Monday, December 28, 2009

On the differences between the sexes

The whole man/woman thing has been rehashed over and over. It's not just that men are able to pack for a weekend in a lunch bag, metabolize whole calorie Coke well into their 30s, and ignore a sink full of dishes for days; men are simply DIFFERENT.
I don't know if I'm more tuned into these differences lately, or if the differences are just rising to the surface, but I find myself asking "who are these creatures? Why do I live with them?"
Men are creatures of habit, that's for sure. Those ratty weekend jeans you've been seeing for the last decade? They're not going anywhere. Unless you "help" them find their way to "charity."
Dinner? Bowl of cereal & beef stew. A natural combination.
Home improvements? If it ain't broke, don't upgrade, repair, repaint, enhance, re-do, remodel, or in any way change it.
Foreplay? Boner in the back. Has that EVER worked?
Babysitting = TV.
Getting dressed up? While I'm scheduling an extra 20 minutes for hair and make up, he's adding 5 for shaving and 15 to watch the last half of the game.

And young men are just as foreign. They wrestle, play with themselves, shadow box, and mouth off in ways girls just wouldn't. They're weird. I was completely right when I thought that boys have cooties. They totally do.

Let me make it clear that I'm not complaining. Exactly. I'm certainly not leading the parade of the normal and sane.

I sometimes think it's like a language thing. I'm American English. He's completely impossible to understand New Zealand accent. He's PC and I'm Mac. From his perspective, I'm a neurotic, always cleaning something, wanting to liquidate kids' college savings for a kitchen, pestering, "Do I look fatter today than yesterday?" lunatic. I get that. I am suggesting that it's simply a matter of where the mind goes. Mine veers left, his hangs a u-turn. We're often going the wrong way on a One Way Street. We wave at each other as we proceed in different directions, equally lost.

To express this difference in a nutshell, the following anecdote:
We drive by the, ahem, Gentleman's Club. Sign says: QUARTER MANIA.

Me: wondering if it's possible to get booze for a quarter, and if so, might it be worth it to venture inside? If not that, wondering how a man would put a quarter (instead of paper money) into a performer's G String. I wonder what QUARTER MANIA is.
Him: OHHH. I thought it said QUARTER MAMA...like a midget performer.
Me: And you didn't think THAT was worth commenting on?
Him: Meh.

Midget strippers. He's thinking midget strippers? Who thinks midget strippers...and doesn't check it out?

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Friends don't let friends drive with dinner

I know that it seems that I am picking on people with weight issues when I describe the cruise. But, the thing is, nearly all of us have weight issues. What and who I describe is BEYOND indulging in that extra piece of cheesecake. We're talking people who are so large that you could easily divide them into two healthy sized adults. People who are unable to move about freely, and whose health is suffering tremendously because of their weight. They are truly struggling.
These people eschew the dining room on the ship for, apparently, two reasons. One seems to be that they are physically unable to sit in the anchored-down booths in the dining room. Unlike in restaurants, the furniture is bolted to the deck, and so there is little forgiveness when one slides into the booth. Second, and more obviously, is that the portions in the dining room are rather petite. On the Lido buffet, where I found myself (and my kids) several mornings at unholy hours, I watched people eat several breakfasts at a time. People heaped food upon their trays in portions considered hefty for a rhino. I am talking plates of eggs, stacks of pancakes, and chains of sausage links. One night, I happened into the Lido for a late night coffee, and watched people eating a dinner that only barely resembled the one I had eaten some time earlier. For dinner, I had a salad, a soup, 5 grilled shrimp with a boiled potato. That, in itself, is a largish meal. But then, I caught a glimpse of what the people were eating upstairs: I saw a person with no fewer than 20 shrimp on his plate, along with several slices of ham, and 3 pieces of cake! One woman had rigged her personal mobility device (scooter) with a tray so that she could load up on food while driving through the buffet line.
But, my soon-to-be-classic tale of a scooter happened while reboarding the ship in Key West. A woman in front of us boarded on her candy apple red mobility device. She was chatting with her friend who was walking. The friend laid down their purchases (SHOPPING!) on the X-Ray conveyor belt. Ms. Scooter leaned forward, accidentally depressing the forward button on her scooter with her excess flesh, and drove maniacally into her friend, pinning her against the metal detector archway. Friend, apparently, was okay, although it would have been awkward for her to berate Ms Scooter for running her over, so she could have just been polite about it. The officer in charge if the reboarding process admonished Ms. Scooter to drive more carefully. While the whole thing could have been calamitous, it remained only only slightly alarming because no one went overboard or was hurt.
But, Ms. Audi Scooter and her friend have taught me three valuable dieting lessons: Stop eating when you can no longer be bi-pedal. Two: If you don't listen to lesson one, make sure there is a safety on the accelerator. Three: If your friend is Ms. Scooter, don't walk in front of her.

Monday, December 21, 2009

The Un-Tourists

The thing about people who cruise is that they are horrible tourists. They don't WANT to explore their destination. They don't want local food, or culture, or atmosphere. They have found their own perfect vacation: they are transported in a bubble of same-ness, to a "coach" (motor coach is one of my favorite cruise euphemisms. Greyhound Bus is more apt.) of same-ness, to a brief fish-bowl viewing of the local culture, to a coach-y return to the bubble of same-ness. The bubble where Lido buffets allow you to heap food upon your plate without embarrassment, where nearly alcohol-free girlie drinks allow you to act tipsy, and where the water is always drinkable and the bed always made.
Not that I'm complaining. An always-made bed is a novelty to me.
But the final mystery to me about cruisers is shopping. SHOPPING. It's the topic of on-board lectures and seminars, the boom of on-board stores, the heyday of port shops that earn "Cruise Line Approved" status, and the slow churn that keeps local economies afloat. What, oh what, is there to buy in Freeport, Bahamas? Shot glasses and piratey T-shirts, conch shells and starfish, diamonds of questionable provenance, and many cartons of cheap smokes. And nothing screams local like an obese man with a wedgie, wearing dark socks, sandals, and a "Show Me Your Booty" tee.
My favorite woman re-boarded the ship in front of us. Her blistered sunburn, girth, and fanny pack shouted tourist. But her new "BahamaMama" corn rows revealing her snowy scalp and jaunty pirate scarf attempted to proclaim local.
I'm glad she saw a new part of the world. She'll be able to knowledgeably explain to her friends that the Tropic of (skin) Cancer runs through the Bahamas. That latitude requires sunblock. Even in December.

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Highlights from a cruise

Day 1: Boarding the ship in a total downpour. The lady at the excursion desk said she hadn't seen lightning like that in 2 years at sea. Always how one wants to start one's vacay. Oh, that and eleven hundred Saints fans pissed that the game won't be televised on board.

Day 2: FunDay at Sea. Everything on Carnival Cruise Lines is supposed to be Fun! FunCasino! FunActivities! FunShips! Fun FUN FUN, mother &*(#$. We will cram fun down your FunThroat. This is the day I spend wandering the boat, totally disoriented. I turn a corner, thinking, "this should be a dining room" and Voila! It is a bar. Fortunately, there are many bars on board and one can always stop for directions. And a drink. My bar tab, incidentally was a sizable proportion of the entire trip's total. I got lost a lot.

Day 3: Key West, Florida. S wisely made the call to stay on board at FunCamp while we went on a FunExcursion. We took a guided tour of the Hemingway Home, led by a guide named Dave who looked alarmingly like Tommy Lee Jones...with permanently tattooed eyeliner. So, more like Tommy Lee Jones and Liberace. He pronounced Hemingway like Himmminway and had this kitsch mannerism that really must be heard to be appreciated. We also visited the "Little White House," which was President Truman's retreat while he was in office. Havanese shirts, male bravado, and all. It was very informative.
I get that Key West is a tourism mecca. That nobody (Except Tour Guide Dave) actually lives there, but Duval Street is really a crime against humanity. Bar after bar, interspersed with totally foul t shirt stores (I got Duval Faced on Shit Street), and unusually named bed and breakfasts "The Love Muscle." E liked the six toed cats at Himminway's house.
Day 3: Free day in Freeport, Bahamas. A lovely day spent on a lovely beach. I always wonder what all those people are shopping for...
Day 4: Snorkeling in Nassau. Ultimate day for me: wake up, get on sail boat. Sail to reef. Snorkel on reef. Get back on boat. Sail home while drinking rum punch. Ahhhh.
Day 5 & 6: FunDays at Sea! The weather on the last day was horrible: driving rain, huge seas, strong winds. But all of that goes away with a nap. And a strong drink. I get the whole Piratey grog thing now.
Anyhoodles, thought I'd rope you in for some generalities. Stories to follow...So good to be home...Stay tuned for more.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Bah Some More

It's just that here's the thing about Christmas time. EVERYONE pretends to like it, but no one will 'fess up and say they're sick of it. Instead, they look aghast, cluck their tongues, and say "My, my. Some one doesn't have the Christmas spirit."

Who has time to have the Christmas Spirit? I have 2 school holiday parties, two end of semester conferences, 3 teacher gifts to contribute to, 1 work party, and friends and friends' kids gifts to buy. Plus, there is the issue of travel, AND I don't even give M or the kids any substantial presents at all. I haven't even begun to mention the presents for my family, which is a small family so I shouldn't even complain.

Christmas Spirit? Let's all wrap ourselves in Victorian stoles and stove pipe hats and go caroling. (Can you schedule that in?) How about going down to a soup kitchen to volunteer? (Time for that?) Maybe donating gifts for a charity? (When to shop?) How about writing (gasp) a letter to some one you haven't spoken to this year? (How about one of those cheezy mass mailings, instead? If we're lucky?)

My favorite development in the course of holiday gifting is the call-and-see-what-the-other-person-wants-or-already-has maneuver. We're all so stocked full of everything under the sun, that now we have to call ahead and check if it's ok if I buy the kids Veterinarian/Super Mom/Medical School Barbie (SHE can do it all, she's plastic!) or if the darlings already have 3. OR, I can call my sister and ask her what she wants. She'll always loves clothes, but is there something she needs MORE? Is there something she WANTS? (She's thinking on it and will call me back.) My mother has called me from Target, Toys R Us, Nordstrom, and Macy's this year. Don't get me wrong--I appreciate her effort to try to get a great gift--I absolutely love it when I get people great gifts. But, the whole gift quest thing is out of control.
We should just write checks, show them to each other and destroy them. Even up. Done and done.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Bah, Hum--Oh, you know what comes next.

That's it. I have HAD it. I have had IT. I ventured out into the retail world once during this lousy holiday season and that was enough.

Spoiler: if you like Christmas and all of its accouterments of guilt, overspending, trite schlock, you're not going to want to keep reading. This means you, Mom.

I had to go to Target today. I did not want to, but a maelstrom of irritating and never-ending holiday obligations drove me there (in my car, which, according to the mechanic, needs new tires. NEW TIRES! At 15,000 miles! I am not going to elaborate on how this announcement might have shaped my mood for the Target visit, or how, when M reads this, he's going to go through the roof, but suffice to say: #%$(*&.)
So, where was I? Right. Target, in a downpour. I am on a mission. I need: small gifts for my children, some party food and alcohol, a seemingly mythical pre-rolled sugar cookie dough for S's school party, and a belt to wear with a very cute sweater dress for aforementioned party.
Pre-rolled sugar cookie dough? I have looked at every grocery store in the city, and in fact, have outsourced this job to my friends who belong to membership warehouse stores. No luck. In pre-cut Christmas shapes? Yes. Not so helpful for the synagogue preschool. Dough in the sausage tube? Yes. Dough in squares that melt to circles? Yes. Dough with reindeer? Yes. Flat dough? No effing way. Sausage tubes it is.
Belt for cute sweater dress? Dress, which is a size medium (small triumph) needs belt, for it hangs like a tent on me. I have already: cute boots, cute tights, cute jewelry. Belt? I want a skinny belt that loops around twice. Apparently, what I want is not in fashion. I settle for wide belt. In order for it to hang appropriately (fashionably?) around my waist, I must buy size...XL? Who in this city could possibly wear the small if I am wearing the XL, I ask myself. Aha, apparently no one. Belt rack is FULL of smalls and mediums. I take the last XL and skulk off.
Liquor? No problem. Love it, know it, want it. Party foods? Archer Farms has it under control.
Toy section: here is where things go horribly out of control. I am wandering through the boys aisles, wondering what-oh-what could my spoiled angels possibly need this holiday season. Do they need a build-it-yourself shoulder cannon? Nope. Do they need a $150 Lego reproduction of the Ewok-occupied Moon of Endorr? Not today. Do they need a $20 box to hold their $30 worth of Bakugan? Considering I have yet to figure out what, exactly, a Bakugan is--Nope.
In my despair, I stand at one of the end displays and ponder my next move. (board games that I will have to play if I purchase? The dread clothing aisle?) A man, who when standing on a reindeer feed bag measures 5'4" at most, wearing world's cheapest Santa outfit (the rayon beard is supershiny, the leatherette belt Velcro straining to cover his false belly, the "boot" shoe covers working about as well as they did on my kids' Halloween costumes), belting "Ho! HO HO!!" walks toward me with an elfin escort. I grab a scrap of paper out of my purse and pretend to be studying a list.
Santa walks up to me, and HOHOHOs into my personal space. I smile politely, feeling my grinchy-stone heart constrict another size too small, and avert my eyes. He offers me a candy cane. "No thanks, I have coffee." My green grinchiness or my stingy Scroogeness must have been seeping through my false smile, because he comes back with this gem:
"These are special. They have Santa dust in them and will give you the Christmas spirit."
OK. What I don't need is the stocking clerk from last night's midnight shift in a rented Santa suit pawning off cheap-ass mini candy canes loaded with Santa dust.
Annoyed, but not yet driven to total rudeness, my only response is, "I'm a grown up." I walk away.
Much like bars prepare food with extra salt to make you buy more beer, I suspect "Santa's Dust" contained some sort of impulse control inhibitor to make me want to buy the $150 Ewok Lego Extravaganza.
I DON'T LIKE CHRISTMAS.
Since when did this become a deficiency? A diagnosis? Christmas is a pale imitation of what it once was. I mean, talk about your devolution: Holy Night, Divine Baby, Santa, the general adoption of the word"holidays," and now the final insult of Stock Boy Larry and his individually wrapped candy canes?
This holiday has been foisted upon me since Halloween, I am burned out, sick of it, overwhelmed, uninterested, and over it. I want to buy my kids a couple of small, overpriced pieces of Made In China Crap and be done with it all.
Where's my freaking egg nog?

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Muppets and the Electric Kool Aid Acid Test

I've written about children's TV programming before: my confusion about Oswald the Above Ocean Octopus, Wow Wow Wubzy, the giant phallus of Yo! Gabba Gabba!. Apparently, for the last seven years, a show has been stealthily lurking under my radar. A show so strange that it cowered in its early time slot, lest I discover it. A show that left me shaking my head in confusion.
Jack's Big Music Show.
Or, as I would have called it: Muppets Take Acid.
This is Ms. Piggy on drugs. The puppetry is dizzying. The lips of the puppets move so quickly, that Marlee Matlin, were she to be interested in Muppets on Acid, would be convinced they were speaking another language. And that they were on fast forward. Also, and this is something the talented Ms. Matlin would not notice, is that these crazy-fast talking puppets are SCREAMING AT ME ALL THE TIME.
I hate being screamed at. I hate it, hate it, hate it. Why can't they have a normal conversation? Why do these puppets have to jibber jabber all at the same time, all desperate to be heard over the scream of another, so that like some kind of verbal cold war, everything escalates to super loud atomic screaming? WHY, I ASK YOU?
Then, of course, are the psychedelic colors of said Muppets. All of them are multi-toned, fuschia, cobalt, electric yellow, shocking chartreuse, every color bolder and louder than the next to contribute to the overall sense of chaos on the show. And there aren't just a couple of little ratlings. Scads of puppets fill every shot, such that one wonders if they could all possibly have names and identities. I suspect that Oswald the Eight Legged Octopus and his octo-pod friends are required to be the puppeteers. How is there room under that set for 16 people and their frantically waving puppet-mittened arms? Is this why the puppets have to be centimeters away from the camera? There's just not enough room on the set, so the one who is YELLING the loudest has to be doing so directly AT the camera? Why is this androgynous Muppet up in my grill at this hour?
The background, too, is obnoxious. Bright pink walls are pasted with miniature fake musical instruments. The impression is pell-mell insanity, as though set decorations are the work of a Charles Manson and Dizzie Gillespie lovechild. Awful.
Finally, the show relies on a gimmick that is one of my (many) pet peeves. Elmo does this, too, and it has chapped my hide for years: the characters turn on their own fake TV. Really? We need the metafictive device of children watching puppet children watching TV? Holy crap, Sesame Street and this drug-infested, rat occupied tree house of Jack are some complicated fictional worlds.
So, the zany neon yellow Muppet turns on a TV that seems to be powered by accordions. (I wish I were making this up.) We are taken to some poorly digitized world where 8 or so singers (who desperately wish they HAD slept with that recording studio executive all those years ago, because maybe then their careers would not have led them to Jack's den of hallucinations) are dancing and playing a quasi-rock song. But, the thing is, the singers look like a combination of Jonas Brothers and Pussy Cat Dolls. The females are dressed in red rubberized trench coats and green wigs, and Jonas #1 is wearing human sideburns emerging from a fuscia afro. (Again, all true.) Their song, dubbed so poorly that the visual song and the auditory song are contrapuntal and disorienting, seems to be about super spies and private eyes. Which sounds like it should be a Kim Carnes Top 40 hit of the early 80s. Jonas #2 is talking about bronzing the super sleuth's shoe? And asserts that the whole place is lousy with clues? Does that rhyme with I'm so effing confused?
Anyhoodles, after that musical number within a musical number, I grew weary and left S alone with the close-talking Muppets. Never again will the TV be tuned to that station before Toot and Puddles comes on. Ever. Again. I can handle globe-trotting piglets.