was a good thing. I've never regretted it.

Recently I've dipped my toes into "we-ness" once more and am getting those simple messages again by a Y-chromosomed caller. No other identifier, no proper name.

I could get used to this again.

I think I already am.

In the Year 2000 (and one)

Five years ago, I had just turned 30 and was:
-single (oh wait, I still am);
-struggling with an undiagnosed and untreated disease that made me feel, at times, 100 years old;
-traveling to Europe a handful of times each year, eating fabulous food and seeing amazing places;
-less "curvy" (aka thinner);
-just starting to get to know the urban family.

Hiss Hiss

So my friend V is gallivanting around Europe on vacation for two weeks and I've offered to check in on her cat.

I've never been a fan of cats but I've grown to have a healthy respect for the creatures, although I prefer dogs. They're less finicky and fickle compared to their feline friends. My tendency to treat cats like dogs more often than not gets me clawed or nipped.

Anyway, this is the end of week one of trying to keep the cat company. I'm learning - or rather the cat is conditioning my behavior. I haven't been scratched since the first visit, which I consider a measure of success.

My goal for week two is to have the cat sit on my lap. V told me where the 'sweet spot' is on the couch and I've been sitting in it and feeding her cat treats. Just trying to be pals and get the cat to warm up to me. (Boy, this sounds like I really need a life - I'm blogging about my goal and it's about a CAT!)

Anyway, back to the cat. Either she's desperate for some human interaction and decided that I'll just have to suffice, or I'm growing on her. Guessing it's the former, she's just tolerating me as a temporary replacement and reserving the right to be aloof and cranky at any time.

Which is why I have my unconditional canine.

Dogs rule.

A Small, Good Thing

Tonight at the DG meeting we discussed two stories by Raymond Carver. I'd never read his work before but am now a big fan of his writing. In fact I think we all were impressed with his concise, powerful tales.

One thing that really resonated with me during our conversation tonight about these two stories was said by CoE ... that in moments of loss, of losing a loved one, often the best comfort comes from an unlikely source. It's not from your parents, your family, your relatives or closest friends but instead a random connection with a stranger that often soothes the soul.

Maybe it's just that universal sense of loss mixed with meeting someone new - at the right time, right place - that makes all the difference. . . along with the fact that you probably will never see them again, may not even know their first name, that makes it so powerful.

Geek Love

I've recently started another voracious book reading cycle. I've had a break the past few months, instead reading random magazines and short stories. But now I seem to be back on the wagon - reading before I go to bed and sometimes trying to sneak in another chapter before work. The latest book, which was nominated for a National Book Award in the 1980s, was Geek Love.

It was on loan from my friend R who let me borrow it a year or two ago. It's been a bit of a challenge as when she offered it up last year she mentioned that I'd declined it in the past. So of course I decided to take another stab at it and these past two weeks have been engrossed in the book.

I think that I expected it to be a cross between Pretty in Pink and Less Than Zero.

It's not.

It's odd. A bit like watching a horrible accident and the aftermath. But pretty much a page turner.

Did you know that the word "geek" originates from the carnival world? I didn't. Apparently it's the person who does gross things like biting off chicken heads as entertainment. I guess you could say the "geek" is the precursor to Ozzy Osbourne's live bat gig on stage. . .

I like how the author deals with very common themes - family issues - but in a very unique way. The parents are 'norms' who willingly abuse alcohol, drugs and other toxic substances to breed the next generation of carny performers. The offspring and the family dynamics form the core of the story in such a bizarre way. It's horrible, but inventive.

I can't say I loved it. And I do think at times the author changed perspectives and lost me a little as to who was narrating at the time.

But if nothing else, it was certainly original. It left an impression. I'm glad I don't know anyone like Arty but would've liked to have known Chick.

If anyone else comes across this post and has read it - please share your comments. I'm very curious to hear other's impressions and to discuss further.

35,000 miles and no major repairs

As my body's odometer turns another year, I guess I could say it has 35,000 miles on it, it seems a good time to ruminate ... introspectively on the past, present and future.

Numbers with a zero, five and nine all lend themselves particularly well to creating the personal equivalent of a business plan. Last fall I realized, while making my first marketing plan at work, that it makes sense to have your own personal plan - measurable, attainable, etc.

So MJ and I started our "Monster Me" initiatives. It sputtered out after a handful of months but it's still around - and it's made a difference. MJ is trying out landscape architecture and I've starting writing. There are other things too, and it feels great to know that we actually delivered against our plan, with what seems like very little effort. Or at least it felt less like a chore and more like fulfillment. So last night after running errands, doing dishes & loads of laundry, I recapped my accomplishments and began another quarter of "Monster Me" goals.

This morning, after six hours of sleep, some breakfast and other stuff, the pre-birthday questions that come to mind are:

What's the next adventure?

What can I do that excites me and won't feel like work while it pays the bills and contributes to my savings?

What's most important? What are my priorities and am I aligning my time appropriately?

If I could do or be anything, what would that be? How can I make that happen? Do I really want to make it happen?

Ok now I'm sounding like Dr. Phil or some self-help evangel that irritates me more than inspires. But just some thoughts for me to chew on ... as I turn thirty-five (which is better than fifty-three, at least for now).

Oh - one more thing - I have found that it really does seem that I am coming into my own more and more. That the 30s are a pretty damn good decade. It's sort of like graduating from playing dress-up as a little girl to finally owning your own wardrobe - complete with fitted clothing and shoes in every color and style. I feel like I'm evolving, becoming more confident in ways I wasn't before, and more aware of who I am and want to be.

I loved my 20s - they were tons of fun. But if this is what it's supposed to be like in your 30s, I'm thinking the 40s could be pretty damn good too.

Halfway to Seventy

I know it was only a three day workweek, but thank heavens it's over.

The past month or so my output at work seems to consist of clock watching, and snuffing out the urges to either pull a book out of my purse to read or work on my next short story. It's not like I don't have work to do, it's just that Idon'twannadoit.

On Wednesday, July 5th, after a very relaxing four day weekend, I was even tempted to just call in and take the day off. I didn't have any plans, no particular project or event - just simply didn't want to return to the drudgery. Like four days was not enough. Seems like it should be...but who knows.

On top of that I've noticed a new tendency that is very ADD. I sit at my desk, and like someone who is nicotine addicted, I feel the urge to check my favorite blogs and personal email account all of the time. What I can't figure out is if it's a phase (doldrums at work) or a new quirk in my personality?

I know it's possible to develop food allergies or find that your flat, limp hair suddenly has a kink. I've known other women in their 30s that have experienced such things. Now that I'm a day away from turning 35, am I just restless or have I developed ADHD? I hope not.

ADHD reminds me of my boss Jim. I was 22 at the time, very intense about proving myself and doing a good job. I was in his office, talking about something important, when he suddenly sprouted up out of his chair, flipped his chair over, and began spinning the bottom half to increase the chair height. That image has resonated with me for 13 years. I was dumbfounded at the time, mouth gaping, frozen mid-thought at the sight of the clown twirling his chair.

My other early twenties image of this boss includes his young son. Jim abandoned his son in his office while he had a meeting. Over time everyone could hear his son's growing bellow of "Dad ... Dad ... DAAAAAD!!" Poor little guy was scared. He's probably a landscaper or actor after that stultifying time in Dilbertville. No cubicles or padded walls for him.

Anyway, Jim rescued his son and brought him down the hall to meet his direct reports. At my cube they stopped. I took in the appearance of my boss with an extra appendange, a young boy with dried snot looped around his left leg. As he introduced me, his son - almost in slow motion, like the famous Chariots of Fire scene - pulls his head away from his dad's leg, one shoulder and arm distancing itself ever so slightly from its host leg. Before I know it (or Jim knows it), his son is going in for the kill. Jim's been racked - hard, at close range - by his seven year old son, in front of his 22-year old employee.

The slo-mo continues, as Jim cups his hands, slowly bending forward with an 'o' shaped mouth. Before he's bent 45 degrees, he regains composure, while I'm still shocked and hurting for him.

The first words out of his mouth are even toned, not unlike saying "I'm going to lunch, I'll be back in a half hour." But instead he says: "Don't do that (insert kid's name here - I forget it), that hurts Daddy."

And that's it. End of story. Yet it's etched in my brain - one of my first impressions of corporate America!

I honestly don't think Jim (or his wife) ever reprimanded the little imp - whereas I felt it completely warranted that he pull the punching urchin by the ear and grunt idle threats until they were somewhere private for a full on reprimand. It didn't have to be corporal, but some sort of cause and effect was in order. Granted I'm not a childcare professional nor a mother, and Jim probably should not have left his kid alone at work, HOWEVER the kid's response was inappropriate and unspeakably embarrassing - to Jim and to me!

From the office buzz my boss's kids were both on the untrained, disobedient hellion side of the spectrum. I wonder where they are now ... and if V's right about karma, perhaps someday they'll get racked in public in front of non-strangers too. . .

The DMV

Ah, the tedium of going to the license bureau. It always takes much longer than you expect, as the contract employees lull their way through the day. There is no sense of urgency in the DMV office. Minutes pass like hours, hours pass like days.

Monday I spent 150 minutes at the DMV. 30 others went before me. That's five minutes per person. Which, actually now that I break it down that way, isn't as horrid as I thought.

It didn't help either that the first DMV I went to was having computer/printer problems and referred me to the other one - so they had a bigger backlog than normal.

My new, six year license includes a hideous photo which I'll have till I'm FORTY-ONE. This troubles me. E reminded me that I could always 'lose' it. Course that would require another few hours at the DMV that might be better spent elsewhere - particularly when I accept that fact that I'm no longer one of 'them' (as in someone who gets carded at the grocery store or bar). So its circulation will be diminished as compared to past ids.

At least this time my eyes are open. Before they used digital cameras, I had three drivers licenses in which my eyes were closed but my mouth smiling. As a 21-year old the bouncers often recycled the same joke: "Wait, close your eyes. OK, go in." Sooooo funny.

I really can't complain too much. My friend Mary's last license made her look like a stroke victim. I'm not sure what happened exactly, but the card machine malfunctioned, drooping the left side of her normally symmetrical, 30-something face. She asked them to redo it but they refused. I wonder if she "lost" that one or lived with it till it expired.

I still can't believe that I'll be in my 40s when this damn thing expires. I like the convenience (no more three year stints), but suddenly I feel like Sally in "When Harry Met Sally": "But I'll be 40 .... someday." And someday, as Jbo has mentioned in the past, is now coming sooner for me than it is for Sally - but of course Sally is preserved in 1989 so I shouldn't begrudge her for being younger than I am, in the year 2006. Plus, let's face it, she finally showed men the world over that women can fake it. Not that we want to fake it, but there are times when we feel the need to prod the male ego. . .

Less than one week

Last Sunday morning my neighbor stopped by. It was an impromptu visit and I was lounging in my pjs. I had nowhere to go that morning and was enjoying a lazy start. As my dog stood on her mountain (the back of the couch) with the hair on her spine raised, I rushed into the bedroom to throw on clothes. Skip that, I decided, and grabbed my bathrobe.

My neighbor had brought his six-day old daughter over, I had no time for serious dressing, after all the newborn was swaddled in a blanket and onesie of some sort. No need to be overdressed for the occasion, eh? Of course he responded as I opened the door "You're still in your pajamas at 10am?" I replied that I had a dog, not a baby.

About the baby. She was perfect - full head of thin black hair, delicate little features including the tiniest little finger nails that needed to be trimmed. It's amazing how they have fingernails in the womb. Makes sense I guess, but it's still a wonder.

His wife had to have a c-section (something she didn't really want) but the baby's heart rate was slowing. I do agree with her that c-sections seem so much more common and probably unnecessary in a majority of cases, but they do make a newborn's head look less like a dented, blotchy, partially deflated balloon. No alien look to be had - as if babies are supposed to be Glamour Shots ready at time of exit.

Pretty damn good way to start the day - at least my interactions with the outside world. That fresh from the oven baby smell, look and feel. It's not often in this life that the average person sees, holds, interacts with a baby that is less than a week old. And the baby came to me - right on my doorstep - on a lazy but amazing Sunday morning.

Free to Be ... You and Me

Earlier this year when visiting R&J in London I came across their copy of Free To Be ... You And Me cd. I've wanted a copy of this oh-so-very 70s album for at least a decade - ever since friends of mine have started having babies. Listening to it in R&J's flat brought me back to my childhood and all of the album's lessons about accepting differences in others and being yourself.

There are so many great songs, stories and poems. I just heard Rosey Greer (the former football player) sing a song called "It's Alright to Cry" and Alan Alda sing about a boy named William who has a dolly. William is my dad's name so as a snarky kid I often sang it to my dad, occasionally put barrettes in his comb-over, and called him Wilhelmina. Course that was fair as he called me The Fonz and a gopher . . .

But back to Free To Be, I finally ordered the book and cd for myself. And on this rainy evening I found the box in between my two front doors - yipee! I'm currently listening to it and reminiscing about the complex simplicity of my youth. Each piece brings back vivid memories, feelings and visual images of Atalanta, Young John, and the 'tender sweet young thing' that insists on ladies first, to her demise.

Just looking over the book, I noticed that Shel Silverstein, Judy Blume, Carl Reiner contributed - in addition to the voices of Carol Channing (who could forget her voice?), Harry Belafonte, Mel Brooks, Tom Smothers & Diana Ross. What a great book and cd. It may be from 1974 but is timeless. I would love to see a second volume developed!

Mind Your Manners - Communal Living 101

I tried to capture a photo of the Hahvahd dorm bathroom rules, but I'm not yet well versed with my digital camera to get anything but a fuzzy orange rectangle.

Needless to say, the rules about what is and is not acceptable in the sink, toilet & shower stall were explicit. Acceptable activities were no more than 3 per item while forbidden activities ranged from 7-15! All of this was particularly entertaining to me as I approach 35 and have never had to walk down the hall to shower - not in college and certainly not now.

The shower rules were particularly impressive. From what I recall, one cannot leave bodily fluids such as mucus or blood on the shower floor; urinate; vomit; engage in sex; smear hair on the shower walls; or many other activities that you wouldn't want to see/hear/smell if you were in the next stall. Does this need to be said? I mean this is Harvard, not summer camp for 10-16 year olds?! Couldn't a "please be mindful of others and clean up after yourself" reminder suffice, if even that? Geez.

Moving on, the list for the sink included prohibiting the hand-washing of clothing, cutting nails and many of the forbidden activities for the shower.

And for the toilet, they reminded occupants that they may need to flush multiple times!

Anyway, all of this was very amusing to me.

When telling my cousin RHB about this, she asked if this list was laminated or not (it isn't),which made me wonder if the sign really stays that pristine or if they reprint & re-post it on a regular basis.

By the way, the shower, sinks, and toilets looked pretty good. Course it was move in day, they had been vacant for awhile and perhaps a cleaning service had been in ... Who knows?!

Road Trippin'

This past weekend I drove from STL to BOS in two days with MJ. We were on the road for 24 hours within a 48 hour span. Of course this also included stops for gas, bathroom breaks, the odd stretch & stroll, and some eating in places other than the car. Oh, and traffic in NJ, 5-6 hours in PA (luckily that state is more scenic than KS though still a bit monotonous on the 5th hour), and a semi that fell on its side and caused a rerouting of traffic on a tollway.

Other than that, it was uneventful so I'd say it went great. I even got a nice farmers tan in addition to some quality time (or captive audience) with MJ!

While in BOS, we spent time with my funky uncle & aunt who are so very easy going & kind; met up with VP and saw her new cool three-decka in Cambridge, and moved MJ into the Harvard dorm. And since it was in the 90s we had some yummy strawberry rhubarb ice cream. MJ also tested the cake batter ice cream, which tasted very much like the real thing. Dee-lish!

Luckily I flew back - no more long distance driving for awhile - though I would like to have more driving vacations, to see the great American landscape in all its dullness & splendor.

Anyway, it's back to the grind. Thank heavens tomorrow is Friday. Too bad I can't have longer weekends than workweeks. Hmmm, someday ... maybe.

The Whites of their Eyes

I'm channel changing, all seven broadcast stations I have. Slim pickings abound now that it's in between seasons. Normally I can count on PBS (unless Lawrence Welk is on), but right now they have a special on Blue Man Group.

I've never seen Blue Man Group perform live. Watching a tidbit of this show reinforces my lack of interest in seeing them. I had to change the channel to the local news, against my better judgment.

I do have a certain fondness for them as they remind me of one of my favorite shows, Arrested Development. Tobias, one of the misguided souls, tried to join BMG because he thought they were a men's support group. Then he decided it was worth trying out to be an understudy - to which BMG issued a restraining order. Nearly everything on that show made me laugh, and so often it was a guffaw which awoke the dog sleeping at my feet. I know I'm not doing it justice with this synopsis. You must rent them for yourself and watch them with your undivided attention to take in all of the subtleties.

But back to BMG. There is something creepy about men painted, perhaps shellacked is a better word, royal blue. The only non-blue part - from what I can tell - is the whites of their eyes. And they don't seem to blink. Are their lids painted open?

My friend's husband Joe loves Blue Man Group. Last Halloween Joe shaved his head and painted himself (well, his face and neck) blue. Again, the whites of the eyes thing. It doesn't help that Joe is a rather serious guy, a seldom blinker or teeth-showing smiler. Guess that means it was a logical costume for him. And an effective one - even his long time friends didn't recognize him at first. Maybe they were spooked too.

All of this reminds me of that saying: "Don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes." Having been out of school too long and not fully appreciating my history classes back then, I had to look this one up. It's attributed to the Battle at Bunker Hill during the American Revolutionary War. Personally I'd rather run than wait & shoot. Not only because I'm opposed to war for war's sake, to individual gun ownership among the masses, and a bit of a pacifist - but also for the simple fact that I'm chicken. And proud of it.

"You usually don't make out with guys you know"

On the drive home tonight I caught up with my friend M. We each replayed the highlights of our weekends.

We try to, once a week, meet for lunch in addition to our phone calls. Last week's lunch included 1.5 beers each. Just what the doctor ordered! I love that she lives & works close to my job for those much needed breaks.

Tonight's conversation featured our usual juggling of at least three topics at once. The highlight was today's title - an observation, perhaps even an epiphany, about M.

M is known for her one-night-macks with acquaintances, almost strangers. They meet and part in just a few hours. They flirt, she fires off her quick witted banter over beers, and once they've had a good make out session, she's done with them.

I wish I could be as sharp with the oneliners and comebacks as she is. It's amazing!

Anyway, M is known for certain things (like peeing and talking). But one thing she is not known for is casual macking with men who know her non-bar name. I forget what her bar name is, or which fake accents she's used, and many of her other adventures with boys at bars. I only know that she never macks with someone she really likes. They're usually strangers - guys she wouldn't let have a gulp of her beer - but after a few beers, a kissing session is in order. We all have our quirky routines, this is one of M's.

What is noteworthy is that this weekend she broke from tradition and made out with a longtime family friend. Quite the exception for Miss M - who knows what it means? Could be the beginning of a serial making out with the same guy!

Maybe he'll even be inducted into the elite group of friends & family that talks with her while she's tinkling! :)

Anyone got an F?

As you can see from the picture of the ol' Stang to the right, I am in need of an F so that I no longer drive an 'ord.

If you have one, know of where I can get one, please let me know. Thanks!

Cruising

At age 16 I started driving the '65 Stang. Luckily I never wrecked it, though I did slide in the rain across a road, nearly ending up on the sidewalk once.

There was also the time that I managed to drive over a yellow & black sign and almost hit a neighbor's fence. I think I was 17. I remember driving by that bent up sign for weeks, but didn't say a word. I remember my Dad noticing some paint damage on the underside of the convertible when we were washing it, months later. I'm not sure I owned up to what happened - probably denied it, playing dumb, even though I was the only one driving it, except for him.

As an only child I remember getting blamed for various things around the house - crayon marks on the wall, spilled Kool Aid on the floor, unmade bed, etc. It really sucked as I had no one to frame except my dog. I did peg her for several acts, even though she was all of seven pounds and canine. Never hurts to try, right?

This weekend I started up ol' Betsy - the Mustang - for the first time this spring. Amazingly, she started. 41 years old and still runs well. Granted she's had her share of paint jobs, replacement parts and tune ups; her share of flooding engines, butterfly choke issues, rough idling and a certain rattle & hum ride. But she's much simpler to trouble shoot when she stalls. Once in high school she died and I rolled into the shoulder. My parents were out of town, I didn't know about AAA, and had to call my Grandmother. While I waited at the nearby donut shop, an older gentleman taught me about the butterfly choke and all was well. I went on my way.

This weekend the urban family went for an afternoon drive and a stop for a round of root beer floats. It was really nice to take the car for a spin. Two members of the UF are leaving this summer - moving away from STL - which means that 50% of the UF will soon live out of town. J left last year (AL), now M & V are abandoning ship (CO & MA respectively).

Of course, we'll still be close, just not in terms of proximity. I'll miss our Thursday night UFSs, our occasional rampages, our weekends at the cabin, apple picking & kettle korn in IL, and the simple luxury of spending time together spontaneously and frequently.

Onwards with the memory-making and entering a new phase in our friendships. Unlike the weaning from my best friends in college who moved out of state, nowadays long distance calls are inexpensive and email is widespread. Plus I am actually not a broke 21-year old making barely enough to live on my own, buy clothes, food and go out.

Good times, good times.

Magic Smoking Monkey

This weekend I went to the RAC and saw The Ten Commandments, live, by the Magic Smoking Monkey Theater group. They're always campy and entertaining; guaranteed yuks. I've seen them perform Speed Racer (one of my favorite cartoons as a kid, totally had a crush on ol' Speed Racer and his big blue eyes), It's A Wonderful Life, and Refer Madness. I highly recommend their performances.

I took someone whom I've just started dating - inducting him into the elite followers of these primate antics. Normally there is no audience participation nor any type of projectile that falls on the audience. So I felt confident sitting in the front row - even though my date was a little skeptical about the proximity. And rightfully so. This time there were locusts (aka rubber insects) as well as hail (aka ping pong balls) thrown into the audience. The crowning worry was when a theater member handed out a plastic tarp to the front row, stating that there were two times during the course of the show when we might get wet! My poor date had a very small corner of the edge of the tarp - it wasn't long enough for the entire row and, just like sharing the bedroom comforter, he had to tug to get just a corner. Luckily there wasn't much projectile liquid and we both remained dry - but that'll teach me to sit in the front row so casually in the future!

Then, we enjoyed drinks afterwards and a rather awkward attempt at a first kiss. We hugged and I didn't realize he was going in for a kiss. So his lips landed on some strange quadrant of my cheek. Somewhere between my lips and right ear. I was a little tipsy and feeling like 15 all over again.

Times like these remind me of pimples, boy-girl dances, and not having the 'right' clothes to be cool. And then realizing that even having the in-clothes would not make me cool. That while I did date the captain of a high school sports team - it just wasn't the football team, the baseball team, the basketball or even the soccer team. I was the girlfriend of the captain of the bowling team. He wore man jewelry (a gold necklace) which was cool in the late 80s. Maybe.

I remember my first attempt at French kissing as a young teen. He said "it's not a race" after a few minutes of my tongue lapping his, looping around and around as quickly as possible. I was embarrassed, but had no idea how to do it "right."

I guess that's kind of the gritty (and witty) reality of new relationships - the awkwardness, the uncertainty, the first this & the first that - but boy is it comical.

Le Freak, C'est Chic

Last month I saw David Sedaris live. His delivery of personal stories is amazing. He makes you laugh, guffaw, gape and from the first sentence, I'm hooked. I aim to replicate this level of engagement in my writing.

Earlier this week I read my first piece by Augusten Burroughs. My writing buddy Temporary Digs really likes him and I've always been curious. The essay I read was about getting a second dog. Such a simple topic, could be very boring, and yet I found myself actually snorting and chortling while reading this excerpt. I was alone, sitting on my couch, reading; the only sound is me laughing. I'm going to have to read more of his work.

Also am now on a quest to write my own personal essay, complete with my own quirky but true life examples injected with some laugh out loud morsels. We'll see how it goes ... I will keep in mind that, with each workshopping of another's short story in the Daily Grind, I realize that those tidbits in our fiction writing that seem to detract from the plausibility of the tale are usually real life incidents, not imagined by the writer. From the neighbor with Tourette's Syndrome to Athena's last name, truth is stranger than fiction.

And thus I will attempt to embrace my inner freak and share it, in black and white, with others. A little scary, but hopefully entertaining - even if it may be mildly alarming.

Sleep walking

How bad is it that my last two posts were bitching about bitching? Bad! Sometimes it must be done. Even if it is annoyingly ironic.

Tonight driving home from work in my quirky little neighborhood, I saw a common sight - a man walking his dog. When I sit in my living room on the sofa by the front windows, watching tv and surfing the internet, I'll often see dogs and their owners stroll by. But tonight, as I pulled up to one of the many stop signs in my area, I saw a dog walker with the most eye-catching outfit.

If I didn't know better, I'd have said he was homeless.

The owner's mismatched outfit nearly distracted me from coming to a full stop. The first alarming aspect were his bottoms. Brightly colored die, each the size of his hand, were printed on them. If I had to guess, I'd say they were flannel pajama bottoms. Red, black and white pajama bottoms with large dice, in action.

I didn't catch the shoes, so guessing they weren't fuzzy slippers. Instead my eyes naturally gravitated upwards to his chambray button up shirt, complete with snag-looking holes, as if he'd been jousting with a thorny tree.

And crowning his ensemble was the black skull cap. The cap covered the top of his head and his ears. On top of his helmet like cap, he wore a tiara in the form of bright yellow headphones. A finishing touch.

I wonder, does he cover his ears with a cap to muffle the music? With all the buzz about hearing loss from ear buds and headphones, is he attempting to protect his ear drums?

As I lifted my foot from the brake and pushed on the accelerator, my eyes lingered on the rear view mirror for one last glimpse.

As for the dog, I have no idea what it looked like ... but I'm fairly certain that there was a dog, attached to the leash, attached to the man with the fascinating outfit. I think.

R & B

No, not Rhythm and Blues.

Ranting and Bitching.

Which, in addition to Miss HIGH MAINTENANCE, also includes my neighbors. My first year of home ownership I attended the association meetings. Overall, they were fairly informative and not unpleasant. No major griping. Good times.

Since then I've joined the association's Yahoo group. And now, on ocassion, en masse, see the flock of dullards who spew their malarky electronically. It's off putting. People take umbrage at other's comments - from assuming a stolen political sign was for a Republican (or was it a Democrat) - that became a rash of emails about judging and taking offense. That was in 2004.

The latest barrage concerned dumpster divers, panhandling, kids playing in the alley, and a stolen bike. All fair things to be discussed, but it derailed into a ten car pile up. Fatalities included gays, aldermen, police, retail outlets, and much more.

Mixed in between it all were a few positive comments, thankfully, and a rather misplaced usage of "my bad." I still don't understand that term.

The challenge with email - professionally and personally - is how flat it is. It can be cold, harsh, and one-dimensional. Caps, bold, and too many punctuation points or question marks are offensive. My aunt usually types in all caps - I don't think she understands that it seems like she's shouting. And for some reason I don't tell her. She probably hates that I often respond in all lower case. So between the two of us is a happy medium I suppose.

With email - particularly professionally where no prior relationship exists - the lack of an opening, closing or any niceties can seem coarse and impersonal. At work, I remember when shared Wang computers with their yellow typewriter font were the norm; when we had a 'fax man' at work who handled all of the incoming & outgoing faxes; when a word processing team took our handwritten edits to documents and typed them up; when work was busy but not as frenetic and sloppy as now.

One woman who's worked at my company for more than 25 years now starts her emails as if they were letters. In the body she types the date and is rather formal throughout. The only exclusion is the omission of the mailing address in the top left section. Sometimes I think she's got the right idea, other times I think she's rather antiquated.

Back to the R&B of the neighborhood group. I still subscribe to the Yahoo group because there can be good information (such as a rash of car break ins in the area, recommendations for a good plumber, a new shop opening up in the area, etc.) but it's like removing layer upon layer of wallpaper in an old home where it was never primed. It's tedious and takes a lot of work.

I'm beginning to wonder if the occasional tidbit gleaned is worth the headache. Just like friends who have gone from old homes with character (and frequent repairs) to brand new homes with new plumbing, new wiring, and less headaches ... maybe. But I'm happy where I am.

High Maintenance

I've often wondered about managing people. I haven't had any direct reports yet, and I'm not sure I ever want any of them. Some people say it's like babysitting, others say that if they're peers/equals, it's really great.

My company is employing more contract workers on project by project basis. So far I've only worked with a handful of them, but boy is it an even split. I've got Cain and Abel, Frick and Frack, Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde on payroll. Temporarily, thank God.

Half of them are self-starting, industrious, hard working, honest employees. They're easy to manage with an excellent work ethic. If every employee were like them, I'd clone them, have a 499 direct reports and be the most productive manager on earth. Heck, I'd start my own company with those clones, be listed at the top of the Fortune 500, and offer each and every employee six weeks of paid vacation annually.

The other half are HIGH MAINTENANCE. As in caps lock, bold, with a million exclamation points.

There's very much drama surrounding their needs, their gripes, and the so-called system's imperfections. Their emails can be very demanding. I tend to be rather patient and tolerant, but EMAILS THAT YELL AT YOU AND HAVE TOO MANY !!!! MAKE ME CRAZY.

One in particular is a serious threat to my sanity. I'll soon be indulging in vodka shots at 8am or stitching up a voodoo doll with her face on it and chanting non-sensical verses.

Miss CAPS LOCK, aka Miss HIGH MAINTENANCE, is hell bent (hell bent, to the penny, on the value of her Neiman wardrobe) on pushing back on anything (and don't forget everything) that does not suit her. When something doesn't go her way, she's quick to defend herself, throw her hands up in the air, all to maintain her alleged "good name" within the company. Granted, as a contractor, she has much more power and in some ways less accountability than the average full time employee. However, I don't know that she gets that her demands erode away any respect she might garner from a job well done. Rather, the mere first syllable of her name evokes images of HIGH MAINTENANCE, not HARD WORKER.

Soon, however, Miss HM will have completed her project and I will be HM-free. 30 days to go.

My Dog Ate My Homework

Just got home from writing group. We were kicked out of the top floor of the cafe by the square dancing group! How wild is that?!

As I pulled up to my house after the meeting, I saw the usual sight - the silhouette of my dog Ru in the front windows. She's on the couch, guarding the house, barking at passersby and eager for my return for it means a trip outdoors and maybe a treat or two.

Several years ago, when she was 3 and I would be out gallivanting at night after a full day at work, Ru would search the house for things to chomp on. Call it boredom, separation anxiety, or retribution - it was a slightly destructive phase. Apart from the usual (trash can and pantry raiding), she once ate the cordless phone. I found it in pieces. The back flap which covers the battery pack was in the living room, not far from the ledge where the phone base sat. The battery pack, complete with fang marks puncturing the yellow wrapping of the battery, rested in the dining room. And the rest of the phone was in the kitchen.

Luckily any toxins in the battery pack had no effect on her. She's a pretty hardy dog having been a stray with puppies and heartworm before I adopted her. What was amazing to me was how delicately she had removed the phone from the base - almost like she had fingers instead of paws. The phone and its base are booby trapped - surrounded by wires, pens, a notepad, a clock - all of which were intact on the six inch wide ledge, just as I had left them. Amazing wonder dog, she is.

Sometimes I wonder if my dog is actually a little person zipped into a dog costume. Though I haven't noticed any seams. Yet.

From Blog to Book

Just wanted to share an interesting article - particularly with my writers group - on how blogs can lead to books. Perhaps this will rejuvenate our group blog...

Also Geraldine Brooks was recently awarded the Pulitzer for her latest work of fiction, March, about Mr. March from Little Women. I've been wanting to read her non-fiction work, Nine Parts Desire, for a number of years and recently picked it up at the bookstore. When she was interviewed recently about her award and why she switched from non-fiction to fiction, she responded that with fiction you get the best of both worlds. When she writes non-fiction, there are limitations. Sometimes there are gaps where no adequate data exists and you can go no farther. Non-fiction does not allow you to fill in the gaps, to guess. However with fiction, you can take some historical facts and can let your imagination fill voids. So she is able to create and imagine where history drops off. This resonated with me as, like some others in the writing group, I debated whether or not to take the non-fiction writing course over the short story class. Thus Geraldine's response reinforced that you don't have to pick one or the other, they don't have to be mutually exclusive.

Harem Hotel

I came across a press release for this new hotel in Egypt. So much to say about it – I don’t know where to start. So I’ll just drop in this excerpt for now. Feel free to comment (please do comment) as I’m curious !

I have the pleasure in announcing the completion of HAREM HOTEL, the first hotel in the world run solely by ladies. This is a new property, five stars In-style and Fashion, in Sharm el Sheikh, with an oriental theme dedicated to a super trendy clientele.

Walk through the doors and into our different buildings arranged around the desert, few steps away from the astonishing Red Sea. Enjoy the refreshing karkade’ drink and chilled face towel you will receive upon arrival.

Feel the magic and sensuality of Arabian Nights tales in the Sultan's palace harem. Harem embodies a standard of opulence and pampering that far exceeds the expectations of even the world’s most discriminating travelers. With ultra-deluxe touches such as beach valets, white-glove service in our gourmet restaurants, late night buffets, turndown service and so much more— Harem Signature Collection represents the very pinnacle of all-inclusive luxury.

Reading & Writing

I recently finished Elizabeth Kostova's The Historian. I enjoyed it. It's over 600 pages and I read it in less than two weeks. I spent one rainy Sunday afternoon with it which really kick started my interest in the story. The first half really engaged me. The second half had great moments and some lulls (compared to the first half), but the ending really felt rushed - or maybe forced. It was almost like all of the loose ends and what ifs had to be resolved - which isn't how life is. Granted, there is a certain appeal to closure - especially when reading for pleasure. However as I humbly dabble in writing I realize that I tend to give closure - but closure isn't always satisfying or realistic. So I guess it's an unresolved question in my mind - and for whatever reason I didn't totally like the ending of The Historian.

After reading it, however, I read a little about the author and the novel. This was Elizabeth Kostova's first novel. She spent ten years working on it - from researching to writing to rewriting. About 7 years into it she enrolled in a Masters program and also received an award (and funding) for her novel-in-progress. All in all, amazing stuff.

In my writers group we read a published short story by a famous author and discuss it at each meeting. It's funny how some of them, at first glance and sometimes even after re-reading and discussing, retell an oft-told lesson and don't seem to be telling it in a different, clever, original way. Yet others surprise me, more and more, as we read and discuss - all the layers and little things that I didn't notice on my own. I guess that's the benefit of groups - book groups, writing groups, etc. Each participant provides a different insight, a different facet, that we might never have identified on our own. In my writers group we talked about how some of these short stories - if they weren't in the anthology but instead written by Joe Schmo - might be more heavily critiqued. Yet another perspective - one man's trash is another man's treasure.

Last meeting we reviewed NJ's second story. It was very cool how CoE picked up on some patterns. From NJ's expression, I got the impression that some of the theming/patterns were unconscious, subconscious or something not completely deliberate. I like what that says about writing - that not everything in your story is or will be painstakingly deliberate, labored and belabored and crafted until you're sick and tired of the story that you had wanted to tell.

Driving While Stupid Ups Risk

Had to share this article on Wired News about multitasking while driving. The anecdote about the flute playing driver indubitably trumps the tooth brusher I witnessed, and posted about in February - titled "Two Minutes Worth?"

My Political Home

I just took the World's Smallest Political Quiz and found out that I am a centrist with a slant towards libertarian and liberal. Always thought I was liberal leaning, but not sure of my label. So it's nice to have a different answer to the typical "are you a democrat or a republican?" question.

Goat Rodeo

Today my boss used the term "goat rodeo" - I quite liked it and will be using it. Nice way of saying clusterf@#$ without censoring. The image it evokes reminds me of visits to Grant's Farm. For ten cents you'd get a baby bottle of milk and be let into the goat pen. As a kid, not much taller than the goats, it was slightly unsettling as the goats chomped on your clothes when the milk ran out.

So goat rodeo is my new non-curse expression. My newest profane version is "If assholes could fly this place would be an airport." You can totally run with this expression - use it as an inside joke and refer to annoying others as pilots, traffic control, flight attendants, passengers, etc. I love it.

Paper-free in '93

I remember the old rhyme "paper free in '93" - maybe it was even 2003. Either way it's far from happening. I came across this online petition on CNET to request that those huge hulking phone books that arrive automatically on my front porch each year change to an on-demand production/delivery or at least give us the opportunity to opt out.

I thought it was a good idea - I don't think I've used my phone book more than twice in the past few years at the most.

So, if you agree or simply want more details, click here.

Confessions of Single Girl Homeowner

I often feel like I'm muddling through life, particularly home ownership life, and that there are probably much better, smarter ways to do things than how I go about them. But of course, that's the adventure, right? Shhhyeah!

Today's adventure in home ownership 101 involved removing a hornet nest. Actually, I'm not sure if it was a hornet or a wasp, but I really didn't care. Either way the creature was building a honeycomb shaped nest in my front door which is unacceptable. I noticed it, by some fluke, as I was closing my front door. It was trying to create a home in between my screen door and front door. Not ideal, to say the least.

Which brought me back to childhood and how my dad would wig out when he saw a hornet or wasp flying near him. And yet he had no trouble stepping barefooted on a non-flying insect and picking it up - with his bare hands - to throw it away. Somehow those stingers really struck a chord with him. I personally make no distinction - I don't want the landlubbers or the flying bugaboos darkening my doorway or in my house. And I don't touch them with bare hands, feet - anything!

Tonight I knew I had to act fast to stop the nest builder. Otherwise tomorrow morning I'd probably open the front door and be greeted with a full size nest and a hostile family of wasps/hornets.

I chose my weapon carefully - a very old, trusty yardstick (advertising an old, neighborhood hardware store that's long gone since the big box Home Depots & Lowe's came to town) - and exited the house via the back door to launch my surprise attack. I quickly opened the screen door on the front porch and whacked at the nest. It fell and the wasp-hornet flew away.

I didn't run, waving my hands in the air and screaming like a fool, mainly because the stingered insect flew away in the opposite direction. Now, however, I do need to be careful tomorrow morning when leaving via the front door to make sure that the nest is not in my path, right outside on my front porch (nice that I think of it now, in bed in my pjs at 10pm rather than at 6pm when I was out there with the yardstick) with a few angry baby insects ready to sting me as I head to work. Note to self: leave tomorrow for work via the back door, bring yardstick, borrow fencing helmet from neighbor.

Ah well, at least I stopped the nest-building process before it was huge and intimidating and required an exterminator. And also firmly shut the screen door so that no other creatures can nest between the two doors. Next time they'll probably build on the awning directly above the front door. But at least it won't be happening today!

Which reminds me of another stupid, single girl home ownership tale. When I first moved in, money was tight so I borrowed an old mower from my parents. It was a reconditioned Lawn Boy that my step-brother used for his lawn care business before he upgraded to a new one. Of course I had problems with it. Not only did my guy friend tell me I was cutting the grass "the wrong way" (who knew?) but the damn machine would inevitably die in the middle of the yard. I'd have half of the yard cut when for no apparent reason it would stall and stop. So I'd yank the cord while pushing the mower forward a bit for momentum - over and over - and pump the button several times - and yet it wouldn't start up again. I'm pretty sure I argued with the mower, mumbling insults laced with profanity, trying to shame it into starting up - while I circled it, as if it was my prey.

During the frequent stalling out and failing to restart scenario, I often imagined my neighbors across the street taking interest in my predicament. The husband would say "Honey, she's out there again." Then the wife would listen for the mower to sputter and stop. One it stalled, they'd dim their lights, grab their bowl of popcorn and freezer beers and sit in their front window watching the single girl make an ass of herself with the old beater of a mower. "Heck, it was better than Seinfeld," they'd say to their friends at work the next day, "Say, why don't you come over next Thursday to see her in action for yourself? We'll barbeque."

Yup, it was pitiful. Luckily on occasion a nice neighbor a few doors down would see my pitiful predicament and assist. Of course it started the first time they tried, but perhaps it was just because I'd primed it enough by then and the engine had had time to unflood. Since that awful first summer I have a newer lawn mower (which of course stopped working a year or two later). So I've given up on the do it yourself mowing and have employed a few neighborhood kids. Always good to have resources - and I like that kids in my neighborhood still cut grass for spending money. So it's a win-win situation all around.

Getting back to insects & animals who have nested in/on my house, the other stupid thing that I lived to regret was the mourning dove who nested in my kitchen window frame. At first I thought it was neat - a little bit of wildlife right outside the window. She sat on her eggs, her partner came by to check on her, she had babies who grew feathers and eventually flew away - along with the mom. It was very cool.

What was not cool was when they abandoned the nest. It was then that I saw just exactly what was left behind. In the grooves where my storm window pane (or least the screen window) should have been - was where the damn things nested. So the cleaning up was nothing short of disgusting - bird poop, dead beetles, mud, grass/leaves mixed with mud and poop to create the nest, feathers, etc. Yuck. Although the experience of having the birds outside my window was great ... I just cannot forget the clean up. It still icks me out - the mere thought of what I had to do to clean out the window grooves/sill is an enduring reminder to always keep both panes down - at all times. Bleeech.

Tubes & Tuning

These days we're always connected. Email, voice mail, cell phones. Hands free headsets, even wireless headsets, wireless internet access, wireless printer connections.

I remember - probably about 8 years ago now - how I would stare at people talking animatedly to themselves while driving or in the airport. They appeared to be talking to themselves, lunatics in public. That's when headsets for cell phones were new, and a double take was required to look for that small wire trailing from their pocket into one ear. Nowadays I don't even blink when loud talkers are engrossed in a one-side conversation in public; I assume they're on their cell rather than potentially bonkers.

Living in STL where public transit is not used by the average person, when riding the tube in London I couldn't help but notice how text messaging and listening to iPods/MP3s has replaced the past methods of avoiding eye contact. Still there, but less common, are the newspaper/magazine/book readers and the cell phone talkers. Text messaging via cell is much more discreet. Of course, the vacant looks are still there, they're just even further tuned out to their fellow travelers - communicating silently with friends via text messaging or listening to music through small headphones/ear buds. Tuned out and distanced - "don't talk to strangers" - has been further advanced by technology. I even did the same - listening to my iPod as I changed terminals at O'Hare, waited at baggage claim, took a bus then the tube to my friend's flat in London.

In addition to my observations on the London underground, I found that my friends had changed with the accessibility of technology as well. When they lived in San Francisco their one television was stored in a closet. It had broken and rather than repairing or replacing it, it was relegated to a closet, the bathroom closet at that. So for the past few years when I visited, there was never a tv. I found that I didn't miss it, and actually appreciated the boob tube's absence from their home. Now, living in a fully furnished flat in London, they have a tv again. J, who was anti-tv in San Francisco, has once again found a soft spot for the boob tube, the square headed babysitter. On Sunday night we picked up Chinese take out to be home in time to watch the next episode of the BBC series, Planet Earth. It was a fascinating, National Geographic-esque show. It just struck me as rather amusing - and how very human - it is to fall into watching the tube. After that show, we flipped channels and landed on a J-Lo movie. Former anti-tv J planned to work on his laptop while watching the movie. His laptop remained on his lap, the document open and on the computer screen, but the only activity was to move the mouse every time the screen saver popped on. Not a lick of work was done as he seemed captivated by the flick. He stayed up an hour later to finish his work project after the formulaic flick ended.

I myself, many a time, have been sucked into bad tv shows, movies, etc. as a way to tune out. I admit I can be a tv junkie and I'm not always proud of it. I was just amused to see J fall into the habit as well. It's very human. It just was a little surprising to see J get tuned into tvland so completely at times.

Granted J & R's tv watching is much less than the average person, which I admire. Nighttime was the only time the tv was on. In the morning a cd played and often in the afternoons and some evenings if we ate at home it was music, not the tv, that was on.