First, there was Etsy. Etsy, for those of you who don't spend hours idly shopping on the Internet is like an on-line swap meet. Do you like fancy jewelry? Some one on Etsy makes a decent copy for $12. Want a personalized map of the US to show where you met your spouse? Etsy. Personalized crib art for the nursery? Personalized gold-tone necklace? Found object art? Etsy is your place. Thousands of purveyors of tchatchkes hawk their wares on Etsy. Knit beanies that look like a Yoda head for your cat to wear? You can find it at Etsy.
It seems impossible, but there's something worse than Etsy. It's like a DIY Etsy. You don't purchase the finished projects that you see in the pictures on Pinterest. No, no. You get a photo-link to a site that gives you directions to make your own tchatchkes. The pattern to knit your own Boba Fett dog costume.
Pinterest is killing me.
Pinterest is EVIL.
Ostensibly, the site is an endless (literally?) resource of ideas for everything from improving your vacation photos (Sort! Label! Print! Organize! Display!) to renovating your bathroom. There are ideas for refinishing furniture and polishing silver. You can reclaim junk as art and repurpose it all in your house.
If you don't know about Pinterest, consider yourself lucky. It's a visual site that absolutely sucks time from your life. It's like you and Alice fell through the rabbit hole together. She followed the rabbit, to go see Wonderland and you got roped into looking at the computer screen version of Wonderland.
The screen shows you everything that is possible in our world--marble showers, cascading carpets of green lawn, bountiful home gardens in perfect, tidy, weedless rows. Impossibly adorable photographs of children, bright eyed and happy, rather than teary and red-nosed. There are bathrooms with open air showers, bedrooms with expansive views of turquoise seas. Children's rooms that look like toy shops.
Are you not looking to live in a fairy-tale castle? Then you can find more mundane organization for the shit you already have. Do you need rolling shelves under your stairway? Perhaps your junk drawer needs to be reclaimed from the twine that has unraveled in there and snagged everything in it. Do you need a super creative way to store Legos on your child's wall? Do you have a spare bookshelf that you can convert into a mega-storage for whatever piles of crap you've accumulated?
Perhaps your house is already fairy-tale ready and you are OCD organized to the ears. Then you can use Pinterest to find workouts to make your upper arms smaller. Or your waist flatter. Or your saddlebags slimmer. Do you need a smoothie after your workout? Soothing cucumber? Healthy ginger? Pinterest has a recipe to juice every vegetable known to man. Maybe you want some liquid kale?
Fairy tale house? Check. OCD? Check. Resemble an anorexic mannequin? Check. Then YOU need to look through Pinterest's collection of home remedies and tinctures. Red cheeks? Make this paste featuring coconut oil. Or this salve with crushed bananas. Some rural Amazonian tribe looks forever 25 using just just one ingredient in all their foods--find it. Use items in your pantry to make foot scrubs, hand scrubs, and magically dissolve scars.
There is literally something for every single body on Pinterest. Classroom ideas (a reading nook is no longer good enough. A palm-tree tropical oasis with books is possible). Gift wrapping ideas (You didn't even know that a gift in paper with a tag wasn't cute). Garden ideas. How to keep a proper family calendar (writing things on the back of an envelope is so 1997). How to dry herbs from your immaculate herb garden (You just do not have enough heirloom basil). How to turn a pail into a chandelier (in case you live in a barn). Make an end table from a bench. Or, a bench from a table.
Have an extra ladder laying around? Turn it into art and hang it in your family room. Decoupage family photos onto a dresser. Spray paint virtually anything into a brighter version of whatever it was. Make slip covers to conceal your shitty furniture, turn dishes you don't use into art. Learn how to adopt and care for a micro-pig. Spray paint a found cow skull.
Want a new tattoo or haircut? Pages upon pages of ideas for colors, shapes, images. Tattoos that are gallery-quality, if only you can find an artist to reproduce the Pinterest (possibly photoshopped) image. Hair cuts in every shape and color, ombre dyes and neons.
Transform a nutritional nightmare food from your fave restaurant chain into a low-cal, home made crock pot version. Low cal ranch dressing from yogurt (blech) or a fat free no-pan egg frittata.
It seems to never end. The options are limitless, the ideas unfettered by any sort of reality about your own talents. Do you have hours and hours and free laborers? Do you have seemingly bottomless closets to store all this crap? Do you live in a museum? Does your child hate cupcakes made from the Betty Crocker mix?
Pinterest, despite your convictions to the contrary, cannot improve your life. All Pinterest can do is make you feel inadequate about your non-subway-tiled master bathroom, your grandma's recipe for full-fat non-eggplant lasagna, your scrappy garden with the bald spot in your lawn. Your roses are not hand washed with dish soap to get rid of mites. Your hand cream is not lavender scented with the lavender you grew in your own hanging herb garden. You do not have time to make your own lip gloss.
What is happening? Is there a certain demographic in this country who is walking around saying, "Alas, I have so much free time, and I disdain brand name products, so I will prepare my own line of bath toiletries?"
Who are these people? Are we devolving? Like suddenly we're back in 1840 and we need to churn our own butter? The reason we have butter for sale in the grocery store is that people figured out they could exchange a product/monetary value for another product/service. This is how we developed, you know, an economy. We don't need to be self sufficient in addition to working, raising children, trying to be good spouses, partners and people. We don't need to adopt pet projects to be useful. There is no need to repurpose a 1950s melamine tray into a magnetized "To-Do Board" because, and I cannot stress this enough--if you have time to do that, you OBVIOUSLY do not need a To-Do Board. Because you clearly DO NOT HAVE ENOUGH TO DO.
Pinterest doesn't make our lives better. It highlights the things we don't have. It shows us the perfect yards (groomed to within an inch of their lives) or the ideal way to store your spices, or the perfect way to make your kids get along (the getalong shirt. Are you kidding?) Pinterest breeds dissatisfaction and longing. It gives us unreasonable expectations of our own abilities. Is that kitchen in the photo gorgeous? Of course it is. Is it feasible for your modest budget on your kitchen redo? Of course not. Pinterest highlights a thousand insignificant things that you are doing incorrectly. If you need to feel inadequate, Pinterest is the place to go to dissolve your self esteem in a easy-to-whip-up mixture of vinegar and baking soda.
The American desire to acquire. Even if you refurbish, repaint, reclaim--it may not be new, but you still have more. You can go to Target and buy a new, one-of-a-million mirror for $20 or you can go into your yard and spray paint twigs and moss to make your own "rustic" one-of-a-kind mirror.
It's still a shitty mirror.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Friday, July 26, 2013
When (theoretically) good states go bad
I catch a lot of shit for living in Mobile, Alabama. Everyone out in SoCal thinks I have intentionally crawled under some rock of poverty and ignorance and choose to live there like Gollum. People up North think we've descended into a cultural and educational void.
To a point, this is true. Of course, right? Alabama is a poor state. It is a red state. (Is there something redder than red--say crimson?) Alabamians have a strange priority when it comes to football and church (as in these are more important than food or water). Alabamians have crappy access to quality health care (and by all accounts, dental care as well.) There doesn't seem to be, shall we say, a plague of diet and exercise. We're not necessarily the most industrious place, either, but that's not all bad.
Mostly, it's just a place of the "have-nots." And when I get down on living here, I think about it like that. When we got off the plane from Copenhagen, and looked around us, M and I were like, so this is like the OPPOSITE of Scandinavia. But that's okay, because home is where you make it and we have friends and a good life.
You know where I totally don't want to live? Florida. As I mentioned on Facebook today, Florida is literally and metaphorically the armpit of our nation. It's peninsula dangles into the Caribbean like it's trying to break off. Florida is what happens when everything goes wrong. Florida is broken, beyond repair, and it's time to admit it. Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana should no longer be the butts of American jokes. It should be Florida.
Obviously, and first off, it's apparently okay to shoot black kids in hoodies. I feel for the jurors in that horrible Zimmerman debacle: how can they deliver justice when the law in question is unjust? They weren't a bunch of racists who thought Zimmerman did the right thing. They thought he did an awful thing, but the law protected him. So, there's that about Florida. Shooting people happens a lot. I don't like shooting.
Also, the driving in Florida is awful. Time and again, national surveys tell us that driving in Florida is taking your life in your hands (because certainly those hands aren't on the wheel.) I attribute this to several factors: the elderly, those not trained to drive in the US, those not used to driving with the elderly, crappy cars that randomly break down, and an overconfidence among drivers who think that driving straight is all they have to do in Florida. It turns out, Florida's roads are only a small notch up from third world countries where like a thousand Vespas hover around the intersection and take off like angry bees when the light turns green. So you find yourself stuck on a highway behind an old person driving 35 miles under the speed limit, but you're unable to change lanes because of a paralyzing fear of being divebombed by some dude driving 90 on the same road. It's insanity.
While I'm on the subject of driving, there is also the issue of the roads themselves. While America's infrastructure is largely on the endangered species list, Florida's pot-holed roads go on for eternity. Have you ever driven the length of Florida? You've been driving for hours and hours and hours, and you're not even half way down there. It's agony. If you're lucky. Otherwise a giant sinkhole can open up and eat your car while you're stuck at a red light.
Right? The ground actually opens up and swallows people in Florida. How hostile is that? Hurricanes, torrential rains, gator infested swamps AND man-eating earth? What the hell? It's as though the devil himself is trying to open up a portal and reclaim Florida for himself.
So, yes, the natural disaster facet of Florida is something. But the human element really kicks the natural disaster part up a notch. The hurricanes...remember Andrew and the decade of the bajillion dollar storms? How many crappy cookie cutter subdivisions have to be wiped out to ring up a tab like that? And, of course, since it's Florida, there's always some moron doing something stupid, like surfing in the hurricane. Which wouldn't be so galactically stupid, except that he couldn't swim.
The politics of Florida are a cruel joke. All of these electoral college votes in the hands of people who couldn't use a hole punch in 2000. Where the state actually legislates every man woman and child for him/herself. Remember that dangling chad asshole?
Seriously? In the 21st century our elections were counted by Mr. Magoo?
Nothing makes you stop and shake your head, though, like the "celebrities" from Florida. Those giants of literature art and film that have shaped and defined our nation:
Megan Fox, Wesley Snipes, Leighton Meester, Mandy Moore, Pat Boone, Half the Backstreet Boys, Vanilla Ice and a whole bunch of rap artists whose names are in quotation marks. Florida is not the home of ground breaking cinema or even, really any cinema at all. I suspect the only reason there are any "stars" out of Florida at all is that the most hideous of all creatures--the stage mom--spawned there. So, basically, we (meaning movie goers) pay these actors to just actually BE who they are--crappy Floridians. Yeah, somebody's going to come back to me with Johnny Depp and Daniel Tosh who are both Floridians with long standing careers and real talent. Yeah, there are 20 million people in Florida, they have to produce some quality occasionally--it's just not as often as the statistics suggest it should be.
Criminals in Florida are also a special breed--nefarious, but somehow just a little screwed up as well. Like maybe they get caught in some stupid way, or their trial was spectacularly botched, or somehow the whole thing just got to be too much for the system to bear. The Polk County cheerleaders who beat the absolute living snot out of a girl. Cheerleaders? Debra Lafave--one of those classy teachers who had sex with a 14 year old student. Casey Anthony, and of course Ted Bundy all hail from Florida, or at least did their dirty work there. Florida is where band hazing turns lethal, and college football rosters are regularly compared to prison rolls. Criminals in Florida are driven to do strange, bizarre and grotesque things. Is it living in Florida that drives them to this craziness or is it the other way--Florida attracts weirdos. And old people. Lots and lots of old people.
Florida is a hot mess. The panhandle, most generally compared to Georgia and Alabama, is a bastion of rednecks and loners who live away from civilization to work on their apocalypse bunkers or whatever. Southern Florida is a mash up of hard core Puerto Ricans and blue haired old ladies. A disconnect of screened-in patio homes and crack houses. It's like God threw up his hands and was like "I dunno where to put these people! I'll just drop them in Florida til I figure it out" but then he totally forgot to go back there. Because, let's be honest here, it sometimes seems like God forgets Florida.
Finally, there is the non-taxing philosophy that is working so well to fund all of Florida's schools and other quasi-necessities. Sure, it draws really rich former NBA stars and the uber-famous, but for what? They build their mega-mansions there to avoid paying state income tax and then they live elsewhere, because (and you may have guessed what I'm going to say here) WHO WANTS TO LIVE IN FLORIDA?
Even the manatee, Florida's state mammal, is kind of a joke in the animal kingdom. What animal lives in water so shallow you can stand in it but has no protection mechanism at all? The manatee. The sea cow. Not the sea-chimp (that'd be waay to clever) but the sea cow and its prehistoric brain and fragile skin are the inhabitants of Florida. Manatees--driven to extinction because they are simply too dumb to move outta the way.
Disney. I'm not even going to write about Disney because my vitriol for that place exceeds the limits of my ability to express them. Disney is truly proof that Florida is the bottom of the United States' bucket. As low as it goes. The gator-filled, boa constrictor infested, murky swampy bottom of the US's bucket.
To a point, this is true. Of course, right? Alabama is a poor state. It is a red state. (Is there something redder than red--say crimson?) Alabamians have a strange priority when it comes to football and church (as in these are more important than food or water). Alabamians have crappy access to quality health care (and by all accounts, dental care as well.) There doesn't seem to be, shall we say, a plague of diet and exercise. We're not necessarily the most industrious place, either, but that's not all bad.
Mostly, it's just a place of the "have-nots." And when I get down on living here, I think about it like that. When we got off the plane from Copenhagen, and looked around us, M and I were like, so this is like the OPPOSITE of Scandinavia. But that's okay, because home is where you make it and we have friends and a good life.
You know where I totally don't want to live? Florida. As I mentioned on Facebook today, Florida is literally and metaphorically the armpit of our nation. It's peninsula dangles into the Caribbean like it's trying to break off. Florida is what happens when everything goes wrong. Florida is broken, beyond repair, and it's time to admit it. Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana should no longer be the butts of American jokes. It should be Florida.
Obviously, and first off, it's apparently okay to shoot black kids in hoodies. I feel for the jurors in that horrible Zimmerman debacle: how can they deliver justice when the law in question is unjust? They weren't a bunch of racists who thought Zimmerman did the right thing. They thought he did an awful thing, but the law protected him. So, there's that about Florida. Shooting people happens a lot. I don't like shooting.
Also, the driving in Florida is awful. Time and again, national surveys tell us that driving in Florida is taking your life in your hands (because certainly those hands aren't on the wheel.) I attribute this to several factors: the elderly, those not trained to drive in the US, those not used to driving with the elderly, crappy cars that randomly break down, and an overconfidence among drivers who think that driving straight is all they have to do in Florida. It turns out, Florida's roads are only a small notch up from third world countries where like a thousand Vespas hover around the intersection and take off like angry bees when the light turns green. So you find yourself stuck on a highway behind an old person driving 35 miles under the speed limit, but you're unable to change lanes because of a paralyzing fear of being divebombed by some dude driving 90 on the same road. It's insanity.
Right? The ground actually opens up and swallows people in Florida. How hostile is that? Hurricanes, torrential rains, gator infested swamps AND man-eating earth? What the hell? It's as though the devil himself is trying to open up a portal and reclaim Florida for himself.
So, yes, the natural disaster facet of Florida is something. But the human element really kicks the natural disaster part up a notch. The hurricanes...remember Andrew and the decade of the bajillion dollar storms? How many crappy cookie cutter subdivisions have to be wiped out to ring up a tab like that? And, of course, since it's Florida, there's always some moron doing something stupid, like surfing in the hurricane. Which wouldn't be so galactically stupid, except that he couldn't swim.
The politics of Florida are a cruel joke. All of these electoral college votes in the hands of people who couldn't use a hole punch in 2000. Where the state actually legislates every man woman and child for him/herself. Remember that dangling chad asshole?
Seriously? In the 21st century our elections were counted by Mr. Magoo?
Nothing makes you stop and shake your head, though, like the "celebrities" from Florida. Those giants of literature art and film that have shaped and defined our nation:
Megan Fox, Wesley Snipes, Leighton Meester, Mandy Moore, Pat Boone, Half the Backstreet Boys, Vanilla Ice and a whole bunch of rap artists whose names are in quotation marks. Florida is not the home of ground breaking cinema or even, really any cinema at all. I suspect the only reason there are any "stars" out of Florida at all is that the most hideous of all creatures--the stage mom--spawned there. So, basically, we (meaning movie goers) pay these actors to just actually BE who they are--crappy Floridians. Yeah, somebody's going to come back to me with Johnny Depp and Daniel Tosh who are both Floridians with long standing careers and real talent. Yeah, there are 20 million people in Florida, they have to produce some quality occasionally--it's just not as often as the statistics suggest it should be.
Criminals in Florida are also a special breed--nefarious, but somehow just a little screwed up as well. Like maybe they get caught in some stupid way, or their trial was spectacularly botched, or somehow the whole thing just got to be too much for the system to bear. The Polk County cheerleaders who beat the absolute living snot out of a girl. Cheerleaders? Debra Lafave--one of those classy teachers who had sex with a 14 year old student. Casey Anthony, and of course Ted Bundy all hail from Florida, or at least did their dirty work there. Florida is where band hazing turns lethal, and college football rosters are regularly compared to prison rolls. Criminals in Florida are driven to do strange, bizarre and grotesque things. Is it living in Florida that drives them to this craziness or is it the other way--Florida attracts weirdos. And old people. Lots and lots of old people.
Florida is a hot mess. The panhandle, most generally compared to Georgia and Alabama, is a bastion of rednecks and loners who live away from civilization to work on their apocalypse bunkers or whatever. Southern Florida is a mash up of hard core Puerto Ricans and blue haired old ladies. A disconnect of screened-in patio homes and crack houses. It's like God threw up his hands and was like "I dunno where to put these people! I'll just drop them in Florida til I figure it out" but then he totally forgot to go back there. Because, let's be honest here, it sometimes seems like God forgets Florida.
Finally, there is the non-taxing philosophy that is working so well to fund all of Florida's schools and other quasi-necessities. Sure, it draws really rich former NBA stars and the uber-famous, but for what? They build their mega-mansions there to avoid paying state income tax and then they live elsewhere, because (and you may have guessed what I'm going to say here) WHO WANTS TO LIVE IN FLORIDA?
Even the manatee, Florida's state mammal, is kind of a joke in the animal kingdom. What animal lives in water so shallow you can stand in it but has no protection mechanism at all? The manatee. The sea cow. Not the sea-chimp (that'd be waay to clever) but the sea cow and its prehistoric brain and fragile skin are the inhabitants of Florida. Manatees--driven to extinction because they are simply too dumb to move outta the way.
Disney. I'm not even going to write about Disney because my vitriol for that place exceeds the limits of my ability to express them. Disney is truly proof that Florida is the bottom of the United States' bucket. As low as it goes. The gator-filled, boa constrictor infested, murky swampy bottom of the US's bucket.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Why am I watching this?
I sometimes find myself doing the same thing repetitively, hoping, praying for a different outcome every time. Like "please don't hit your brother." (Not gonna happen.) Or, "yah, coconut seems like it should taste good" (Still, no.) Or, maybe the news will not be a laundry list of crime and thunderstorms (hasn't happened yet.) Or, maybe the Hits1 Sirius station won't be playing Macklemore and Ryan (maybe next month.) Or, most recently, perhaps this Aaron Sorkin thing won't suck. (It does.) M keeps going back for more. Despite my eye-rolling (I make a good sound effect to go with the eye roll just to pester him while he watches,) he feels that there is something redeemable in all of this. That Sorkin's pat answers are going to change politics? The world? Does he like the verbal masturbation of an alleged Republican bitching about every elected Republican in government? What, exactly, is M expecting to happen? One episode won't involve a grown woman acting like a hormone-riddled teen? That one episode won't show some failed government practice DEEPLY AFFECTING one of our characters? That Sorkin isn't a one trick pony?
More importantly, how do I keep getting sucked into this? I HATE summer TV. It's a vast wasteland of repeats and sports-less tundras. Baseball, America's pastime is really just a white-noise generator to facilitate my nap. There are no movies made for grown women on cable. EVER. And now, on Sunday nights, there is this Newsroom show. This frantic, frenetic, didactic tirade that I am subject to once a week. WHY DON'T I GET UP and do something else? It's like a tractor beam. I'm sucked in, if only to ridicule. It's like picking at a skin blemish. Picking will not make it go away, but it's something to do while the blemish is there. The satisfaction comes from the pain it causes.
Usually, I reserve my critical interpretations of TV shows for artistic heavies like Jack's Big Music Show or Yo! Gabba Gabba! But, today (well, actually last night, but I couldn't get my google password to work and I have the tech savvy of a Triceratops) I think The Newsroom has earned some of my insightful analysis.
First of all, I have to say that I'm moderately surprised that HBO even gave me a second chance at The Newsroom. I thought for sure that it was going to be a one season blunder. But no...it's back! And quippier and fast-talky as ever.
Some obvious complaints about Sorkin: who keeps talking, louder and louder, OVER the boss's monologue? No one. Ever. And yet, here we are watching Dumb and Dumber yell over poor Law and Order Prosecutor. Louder and LOUDER. And British Girl screaming over Dumb and Dumber guy? Second, what kind of savants have, at their fingertips, arcane statistics about the mortgage collapse in this country? Or violence in Rwanda? Or the DNP of Sweden? Third, who runs everywhere at work? Fourth, why, oh why are these people PISSED OFF ALL THE TIME? AND YELLING ABOUT IT?
Another issue, what is with the casting? Why do the Don character and the Other Guy (Jim?) look so much alike?
See? There she is all yarn-haired and Cabbage Patchy. Her internship has become fraught with sexual tension, much like this scraggly-haired blonde:
Sadly, though, for all his modern take on the world, Sorkin's women tend to be of this type. These women who constantly interrupt Very Important Business with their trivial love problems. "Should I tell him I love him? Will the workplace be weird if I don't? Do I deserve happiness? Does he think of me as anything but his secretary? I guess I'm stereotyping: sometimes, they aren't blonde:
But they definitely have a look, right? These women who aren't in charge, but through their personal assistant/intern position steer their morally-driven men into the right decisions and spectacular soap boxing. They venture into Sorkin's verbal fray only to wind up in their bosses'/mentors arms by the end of the series.
There are women in charge (ish) though, in Sorkin Situations:
But while these are competent women, they are sexual failures, governed by break-ups and broken hearts. They have no time for relationships, for they are married to their careers and what must be GIANT closets filled with silk blouses.
They talk fast, eat up men and spit them out even faster.They bust balls and pump iron. They carry big stacks of paper and walk around their offices (Importantly) in stilettos. They say things like, "Yes, I am here and I am working hard and I have filed this news report on the 4.9 starving children in the Sudan and the economic and social repercussions, of term limits to Republican senators but, dammit, Will, I still love you. I have always loved you."
That's not an actual quote, it's like the Cliff Note version, because that actual monologue takes seven minutes when written in Sorkin-ese.
So, these horny women who drink men's scotch, propel slightly damaged men (Will McAvoy, I'm looking at you) into the stratosphere of success. Talking, the whole time. Non stop.
This photo (above) also brings me to another casting gripe. Why Sam Waterston? I love the guy and his work for TD Waterhouse (or whatever retirement fund he's encouraging me to use) and of course, Law and Order. But I'm pretty sure the guy has limited lung capacity. He is frequently winded from running up and down Sorkin's workplace halls (keeping up with those pissed off women) and then can't spit out a Sorkin-logue in one breath. He fades out there, in the middle, and I am often rewinding to pick up the last half of whatever it was that he was saying. (Which is, I should know by now: I care/do not care about the ratings of our show today, dammit, Will McAvoy. Get your shit together and do/do not do the news tonight. We can/cannot make it as a network with/without you. That wig-wearing bitch, Jane Fonda, is all over my ass about you. She's in charge, but kinda scary in her silk blouse, so I mostly do either what she tells me to, or the direct opposite. My role is confusing.)
HOLY SHIT! She is scary. Do you think she can blink anymore? That skin looks tight. Although if Felicity Huffman's character from Sports Night were to get a LOT of work done, she might look a little like this, so maybe in one of Sorkin's benders, he thought he was hiring Huffman.
Look, Sorkin is a talented man. The Social Network was really good. A Few Good Men was pretty good. The West Wing redefined network drama. But what I'm saying, I think, is that the whole Sorkin experience is exhausting. I just can't immerse myself in a world where every one knows everything about the world, but nothing about human nature. The same characters resurface from old shows, and while their wardrobe is updated, their situations aren't. This is a show about cable news. The stakes are made to feel urgent, meaningful, NECESSARY. But the thing is--news is none of these things. Are they going to not get the essential statistics on the royal baby dubbed in on time? No. And if they don't Wolf Blizter is just going to eat some gravel and usher us into a commercial break. I just don't care about any of it. I don't care about self righteous liberals trying to point out the error of their conservative coworker's ways. I don't care about these slightly relevant, but fictionalized news events. I can barely find it in me to care about these things in the real world news, but I am definitely not buying into the high stakes of these events on a fake news show. I don't need to hear Sorkin's thinly veiled diatribe spat at me by some one who talks as though he's taken speed.
So, this Sunday night, who's up for either A) Sorkin-themed drinking games (everyone drinks while characters are running) or B) turning off the TV and going out?
Because something's gotta give. Seriously.
More importantly, how do I keep getting sucked into this? I HATE summer TV. It's a vast wasteland of repeats and sports-less tundras. Baseball, America's pastime is really just a white-noise generator to facilitate my nap. There are no movies made for grown women on cable. EVER. And now, on Sunday nights, there is this Newsroom show. This frantic, frenetic, didactic tirade that I am subject to once a week. WHY DON'T I GET UP and do something else? It's like a tractor beam. I'm sucked in, if only to ridicule. It's like picking at a skin blemish. Picking will not make it go away, but it's something to do while the blemish is there. The satisfaction comes from the pain it causes.
Usually, I reserve my critical interpretations of TV shows for artistic heavies like Jack's Big Music Show or Yo! Gabba Gabba! But, today (well, actually last night, but I couldn't get my google password to work and I have the tech savvy of a Triceratops) I think The Newsroom has earned some of my insightful analysis.
First of all, I have to say that I'm moderately surprised that HBO even gave me a second chance at The Newsroom. I thought for sure that it was going to be a one season blunder. But no...it's back! And quippier and fast-talky as ever.
Some obvious complaints about Sorkin: who keeps talking, louder and louder, OVER the boss's monologue? No one. Ever. And yet, here we are watching Dumb and Dumber yell over poor Law and Order Prosecutor. Louder and LOUDER. And British Girl screaming over Dumb and Dumber guy? Second, what kind of savants have, at their fingertips, arcane statistics about the mortgage collapse in this country? Or violence in Rwanda? Or the DNP of Sweden? Third, who runs everywhere at work? Fourth, why, oh why are these people PISSED OFF ALL THE TIME? AND YELLING ABOUT IT?
Another issue, what is with the casting? Why do the Don character and the Other Guy (Jim?) look so much alike?
Seriously, generically attractive guys who mumble? When they are on their cell phones, lit by random downlighting in a bar, mumbling at The Forehead (whom they are both? dating?), it is impossible to tell them apart from one another. Last week, they introduced some other guy, Washington, to further confuse me:
This guy came up from Washington, D.C. on the last episode to help produce the news while one of the other Hardy Boys ran away from his true love, The Forehead.
The Forehead, who I do not object to as an actress (she may be very good at reading non-self pitying, trying to be an Important Woman script) but in this, she reminds me of a Cabbage Patch Kid who is (essentially) whining about boys despite trying to be taken seriously as a journalist (how 1990s):
There are women in charge (ish) though, in Sorkin Situations:
They talk fast, eat up men and spit them out even faster.They bust balls and pump iron. They carry big stacks of paper and walk around their offices (Importantly) in stilettos. They say things like, "Yes, I am here and I am working hard and I have filed this news report on the 4.9 starving children in the Sudan and the economic and social repercussions, of term limits to Republican senators but, dammit, Will, I still love you. I have always loved you."
That's not an actual quote, it's like the Cliff Note version, because that actual monologue takes seven minutes when written in Sorkin-ese.
So, these horny women who drink men's scotch, propel slightly damaged men (Will McAvoy, I'm looking at you) into the stratosphere of success. Talking, the whole time. Non stop.
This photo (above) also brings me to another casting gripe. Why Sam Waterston? I love the guy and his work for TD Waterhouse (or whatever retirement fund he's encouraging me to use) and of course, Law and Order. But I'm pretty sure the guy has limited lung capacity. He is frequently winded from running up and down Sorkin's workplace halls (keeping up with those pissed off women) and then can't spit out a Sorkin-logue in one breath. He fades out there, in the middle, and I am often rewinding to pick up the last half of whatever it was that he was saying. (Which is, I should know by now: I care/do not care about the ratings of our show today, dammit, Will McAvoy. Get your shit together and do/do not do the news tonight. We can/cannot make it as a network with/without you. That wig-wearing bitch, Jane Fonda, is all over my ass about you. She's in charge, but kinda scary in her silk blouse, so I mostly do either what she tells me to, or the direct opposite. My role is confusing.)
HOLY SHIT! She is scary. Do you think she can blink anymore? That skin looks tight. Although if Felicity Huffman's character from Sports Night were to get a LOT of work done, she might look a little like this, so maybe in one of Sorkin's benders, he thought he was hiring Huffman.
Look, Sorkin is a talented man. The Social Network was really good. A Few Good Men was pretty good. The West Wing redefined network drama. But what I'm saying, I think, is that the whole Sorkin experience is exhausting. I just can't immerse myself in a world where every one knows everything about the world, but nothing about human nature. The same characters resurface from old shows, and while their wardrobe is updated, their situations aren't. This is a show about cable news. The stakes are made to feel urgent, meaningful, NECESSARY. But the thing is--news is none of these things. Are they going to not get the essential statistics on the royal baby dubbed in on time? No. And if they don't Wolf Blizter is just going to eat some gravel and usher us into a commercial break. I just don't care about any of it. I don't care about self righteous liberals trying to point out the error of their conservative coworker's ways. I don't care about these slightly relevant, but fictionalized news events. I can barely find it in me to care about these things in the real world news, but I am definitely not buying into the high stakes of these events on a fake news show. I don't need to hear Sorkin's thinly veiled diatribe spat at me by some one who talks as though he's taken speed.
So, this Sunday night, who's up for either A) Sorkin-themed drinking games (everyone drinks while characters are running) or B) turning off the TV and going out?
Because something's gotta give. Seriously.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
An Open Letter to George Clooney
I like cyclical events. Routine is good. Cycles help me to look forward, keep focused. I like the Olympics, and now they come every two years, which is even better. Cicadas, Nordstrom sales, and best of all, George Clooney break-ups.
George Clooney and his girlfriend,
No, wait, his girlfriend is THIS Keibler:
...have broken up.
George Clooney (sigh, doesn't he look fantastic in this photo?!?) and this gorgeous, tall drink of water are no longer an item. I am taking this opportunity to let George know that I am (mostly) available.
Missed Connection: You: were hosting a fundraising party for POTUS. I: failed to win the drawing for free invitation to the fundraising party you hosted for POTUS. We were so close, and yet, too far.
So sorry to hear about your recent break up. I am sure it is difficult to let some one special walk out of your life.
I realize I have no information other than scuttlebutt and rumor, but I heard that you and Stacy had divergent viewpoints on having children. I understand that you are not interested in having any. I have two kids, but let me tell you, I absolutely promise you that I will not pester you for children. (Peri-menopause makes that difficult anyway) If you were interested in hanging out with me, I can assure you completely, that children would never be a part of our future.
As part of your emotional healing process, I'd like to point out to you the many advantages of seeing me. First of all, let's be honest. You're not getting any younger. And while you are still looking all kinds of hot, that handsomeness is ephemeral. Soon, you'll be looking like your friend, Brad, in that Benjamin Button fiasco. And then what 24 year old super model is going to want to date you? That's right. Deep pockets only outweigh deep crow's feet to a certain point. And then, what? I will be there. My appreciation for you is beyond skin deep, it's forever deep. (Actually, not true. My adoration of you is exactly as deep as your epidermis.) But then again, I have far fewer prospects than your ex.
Another point in my favor is the wisdom of my years. I'm not a young tart boasting perky breasts and peppy attitude. I'm a seasoned woman. I'm the real deal. I can be your muse as you study for some unnamed role for the as yet unmade Roman Holiday remake. Only you'd be the prince and I'd be the random tourist who finds your stunning self and woos you.
Also, I probably clean up okay and would look good in a very sensible Judi Dench-sleeved ensemble on the red carpet. People would admire you for dating some one who is "unconventionally beautiful" (read: not supermodel young, beautiful, or thin.) Think of the positive publicity for you. People would call you deep, and applaud your effort to find a "real" relationship with "meaning." Only you and I would need to know that it was all about the hot sex.
Conveniently, my dog is already named after you. He and I would seamlessly transition into your life. Italy is lovely this time of year and I pack very light. I would be happy to help you air out the villa and welcome in the gorgeous summer breeze in Lake Como. I have no desire to live in the hubbub in LA, either. We could retreat to the beauty of the Italian countryside and read literature (I know this guy with a great new novel. He's a TOTAL stranger, by the way.)
I will be happy to buy a Rosetta Stone Italian Edition so I can help you buy wine and prosciutto and crusty bread for our romantic picnics on the lake. See? I want to be your help mate. No pressure, though.
I hear from reliable sources that you are a merry prankster. I LOVE merry prankstering. We could have Angie and Brad over and then hire 25 child actors to mix up with their kids. We could make the loving parents find their own kids in the sea of children a la Pin the Tail on the Donkey. We could write on Brad's forehead in glow in the dark pen. Or put his hair in a ponytail when Angie isn't looking. I'm game for all kinds of fun!
Anyway, George, just think of the possibilities. There are a couple of glitches standing between you and me (namely my husband and children) but those obstacles, and the distance between my humble life in Alabama (yes, that part is true, but I promise it's not what you think: I'm not from here--ask anyone) and your Hollywood life is smaller than you think.
So, consider it. I can be the shoulder you cry on. I'm even willing to be your transition woman. Just remember, I will not be the woman who wants to trap you, marry you, beg for kids. I will be the fun-loving partner you desire. Really.
By the way, I asked my husband if you were too old for me and he assured me that you aren't. He suggested that I may be too old for YOU, but I assured him I'm not.
Well, I hope you are doing well. Looking forward to that Astronaut movie with Sandra Bullock (I hope it's better than that fiasco with the overrated Melissa McCarthy.)
Thanks for your time,
Sincerely
JP
George Clooney and his girlfriend,
...have broken up.
George Clooney (sigh, doesn't he look fantastic in this photo?!?) and this gorgeous, tall drink of water are no longer an item. I am taking this opportunity to let George know that I am (mostly) available.
Missed Connection: You: were hosting a fundraising party for POTUS. I: failed to win the drawing for free invitation to the fundraising party you hosted for POTUS. We were so close, and yet, too far.
So sorry to hear about your recent break up. I am sure it is difficult to let some one special walk out of your life.
I realize I have no information other than scuttlebutt and rumor, but I heard that you and Stacy had divergent viewpoints on having children. I understand that you are not interested in having any. I have two kids, but let me tell you, I absolutely promise you that I will not pester you for children. (Peri-menopause makes that difficult anyway) If you were interested in hanging out with me, I can assure you completely, that children would never be a part of our future.
As part of your emotional healing process, I'd like to point out to you the many advantages of seeing me. First of all, let's be honest. You're not getting any younger. And while you are still looking all kinds of hot, that handsomeness is ephemeral. Soon, you'll be looking like your friend, Brad, in that Benjamin Button fiasco. And then what 24 year old super model is going to want to date you? That's right. Deep pockets only outweigh deep crow's feet to a certain point. And then, what? I will be there. My appreciation for you is beyond skin deep, it's forever deep. (Actually, not true. My adoration of you is exactly as deep as your epidermis.) But then again, I have far fewer prospects than your ex.
Another point in my favor is the wisdom of my years. I'm not a young tart boasting perky breasts and peppy attitude. I'm a seasoned woman. I'm the real deal. I can be your muse as you study for some unnamed role for the as yet unmade Roman Holiday remake. Only you'd be the prince and I'd be the random tourist who finds your stunning self and woos you.
Also, I probably clean up okay and would look good in a very sensible Judi Dench-sleeved ensemble on the red carpet. People would admire you for dating some one who is "unconventionally beautiful" (read: not supermodel young, beautiful, or thin.) Think of the positive publicity for you. People would call you deep, and applaud your effort to find a "real" relationship with "meaning." Only you and I would need to know that it was all about the hot sex.
Conveniently, my dog is already named after you. He and I would seamlessly transition into your life. Italy is lovely this time of year and I pack very light. I would be happy to help you air out the villa and welcome in the gorgeous summer breeze in Lake Como. I have no desire to live in the hubbub in LA, either. We could retreat to the beauty of the Italian countryside and read literature (I know this guy with a great new novel. He's a TOTAL stranger, by the way.)
I hear from reliable sources that you are a merry prankster. I LOVE merry prankstering. We could have Angie and Brad over and then hire 25 child actors to mix up with their kids. We could make the loving parents find their own kids in the sea of children a la Pin the Tail on the Donkey. We could write on Brad's forehead in glow in the dark pen. Or put his hair in a ponytail when Angie isn't looking. I'm game for all kinds of fun!
Anyway, George, just think of the possibilities. There are a couple of glitches standing between you and me (namely my husband and children) but those obstacles, and the distance between my humble life in Alabama (yes, that part is true, but I promise it's not what you think: I'm not from here--ask anyone) and your Hollywood life is smaller than you think.
So, consider it. I can be the shoulder you cry on. I'm even willing to be your transition woman. Just remember, I will not be the woman who wants to trap you, marry you, beg for kids. I will be the fun-loving partner you desire. Really.
By the way, I asked my husband if you were too old for me and he assured me that you aren't. He suggested that I may be too old for YOU, but I assured him I'm not.
Well, I hope you are doing well. Looking forward to that Astronaut movie with Sandra Bullock (I hope it's better than that fiasco with the overrated Melissa McCarthy.)
Thanks for your time,
Sincerely
JP
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Weather or Not
I'm a weather nerd. I get it. I like researching the difference between frontal rain and heat effect rain. I check accuweather daily during hurricane season. For those of you who aren't weather nerds, hurricane season runs from the end of May til November. I have sites that I favor for different weather-researching needs. Weather.com is the default on my phone. (I don't know what this means. But what I intend it to mean is that when I press the little square on my phone that has a sun on it and says weather, I get linked to Weather.com) I use it occasionally. Accuweather has a good section on the tropics that is well-updated both with maps and a written forecast. I like that. Wunderground has the best regional forecast and local forecasts, such that I can find out if it's raining at the baseball stadium even if it's not raining at my house.
Also, at Wunderground, there is an infographic enumerating the world's weather-related news for the day. Marathon Key, Florida had an all time low temp for June 16 of 75 degrees. This summer has been full of "world's hottest" and "world's coldest" records, which might lead some to consider climate change as a viable scientific reality, or not. But, nonetheless, there I am, checking my weather facts. Accuweather has assured me that dry Saharan dust (is there any other kind? Not Saharan but dry.) is being drawn into the tropics and hindering the development of tropical waves. This pattern is usual for this time of year.
During the school year, it is my duty and pleasure to be the first one downstairs. I turn on the computer and the coffee maker at the same time, and it's a race to see which will be able to produce happiness first. (That first cup of coffee is pretty essential in the morning.) I then shout the weather forecast up to the kids and M from the bottom of the steps.
Not, by the way, that there is EVER real, significant change in the Mobile weather. The main difference is whether there will be a sweatshirt in the kids' uniforms. And, for what it's worth,on the 3 days per semester when I get the kids from school, it is guaranteed to rain.
Our weather options for the school year are pretty much: hot, warm and rainy, warm and humid, cool, cool and rainy.
My sister is also a weather nerd. In her defense, she is a geographer (?), so it's kind of ok to be a nerd. She teaches her students about volcanoes and plate tectonics, and climate change, and earthquakes, and while these aren't actual weather events, they sort of fall in to the category of it, and I'm ok with that. She and I will often talk about the totally bizarre weather extremes in our sections of the country. Here, in Mobile, AL where more rain falls than in any other city in the US (DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED, SEATTLE) humidity is a way of life. Overnight rainfall totals are measured in multiple inches. The Fourth of July weekend total was over a foot. She lives in Phoenix, AZ. A foot of rain is like a century's worth. We compare relative humidity and dew point temperatures. The dew point around here is often 72 or 73 degrees. Where she lives, it is often in the single digits, or even in the negatives. People in Phoenix look like raisins. People in the South look like reconstituted jerky. Phoenix temps can soar into the one-teens. Here, we seldom see the dark side of 100, but enjoy it vicariously through "feels like" temperatures.
My Dad, also is a weather nut. I talk to him about once a week. In that conversation, I get a weather recap. Like an inept weather man, he doesn't forecast what's going to happen, he just accurately details what is currently happening or what already happened. Ironically, he lives in Southern California, a region defined by its fundamental lack of weather. It's perpetually 72 degrees there (when it's not on fire, sliding down a muddy mountain, or being rocked by earthquakes.) Stranger still, he lives in this a strange cove of land where it seems to be its own micro climate. While he's shrouded in fog so thick it's soupy, folks three miles inland are perfectly fine.
Nonetheless, I get this weekly weather update. "It was too cold to nap outside" (Below 72 degrees) "It was too windy for cocktails on the beach" (Below 75 degrees, 20 mph wind) " It was gorgeous outside, we had lunch on the patio" (75 degrees, limited wind, bright sunshine) "It was miserable and damp outside. We had to turn on the heat." (Fog, temperatures below 72). I also get the accompanying astronomical data: "too cloudy for a good sunset." "Great Santa Ana winds, gorgeous sunset." "Fire in Riverside, surreal sunset." "Perfectly clear afternoon. Looking forward to the sunset. Should get a green flash."Don't know what a green flash is? Click here
The Green Flash. The holy grail of astronomical phenomenon. Dad sits out there, martini in hand, waiting, waiting for the green flash at sunset. Any guests or relatives will be summoned out of their small talk, away from their dinners to pause, wait and then debate whether or not there was a green flash, whether or not they actually saw it, and whether or not it's actually a thing. I bought my dad pint glasses from The Green Flash Brewery in San Diego so he could have a green flash every night. The Green Flash is so rare, such a literally infinitesimal moment that it seems like only a micro percentage of the world will ever see it. I, for one, can't even see the sun actually set, because it sets behind trees and forest and my neighbor's house. There's no green flash for me. There's no "moment" when I can see the sun set.
So, when I think about these conversations between me and my dad and occasionally, my sister, I think it's so weird that we're comparing notes on this. Me, looking up weather for kids' uniforms, her tracking weather news for current event exercises in the classroom, my dad using weather and astronomy to order his post-retirement day. For most people, the weather is incidental, an afterthought to their plans. An inconvenience, or an unexpected respite. For us, the weather moves to center stage. It dictates the quality of my dad's day. While I get that, I find myself annoyed that the events he postpones because of weather aren't really 'events' at all. He took his nap inside instead of on his fancy wicker outside sofa. He drank cocktails on the leeward patio rather than the beach. As it turns out, I'm not jealous of the weather, just the lifestyle. Bummer.
Also, at Wunderground, there is an infographic enumerating the world's weather-related news for the day. Marathon Key, Florida had an all time low temp for June 16 of 75 degrees. This summer has been full of "world's hottest" and "world's coldest" records, which might lead some to consider climate change as a viable scientific reality, or not. But, nonetheless, there I am, checking my weather facts. Accuweather has assured me that dry Saharan dust (is there any other kind? Not Saharan but dry.) is being drawn into the tropics and hindering the development of tropical waves. This pattern is usual for this time of year.
During the school year, it is my duty and pleasure to be the first one downstairs. I turn on the computer and the coffee maker at the same time, and it's a race to see which will be able to produce happiness first. (That first cup of coffee is pretty essential in the morning.) I then shout the weather forecast up to the kids and M from the bottom of the steps.
Not, by the way, that there is EVER real, significant change in the Mobile weather. The main difference is whether there will be a sweatshirt in the kids' uniforms. And, for what it's worth,on the 3 days per semester when I get the kids from school, it is guaranteed to rain.
Our weather options for the school year are pretty much: hot, warm and rainy, warm and humid, cool, cool and rainy.
My sister is also a weather nerd. In her defense, she is a geographer (?), so it's kind of ok to be a nerd. She teaches her students about volcanoes and plate tectonics, and climate change, and earthquakes, and while these aren't actual weather events, they sort of fall in to the category of it, and I'm ok with that. She and I will often talk about the totally bizarre weather extremes in our sections of the country. Here, in Mobile, AL where more rain falls than in any other city in the US (DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED, SEATTLE) humidity is a way of life. Overnight rainfall totals are measured in multiple inches. The Fourth of July weekend total was over a foot. She lives in Phoenix, AZ. A foot of rain is like a century's worth. We compare relative humidity and dew point temperatures. The dew point around here is often 72 or 73 degrees. Where she lives, it is often in the single digits, or even in the negatives. People in Phoenix look like raisins. People in the South look like reconstituted jerky. Phoenix temps can soar into the one-teens. Here, we seldom see the dark side of 100, but enjoy it vicariously through "feels like" temperatures.
My Dad, also is a weather nut. I talk to him about once a week. In that conversation, I get a weather recap. Like an inept weather man, he doesn't forecast what's going to happen, he just accurately details what is currently happening or what already happened. Ironically, he lives in Southern California, a region defined by its fundamental lack of weather. It's perpetually 72 degrees there (when it's not on fire, sliding down a muddy mountain, or being rocked by earthquakes.) Stranger still, he lives in this a strange cove of land where it seems to be its own micro climate. While he's shrouded in fog so thick it's soupy, folks three miles inland are perfectly fine.
Nonetheless, I get this weekly weather update. "It was too cold to nap outside" (Below 72 degrees) "It was too windy for cocktails on the beach" (Below 75 degrees, 20 mph wind) " It was gorgeous outside, we had lunch on the patio" (75 degrees, limited wind, bright sunshine) "It was miserable and damp outside. We had to turn on the heat." (Fog, temperatures below 72). I also get the accompanying astronomical data: "too cloudy for a good sunset." "Great Santa Ana winds, gorgeous sunset." "Fire in Riverside, surreal sunset." "Perfectly clear afternoon. Looking forward to the sunset. Should get a green flash."Don't know what a green flash is? Click here
The Green Flash. The holy grail of astronomical phenomenon. Dad sits out there, martini in hand, waiting, waiting for the green flash at sunset. Any guests or relatives will be summoned out of their small talk, away from their dinners to pause, wait and then debate whether or not there was a green flash, whether or not they actually saw it, and whether or not it's actually a thing. I bought my dad pint glasses from The Green Flash Brewery in San Diego so he could have a green flash every night. The Green Flash is so rare, such a literally infinitesimal moment that it seems like only a micro percentage of the world will ever see it. I, for one, can't even see the sun actually set, because it sets behind trees and forest and my neighbor's house. There's no green flash for me. There's no "moment" when I can see the sun set.
So, when I think about these conversations between me and my dad and occasionally, my sister, I think it's so weird that we're comparing notes on this. Me, looking up weather for kids' uniforms, her tracking weather news for current event exercises in the classroom, my dad using weather and astronomy to order his post-retirement day. For most people, the weather is incidental, an afterthought to their plans. An inconvenience, or an unexpected respite. For us, the weather moves to center stage. It dictates the quality of my dad's day. While I get that, I find myself annoyed that the events he postpones because of weather aren't really 'events' at all. He took his nap inside instead of on his fancy wicker outside sofa. He drank cocktails on the leeward patio rather than the beach. As it turns out, I'm not jealous of the weather, just the lifestyle. Bummer.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
The White Flag
The outdoors is officially intolerable. No longer am I continuing relations with that enemy state. Done. Finished. I'm tearing up treaties faster than North Korea. I'm taking my ball and I'm going inside.
From July 2 through the long weekend and beyond, it rained here. Big rain. None of this Seattle "it's like living in a fog bank of moist droplets." None of these Midwestern squalls that howl through in late spring. No, no. It rained here. Like you say "rrrrrrrr-aaayned" in the thick, guttural voice of a blues singer. It Sweet Baby Rains. It pours.
If you're out driving in this weather, the droplets hit the windshield like pancakes, both in their size and the satisfying f-wap sound they make when they smack the car, the pavement. Windshield wipers simply cannot keep up. You peer through the window, as though somehow being closer to the glass will make it easier to see. And, since all of this rain is falling on a town with infrastructure that dates back to when Napoleon owned the city, you of course will not see the puddle that is probably knee deep and growing on the side of the road. You will hit it with that sickening slowing of one side of the car and the (hopefully only) momentary feel of the tire leaving the road. So, yeah, driving hasn't been on my to do list in last week's weather.
Moreover, the outdoors are threatening right now simply because of their gargantuan size. Temperatures and humidity have been hovering around 90 (degrees and percent) so, plants are taking over. Like in Indiana Jones movies where the jungle has reclaimed the ancient ruins, so to is my yard, my house, my town being assaulted by the encroaching wilds. Indeed, my neighbor's wisteria has grown from a mere strand of vines to a botanical boa constrictor. The grass, like Homer Simpson's beard, looks instantly after a clipping as though it needs it again. You can watch the weeds grow. Literally.
The gorgeous oaks are filled with ferns that have taken hold in the bark. I love that--plants growing ON plants. And ferns growing in between bricks, on balconies and in between roof tiles. All of these plants whittling in from the outside, threatening. The Green Giant on steroids. And you are bringing everything short of Napalm to the party. There isn't enough Round Up in the world to fight these weeds. These plants are laughing at your Round Up. They have roots fed on gallons of water. Tons of water. These weeds are going nowhere, Bud.
While the flora conspire for the ground assault, corrosion is working to destroy the support network. We are far enough from the bay and the ocean not to feel the water's refreshing breeze, but to have the disadvantage of the briny dew the salt water leaves behind. The humidity and the fog are eating my barbecue as though it were a smorgasbord. Every last screw driver, can of paint, shovel and clippers that I store outside are rusted to such extent that I got a booster on my tetanus shot. The wrought iron on the porch (I'm pretty sure) is held together by the paint alone. There are only two allies in this battle--Rustoleum and WD40.
And finally, these rains. These torrential monsoons. They bring the worst enemy of all. The enemy that's brought civilizations and nations to their knees. An evil that has halted canals, obliterated colonies. Malaria, sickness, fever, all spread through the world by (DUM Dum dum) MOSQUITOES. That's right. Those evil effers are out in force since the rain. I mean, these mosquitoes were throwing mosquito orgies under azalea bushes. These male mosquitoes didn't even have to TRY to think of cheezy come-ons to get a female mosquito. He just had to buzz vaguely in her direction. The UGLY male mosquitoes were getting laid after the rains. And now in some revolting post-rain baby boom, they're feasting on us. They're sucking our blood just as surely as the boomers will suck our Social Security.
The scabby baby population among us is growing. I see all these kids and their poor legs are just covered in bites, scratch marks and scabs. It's like a horrible war of attrition--we send our kids out to play because it's fun and it's good for them. And we're sending them out as meals for these mosquitoes. Just giant cocktails waiting to be drunk by disgusting bugs. Insects so unconquerable that I think they inject themselves with Raid in small doses until they are immune. Mosquitoes so virile they wear DEET as cologne. Deep Woods Off! is their aphrodisiac.
And so, since these forces of nature have aligned themselves in an Axis of Evil that would scare even ol' Ronnie Reagan himself. These are deep, dark, primeval forces. This powerful nature controlled by vast mythical forces. I can't fight it. Not even with legions of painters, gardeners and handymen. I am France in this war. These are the creepers and crawlers who will occupy my territory, my borders. I surrender.
From July 2 through the long weekend and beyond, it rained here. Big rain. None of this Seattle "it's like living in a fog bank of moist droplets." None of these Midwestern squalls that howl through in late spring. No, no. It rained here. Like you say "rrrrrrrr-aaayned" in the thick, guttural voice of a blues singer. It Sweet Baby Rains. It pours.
If you're out driving in this weather, the droplets hit the windshield like pancakes, both in their size and the satisfying f-wap sound they make when they smack the car, the pavement. Windshield wipers simply cannot keep up. You peer through the window, as though somehow being closer to the glass will make it easier to see. And, since all of this rain is falling on a town with infrastructure that dates back to when Napoleon owned the city, you of course will not see the puddle that is probably knee deep and growing on the side of the road. You will hit it with that sickening slowing of one side of the car and the (hopefully only) momentary feel of the tire leaving the road. So, yeah, driving hasn't been on my to do list in last week's weather.
Moreover, the outdoors are threatening right now simply because of their gargantuan size. Temperatures and humidity have been hovering around 90 (degrees and percent) so, plants are taking over. Like in Indiana Jones movies where the jungle has reclaimed the ancient ruins, so to is my yard, my house, my town being assaulted by the encroaching wilds. Indeed, my neighbor's wisteria has grown from a mere strand of vines to a botanical boa constrictor. The grass, like Homer Simpson's beard, looks instantly after a clipping as though it needs it again. You can watch the weeds grow. Literally.
The gorgeous oaks are filled with ferns that have taken hold in the bark. I love that--plants growing ON plants. And ferns growing in between bricks, on balconies and in between roof tiles. All of these plants whittling in from the outside, threatening. The Green Giant on steroids. And you are bringing everything short of Napalm to the party. There isn't enough Round Up in the world to fight these weeds. These plants are laughing at your Round Up. They have roots fed on gallons of water. Tons of water. These weeds are going nowhere, Bud.
While the flora conspire for the ground assault, corrosion is working to destroy the support network. We are far enough from the bay and the ocean not to feel the water's refreshing breeze, but to have the disadvantage of the briny dew the salt water leaves behind. The humidity and the fog are eating my barbecue as though it were a smorgasbord. Every last screw driver, can of paint, shovel and clippers that I store outside are rusted to such extent that I got a booster on my tetanus shot. The wrought iron on the porch (I'm pretty sure) is held together by the paint alone. There are only two allies in this battle--Rustoleum and WD40.
And finally, these rains. These torrential monsoons. They bring the worst enemy of all. The enemy that's brought civilizations and nations to their knees. An evil that has halted canals, obliterated colonies. Malaria, sickness, fever, all spread through the world by (DUM Dum dum) MOSQUITOES. That's right. Those evil effers are out in force since the rain. I mean, these mosquitoes were throwing mosquito orgies under azalea bushes. These male mosquitoes didn't even have to TRY to think of cheezy come-ons to get a female mosquito. He just had to buzz vaguely in her direction. The UGLY male mosquitoes were getting laid after the rains. And now in some revolting post-rain baby boom, they're feasting on us. They're sucking our blood just as surely as the boomers will suck our Social Security.
The scabby baby population among us is growing. I see all these kids and their poor legs are just covered in bites, scratch marks and scabs. It's like a horrible war of attrition--we send our kids out to play because it's fun and it's good for them. And we're sending them out as meals for these mosquitoes. Just giant cocktails waiting to be drunk by disgusting bugs. Insects so unconquerable that I think they inject themselves with Raid in small doses until they are immune. Mosquitoes so virile they wear DEET as cologne. Deep Woods Off! is their aphrodisiac.
And so, since these forces of nature have aligned themselves in an Axis of Evil that would scare even ol' Ronnie Reagan himself. These are deep, dark, primeval forces. This powerful nature controlled by vast mythical forces. I can't fight it. Not even with legions of painters, gardeners and handymen. I am France in this war. These are the creepers and crawlers who will occupy my territory, my borders. I surrender.
Monday, July 15, 2013
Technically, today isn't over yet
See how easy it is to fall off the blogging wagon? Today, I had to work out and grocery shop (two big blehs on the schedule) so I lost some mojo early.
So, Mobile is in a bit of a renaissance, apparently. Things haven't been the same around this city since 1860 or so. A bit of a downhill, really. It reminds me a lot of Buffalo, NY some times. It's a former shipping hub that clearly boasted wealth and culture that has slowly crumbled and renewed in a mini-cycle since its heyday.
There was an Air Force base, but it closed. There was a cruise terminal, but it closed. There was a big deal with AirBus that Obama nixed. There were almost many moments for this small city. Unfortunately, for me, I wasn't around to experience them.
Recently, though, there's been an uptick.
It started, probably, with the Shit Ship Carnival Triumph. Its inglorious 4 day tow from the Gulf of Mexico back to a port (any port) with toilets brought national media focus to our bayside hamlet. Even Erin Burnett of CNN had to concede that perhaps our town defied stereotypes of hillbilly one post towns in Alabama. She described it as charming with mossy covered oaks arching over the streets. It was possible, at last, for a northerner to leave our humble home with something positive to say.
Then Airbus decided to open a plant here. Woot! Money! Jobs! Families! Infrastructure! Hooray!
It might be coincidental to this AirBus plant, or it may just be synergistic good luck, but things are looking up around here, lately. Some eyesores have been released, refurbished and are being reopened. And we have 2--count the--2 new Publix stores. No longer are we relegated to WalMart and local IGA chains. We've been freed from crappy store brands and bad customer service.
Hallelujah!
Plus, and I don't want to overstate the importance of this, but today something downright magical happened in Mobile.
M came home from the gym with an unmarked white box. A foldable box for pastries. Lo, and behold, he opened it to (choir of angels)
Donuts.
Not crappy Krispy Kreme, but real donuts. Made by real people. Not grocery store donuts, not Sara Lee prewrapped donuts. But real donuts. Cakey donuts with real icing. They're not those sugar-saturated monstrosities from Krispy Kreme. That place is nauseating, cloyingly sweet from blocks away. These are fantastic pink and Devil's Food and filled donuts that don't instantly put you in a diabetic coma.
\
I've been saving mine all day. Now, after dinner after everything is cleaned up, I have a Bavarian Creme filled waiting for me.
Bavarian. Creme, Filled. Things really are looking up for Mobile.
So, Mobile is in a bit of a renaissance, apparently. Things haven't been the same around this city since 1860 or so. A bit of a downhill, really. It reminds me a lot of Buffalo, NY some times. It's a former shipping hub that clearly boasted wealth and culture that has slowly crumbled and renewed in a mini-cycle since its heyday.
There was an Air Force base, but it closed. There was a cruise terminal, but it closed. There was a big deal with AirBus that Obama nixed. There were almost many moments for this small city. Unfortunately, for me, I wasn't around to experience them.
Recently, though, there's been an uptick.
It started, probably, with the Shit Ship Carnival Triumph. Its inglorious 4 day tow from the Gulf of Mexico back to a port (any port) with toilets brought national media focus to our bayside hamlet. Even Erin Burnett of CNN had to concede that perhaps our town defied stereotypes of hillbilly one post towns in Alabama. She described it as charming with mossy covered oaks arching over the streets. It was possible, at last, for a northerner to leave our humble home with something positive to say.
Then Airbus decided to open a plant here. Woot! Money! Jobs! Families! Infrastructure! Hooray!
It might be coincidental to this AirBus plant, or it may just be synergistic good luck, but things are looking up around here, lately. Some eyesores have been released, refurbished and are being reopened. And we have 2--count the--2 new Publix stores. No longer are we relegated to WalMart and local IGA chains. We've been freed from crappy store brands and bad customer service.
Hallelujah!
Plus, and I don't want to overstate the importance of this, but today something downright magical happened in Mobile.
M came home from the gym with an unmarked white box. A foldable box for pastries. Lo, and behold, he opened it to (choir of angels)
Donuts.
Not crappy Krispy Kreme, but real donuts. Made by real people. Not grocery store donuts, not Sara Lee prewrapped donuts. But real donuts. Cakey donuts with real icing. They're not those sugar-saturated monstrosities from Krispy Kreme. That place is nauseating, cloyingly sweet from blocks away. These are fantastic pink and Devil's Food and filled donuts that don't instantly put you in a diabetic coma.
\
I've been saving mine all day. Now, after dinner after everything is cleaned up, I have a Bavarian Creme filled waiting for me.
Bavarian. Creme, Filled. Things really are looking up for Mobile.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Day 3: Space Invaders
My sister and her husband visited us for 3 weeks until the end of June this summer. My parents arrived the same day my sister and J left. We had fun. A lot of fun. And E and J spent a lot of their time in hotels, which was really generous of them. Mercifully, they have personal space issues that make me seem cuddly. We were able to have fun without feeling trampled upon.
My parents stayed at our house to watch the boys, but M and I left for our trip the day after that. Their presence didn't really affect our space. We did come home to all-family, all the time with the boys, though.
I've been craving solitary time.
I don't want to get hate mail from my hubby, so I'm going to include this disclaimer:
While it is true that M has taken the kids on numerous walks, breakfast outings, coffee breaks, and games in the pool, it's not quite the same as being alone. I miss being in control of a set amount of time in which I could do anything. Nothing.
I am not complaining about M's sincere effort. He really is helpful. It's just not the same.
I'm BIG BIG BIG on personal space, and summer really challenges those boundaries.
When the boys were babies, new babies, even, I boycotted the omnipresent baby monitor. I couldn't stand it. In fact, I closed the nursery door AND my bedroom door, figuring that if the kid really needed me, he'd let me know. They both had healthy vocal cords, and I don't think I ever missed a cry for a clean diaper or a bottle. (I might have ignored a couple until M responded, though).
I had those developing fetuses inside my body for nine months. I was in no rush to glom back on to them, extra-uterinely. The umbilical tether had been severed. In my mind, they were on their own. Every man, mom and baby for her/himself.
From the moment I could set them down, I could. Of course, Sam was a touchy baby and wanted to be HELD all the time. I endured extra screaming just so I could earn some moments away to put him down and let his head flatten in the back.
Now, that they're older, everyone in our house has his own room (theoretically). Obviously, this is a luxury, but also a big priority. I try not to go into the kids' rooms--not even for laundry--as they are the boys' private spaces. They are entitled to a place not subject (or as subject) to my definition of clean, to my idea of organized, to my prying eyes.
Our bedroom doesn't seem to merit the same respect. Night after night, I find contraband in MY bed--Legos, post-lights-out books, drawing pads, crossword puzzles. Sometimes, the kid himself has fallen asleep on my side of the bed. There's toothpaste spit in my sink and I KNOW that is not mine. Why does a closed door not mean KEEP OUT? How do I punish continual assaults on my domain?
This summer, our bedroom is even more under attack. In something out of an Arrested Development episode, the kids have been sleeping camp-style on the floor of our room. Camp Iwannalovememommy, said Buster's campshirt, I think.
This, in my mind, takes on an horror-film-esque quality where the stumps of the boys' umbilical cords start to grow outwards towards me.
When the boys started school, I remember a PTA note about a cry room. I thought it was for baby siblings to sit in while school-aged kids were walked into class. Someone actually had to explain to me that it was a room for moms to go commiserate about the trauma of leaving their children at school. What the WHAT?
Now, back at camp I wannalovememommy, I'm hopeful that the novelty/necessity of sleeping on the hardwood floor of my room wear off soon. I'm totally over tripping on feet on the way to my middle of the night bathroom/water stop. I'm over being awoken by S's sleeptalking and E's hellacious toothgrinding (we really need to see a dentist about that.) I'm annoyed that what's mine is now everyone's. I go to bed cranky, and I wake up cranky. I never get that liberating night-time door close that separated me from the rest of the world. I miss that satisfying click that shuts out the mess of my house, the laundry, the parental responsibilities, and shuts in the adult world of me, M and Clooney.
Last night, I was the first person asleep in this house. At 11 PM. That is unacceptable. I've clearly become the camp counselor at Camp Iwannalovememommy who has lost control of the campers. They'll take over the camp in some sort of Whedon-esque remake of 1970s camp horror flick. I'll be tied to a pole to be eaten by fire ants.
I'm making a decree now: At the end of summer, everyone's going BACK to their own rooms. Even if they have to go there to cry.
My parents stayed at our house to watch the boys, but M and I left for our trip the day after that. Their presence didn't really affect our space. We did come home to all-family, all the time with the boys, though.
I've been craving solitary time.
I don't want to get hate mail from my hubby, so I'm going to include this disclaimer:
While it is true that M has taken the kids on numerous walks, breakfast outings, coffee breaks, and games in the pool, it's not quite the same as being alone. I miss being in control of a set amount of time in which I could do anything. Nothing.
I am not complaining about M's sincere effort. He really is helpful. It's just not the same.
I'm BIG BIG BIG on personal space, and summer really challenges those boundaries.
When the boys were babies, new babies, even, I boycotted the omnipresent baby monitor. I couldn't stand it. In fact, I closed the nursery door AND my bedroom door, figuring that if the kid really needed me, he'd let me know. They both had healthy vocal cords, and I don't think I ever missed a cry for a clean diaper or a bottle. (I might have ignored a couple until M responded, though).
I had those developing fetuses inside my body for nine months. I was in no rush to glom back on to them, extra-uterinely. The umbilical tether had been severed. In my mind, they were on their own. Every man, mom and baby for her/himself.
From the moment I could set them down, I could. Of course, Sam was a touchy baby and wanted to be HELD all the time. I endured extra screaming just so I could earn some moments away to put him down and let his head flatten in the back.
Now, that they're older, everyone in our house has his own room (theoretically). Obviously, this is a luxury, but also a big priority. I try not to go into the kids' rooms--not even for laundry--as they are the boys' private spaces. They are entitled to a place not subject (or as subject) to my definition of clean, to my idea of organized, to my prying eyes.
Our bedroom doesn't seem to merit the same respect. Night after night, I find contraband in MY bed--Legos, post-lights-out books, drawing pads, crossword puzzles. Sometimes, the kid himself has fallen asleep on my side of the bed. There's toothpaste spit in my sink and I KNOW that is not mine. Why does a closed door not mean KEEP OUT? How do I punish continual assaults on my domain?
This summer, our bedroom is even more under attack. In something out of an Arrested Development episode, the kids have been sleeping camp-style on the floor of our room. Camp Iwannalovememommy, said Buster's campshirt, I think.
This, in my mind, takes on an horror-film-esque quality where the stumps of the boys' umbilical cords start to grow outwards towards me.
When the boys started school, I remember a PTA note about a cry room. I thought it was for baby siblings to sit in while school-aged kids were walked into class. Someone actually had to explain to me that it was a room for moms to go commiserate about the trauma of leaving their children at school. What the WHAT?
Now, back at camp I wannalovememommy, I'm hopeful that the novelty/necessity of sleeping on the hardwood floor of my room wear off soon. I'm totally over tripping on feet on the way to my middle of the night bathroom/water stop. I'm over being awoken by S's sleeptalking and E's hellacious toothgrinding (we really need to see a dentist about that.) I'm annoyed that what's mine is now everyone's. I go to bed cranky, and I wake up cranky. I never get that liberating night-time door close that separated me from the rest of the world. I miss that satisfying click that shuts out the mess of my house, the laundry, the parental responsibilities, and shuts in the adult world of me, M and Clooney.
Last night, I was the first person asleep in this house. At 11 PM. That is unacceptable. I've clearly become the camp counselor at Camp Iwannalovememommy who has lost control of the campers. They'll take over the camp in some sort of Whedon-esque remake of 1970s camp horror flick. I'll be tied to a pole to be eaten by fire ants.
I'm making a decree now: At the end of summer, everyone's going BACK to their own rooms. Even if they have to go there to cry.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Day 2
Tourists are funny. No matter where you are, no matter if YOU ARE the tourist, you can always recognize another. In fact, let me give you some mental images and caricatures. You can see if your instant picture matches mine, and also Google Image Search's.
Germans in National Parks
Is this what you see in your mind's eye?
How about
Asian Tourists?
Chinese Tourists in Japan
American Tourists?
Not my profile picture
Canadian Tourists?
My visual image
The Rest of the World's Visual Image
Canadians' Mental Image
So, of course it makes me laugh when I am a tourist...on a cruise ship surrounded by what are purported to be the world's WORST tourists.
It seems like there are 4 categories of tourist. We are all some combination of all four of these, with some obvious qualities of some more than others.
The Chillaxer
I am, I think, in order: Chillaxer, Planner, Consumer, Cultural Maven,
M is, I think, in order: Planner, Cultural Maven, Consumer, Chillaxer
Yes, you read that correctly. M would actual prefer to shop than to sit on a beach.
It's been years since we've taken a trip by ourselves. Y-E-A-R-S. When traveling with the boys, our differing tourist categories complement each other nicely. I try to smooth out the *personality* issues in Chillaxer mode, while he makes sure we don't have an extra 6 hours of watching the kids jump on the bed in a hotel room in Planner mode. It makes for really good family vacations.
I noticed the discrepancies in our styles much more when it was just the two of us. In new cities and countries. With limited time in each port.
First off, I must be completely forthright here. I have missed flights, packed for flights days early, arrived at hotels on non-reserved days. I am ABSOLUTELY unreliable when it comes to itineraries of any sort. Truly. Ask anyone. Read back entries of this blog. Truly awful.
M is the opposite. He knows down to the minute how long our layovers are. How long the plane flight is--after factoring in seventeen time zone changes. How many flights will be departing after our flight when/if we miss it.
That's a great overlap, if you ask me. I can sit at the gate, lost in a book while he frets about how many minutes we can make up in the jet stream to make the connection in Atlanta. We actually get to places AND I don't have to stress. It's like being a kid. I just ask what time we'll get wherever we're going 143 times.
On the other hand, M dragged me by a store in Stockholm that seemed to be selling only 3 items. Not 3 actual items, but three types of items. I was intrigued. A little repelled. Curious. Unfortunately, that store was not on the map. 72 cathedrals were on the map, however. Not that I wanted to buy anything in the store--just to look.
By the way, the three items are: gnomes, trolls and reindeer pelts. So, they sell both Santa's helpers and Santa's pets' skin? WTF?
So, in this mode comparison, it's win/lose for me. I get to see WAAAAAAAAAAAAY more of a city than I ever would if left to my own devices. I lose because I'm always catching up, saying 'hold on' and staring at 700 year old altars ("it's 13th century!") I learn more/relax less. Think more/veg out less. Explore more, taste less.
Ultimately, I guess the biggest difference between us wasn't our style, though. It turns out to be more of a durability issue. M seems to be part camel/pack mule. He eats breakfast, loads up the backpack and starts walking. FOR MILES. With his nose in a map, an eye on the Fodor's, and his brain engaged.
I need water. Lots of it. Especially if it is at all hot. I could stop in every other cafe on the block to sip an overpriced lukewarm Coca Lite and give a constant commentary on all the pedestrians going by. I could sit on a sidewalk in awe of Europeans' gorgeous footwear. (How do they walk on cobblestone in those heels?) I could be satisfied with spending only an hour, 8 minutes in the world's largest (non-airconditioned) mvsevm.
Ultimately, thankfully, it didn't take long for us to compromise on this issue. Just one episode, actually:
First day, Copenhagen, sight-seeing after 17 hours of flight time
Me--I'm really thirsty. Can we stop for a drink?
M--Next convenience store we see, we'll get some water.
Me--(casting a longing glance in the direction of some umbrella-shaded cafe tables). Dry gulp. Ok.
Me--(2 miles later) (Hoarse) There! Lotto & Cigarettes! Surely there will be water there!
M goes in to shop. I unfold the aforementioned seat cane and rest my tootsies. No sooner am I seated, M comes out, emptyhanded.
Me--WTF?
M--I haven't gone to an ATM since we're only going to be here for a day, so I have no Kroner. Denmark doesn't want Euros. His credit card machine can't process our card. So, he doesn't really want my money, right? I don't need his water THAT badly.
Me--(Dry lip-smacking)
M--(Begins walking) We'll stop at the next store...
Me--(starting exaggerated limp, favoring cane heavily, sweating profusely, looking desperate --not hard since I haven't washed my face in over a day--soliciting pitiful looks from passers-by. Once the passers-by catch up to M, they give him scornful looks for leaving his disabled wife in the dust. He realizes this by the third person.) Oh, honey, I say in overly-loud tones. Thank you for waiting for just a moment. It's just that I could so use just a little bit of water. Aqua? Eau? Vasser?( I am hoping passers-by recognize a word and take pity.) Public shaming.
M--walks into convenience store. Buys 2 GIANT bottles of ice-cold water. Puts one in his burro-pack, gives me the other.
Me--(I smile broadly, triumphant. But only for a second.)
M--"There's a MVSEVUM of the Danish Parliament on the next block!"
Germans in National Parks
Is this what you see in your mind's eye?
How about
Asian Tourists?
Chinese Tourists in Japan
American Tourists?
Not my profile picture
Canadian Tourists?
My visual image
The Rest of the World's Visual Image
Canadians' Mental Image
So, of course it makes me laugh when I am a tourist...on a cruise ship surrounded by what are purported to be the world's WORST tourists.
It seems like there are 4 categories of tourist. We are all some combination of all four of these, with some obvious qualities of some more than others.
The Chillaxer
- Found on beaches, rivers, lakes, houseboats
- Favors warmer climates
- Has minimal vacation goals
- Uses phrases like "get away," "veg out," "escape from it all"
- Do you know what ride's line is the longest at Disneyland? If yes, you're a planner
- Found in ADHD clinics, taking OCD meds
- Found in any climate, any setting, any culture
- Uses phrases like "hurry up," "itinerary," and "have to"
- Often coincides with insistence on shopping
- Feels the compulsion to enter any building with "MVSEVM" on it.
- Eschews shops with patriotic shot glasses for art galleries
- Would be proud to be mistaken for a "foreigner" at home or abroad
- Uses phrases like "13th Century," "fascinating," and "it's very European"
- Has a map with brand logos indicating shops instead of points of interest
- Knows the word "SALE" in 15 different languages
- Carries empty luggage to anticipate purchases
- Uses phrases like "just to look," "I want a gift for [Random Family Member]" "that's a really good price"
I am, I think, in order: Chillaxer, Planner, Consumer, Cultural Maven,
M is, I think, in order: Planner, Cultural Maven, Consumer, Chillaxer
Yes, you read that correctly. M would actual prefer to shop than to sit on a beach.
It's been years since we've taken a trip by ourselves. Y-E-A-R-S. When traveling with the boys, our differing tourist categories complement each other nicely. I try to smooth out the *personality* issues in Chillaxer mode, while he makes sure we don't have an extra 6 hours of watching the kids jump on the bed in a hotel room in Planner mode. It makes for really good family vacations.
I noticed the discrepancies in our styles much more when it was just the two of us. In new cities and countries. With limited time in each port.
First off, I must be completely forthright here. I have missed flights, packed for flights days early, arrived at hotels on non-reserved days. I am ABSOLUTELY unreliable when it comes to itineraries of any sort. Truly. Ask anyone. Read back entries of this blog. Truly awful.
M is the opposite. He knows down to the minute how long our layovers are. How long the plane flight is--after factoring in seventeen time zone changes. How many flights will be departing after our flight when/if we miss it.
That's a great overlap, if you ask me. I can sit at the gate, lost in a book while he frets about how many minutes we can make up in the jet stream to make the connection in Atlanta. We actually get to places AND I don't have to stress. It's like being a kid. I just ask what time we'll get wherever we're going 143 times.
On the other hand, M dragged me by a store in Stockholm that seemed to be selling only 3 items. Not 3 actual items, but three types of items. I was intrigued. A little repelled. Curious. Unfortunately, that store was not on the map. 72 cathedrals were on the map, however. Not that I wanted to buy anything in the store--just to look.
By the way, the three items are: gnomes, trolls and reindeer pelts. So, they sell both Santa's helpers and Santa's pets' skin? WTF?
I did take a picture of it, though. That's a lot of gnomes.
I also get a lot of pictures like this:
The back of M's head in Copenhagen.
He walks a lot faster than I do. Especially since I carry one of these now:
It's true. I belong on a cruise. I just can't slowly browse museums anymore. Standing still or walking slowly really hurts. Now, I can sit! (Emphasis from the ad)So, in this mode comparison, it's win/lose for me. I get to see WAAAAAAAAAAAAY more of a city than I ever would if left to my own devices. I lose because I'm always catching up, saying 'hold on' and staring at 700 year old altars ("it's 13th century!") I learn more/relax less. Think more/veg out less. Explore more, taste less.
Ultimately, I guess the biggest difference between us wasn't our style, though. It turns out to be more of a durability issue. M seems to be part camel/pack mule. He eats breakfast, loads up the backpack and starts walking. FOR MILES. With his nose in a map, an eye on the Fodor's, and his brain engaged.
I need water. Lots of it. Especially if it is at all hot. I could stop in every other cafe on the block to sip an overpriced lukewarm Coca Lite and give a constant commentary on all the pedestrians going by. I could sit on a sidewalk in awe of Europeans' gorgeous footwear. (How do they walk on cobblestone in those heels?) I could be satisfied with spending only an hour, 8 minutes in the world's largest (non-airconditioned) mvsevm.
Ultimately, thankfully, it didn't take long for us to compromise on this issue. Just one episode, actually:
First day, Copenhagen, sight-seeing after 17 hours of flight time
Me--I'm really thirsty. Can we stop for a drink?
M--Next convenience store we see, we'll get some water.
Me--(casting a longing glance in the direction of some umbrella-shaded cafe tables). Dry gulp. Ok.
Me--(2 miles later) (Hoarse) There! Lotto & Cigarettes! Surely there will be water there!
M goes in to shop. I unfold the aforementioned seat cane and rest my tootsies. No sooner am I seated, M comes out, emptyhanded.
Me--WTF?
M--I haven't gone to an ATM since we're only going to be here for a day, so I have no Kroner. Denmark doesn't want Euros. His credit card machine can't process our card. So, he doesn't really want my money, right? I don't need his water THAT badly.
Me--(Dry lip-smacking)
M--(Begins walking) We'll stop at the next store...
Me--(starting exaggerated limp, favoring cane heavily, sweating profusely, looking desperate --not hard since I haven't washed my face in over a day--soliciting pitiful looks from passers-by. Once the passers-by catch up to M, they give him scornful looks for leaving his disabled wife in the dust. He realizes this by the third person.) Oh, honey, I say in overly-loud tones. Thank you for waiting for just a moment. It's just that I could so use just a little bit of water. Aqua? Eau? Vasser?( I am hoping passers-by recognize a word and take pity.) Public shaming.
M--walks into convenience store. Buys 2 GIANT bottles of ice-cold water. Puts one in his burro-pack, gives me the other.
Me--(I smile broadly, triumphant. But only for a second.)
M--"There's a MVSEVUM of the Danish Parliament on the next block!"
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Day 1
There's a saying about writers staring down at a blank page. In fact, I've been told that some famous writers stopped for the day in the middle of a thought, a scene or a paragraph. The next day wouldn't be so daunting; they could pick up where they left off.
Not so for me. I have 30 days of blank pages staring at me. It's been a while.
M and I were on a cruise for 10 days in the Baltic Sea. Alone on vacation for the first time since 2007. We were liberated from the Camp HAL routine of picking up kids at arbitrary times of day. We were freed from generic Caribbean ports of call. We were freed from early seating and painfully early bedtimes. We were freed from all the restrictions and inconveniences of traveling with kids.
So, here's what we did: We woke up when breakfast was delivered to our door. We ate our breakfast, trekked out to immaculate, old Scandinavian cities. We came home. We showered and dressed. We ate dinner. We went to bed.
As it turns out, we failed to consider a few things:
1. The sun comes up at 4:30 when you are at the Arctic Circle.
2. We get tired walking miles and miles around old, immaculate Scandinavian cities
3. There's really not that much to do on a ship unless you like to shop.
4. Our ship pulled into ports at unholy early hours, so we had to wake up before 7 anyway.
In essence, our routine was the same as it was with the kids. The primary difference was we had about half as much crap in our postage sized cabin. Is this what we were expecting? Weren't we supposed to be living it up? Where was the liberation? The kicking up of heels? The romantic deck strolls? The dancing in the wee hours? Wasn't all this in the brochure?
Thank goodness for Happy Hour. (You knew this was going somewhere, didn't you?)
Happy Hour is great-- BOGO (buy one, get one) drinks. If I order something M doesn't really like, I get them both. Heh heh.
So, there we are at Happy Hour. In the Crow's Nest Bar, where just months earlier with the kids we had been ordering 2 for 1 Shirley Temples.
This couple, young, (especially by cruise standards) {about our age. I still can categorize ourselves as young on a cruise} maniacally signals us to sit with them. Apparently, Happy Hour coincides with Trivia. They need a third and, marginally, a fourth. (It's Happy Hour, and that doesn't lend itself to my finest thinking. I'm primarily for moral support)
M and I were reluctant to join. We've had some trivia debacles in the past. We also have a couple of trophies from the fine Shit Ship Carnival Triumph. (Unsurprisingly, the trivia competition on Carnival ships is not that steep because it's always Happy Hour on Carnival. There was even booze served to those poor people wading hip deep in their own waste.) Trivia gets ugly on cruise ships. There's always a Cheater. A Know it All. A Wanna Be. An Arguer. A person who NEVER EVER hears the questions. A Grader Who Wants to Split Hairs Between Answers like "Mandarin" and "Chinese." It's all so predictable. And the stakes are so low. (Although I now have accumulated a set of matching luggage tags.)
But, here we are. Child-free. An hour to go before late seating for dinner. Double fisting gin and tonics. (M isn't a fan) Are these one of the Cruise Trivia Types? Are they normal? Will the fight us for the luggage tag? What if they're INSANE and throw us overboard if we lose?
We sit down to introductions. For my purposes here, everything is very confusing because we all had the same initials. So, we'll go with TM and TD (Traveling mom and dad).
TM and TD are instantly, noticeably interesting. And good at trivia. And competitive. The last thing worries me a bit, since I know I'm not bringing much to the trivia table and this could mean we're with the Arguer or the Grader Who Splits Hairs. We small talk between questions. (This infuriates Person Who Never Hears The Questions.) Which is funny. TM has a great laugh. It's a little hoarse, but considering how petite she is, it's big and infectious.) TD has his trivia-game face on. A harder nut for me to crack.
Then, it happens. TM reveals something so powerful that I am stunned into silence. Something so momentous that I realize my world is so small and controlled and narrow. Something that shames my parenting, and shakes the very foundation of the love I think (?!?) I have for my boys.
THIS IS WHAT SHE SAYS:
She and TD packed up their house in LA, sold their cars, put ALL their stuff in storage or in the trash, they un-enrolled their kids for school last year, and began an around the world trip.
So, let me summarize for you what TM said: Their family of 4 has been traveling the world in only 4 small suitcases TOTAL. They have been on 52 commercial airline flights. They have been on 6 continents. They have all been Together (yes. With a capital T) in various apartments and rentals non stop for nearly 12 months.
Let me tell you what I heard: TD had only 3 pairs of pants total for an entire year. TSon had lost 4 teeth on this trip. TDaughter had applied to high school via a Skype interview in Switzerland. There are no chicken nuggets in India. The potties in South America are BYOTP. Anti-malarials give you nightmares. They each had only one suitcase. They had been together in various apartments and rentals non stop for nearly 12 months.
Now, my reaction: I would kill myself.
Not entirely true, but maybe. I'd love to see the world on a grand family adventure. I'm not so sure I'd be up for swimming in the Ganges, but the world is out there, to be explored. I don't think I could share cars and 15"airplane seats and tents and dinner tables and bedrooms with my family every day for an entire year without a break. How is this possible? How can a family be that close? How bad of a parent AM I?
Fortunately, TM was forthcoming about her trip. She didn't tell me that every day was rainbows and unicorns. Her children fought and sometimes cried. She was sometimes overwhelmed. But, overall, her stories were positive. She told me some of the nitty gritty (see BYOTP info on South America). She told me that they were restless in LA. They needed to DO something. So, they did it ALL.
At some point during trivia, Travelingson arrived. He told us about their trip, too. From the point of view of a kid who used to only eat spaghetti and hot dogs.
I was hooked. Their stories were compelling. Their experience singular. For the next 10 days, whenever we could (except Berlin. Damn the late train from Berlin!) we met with the TravelingFamily for trivia. We adopted Travelingson, in a way. We got to know them, their adventure, their stories. And our Alone Vacation became a sort of Family Vacation. Which was both unexpected and lovely.
Which brings me back to my blank page. TM and TD are writers. They get paid to write. They looked down at a blank page and decided to leave everything behind and find the world. The blank page dared them to fill it and they rose to the challenge.
My blank page dared me to fill it and I retold their story. It's not daring. But it's a start. And it doesn't require me to bring my own TP.
Not so for me. I have 30 days of blank pages staring at me. It's been a while.
M and I were on a cruise for 10 days in the Baltic Sea. Alone on vacation for the first time since 2007. We were liberated from the Camp HAL routine of picking up kids at arbitrary times of day. We were freed from generic Caribbean ports of call. We were freed from early seating and painfully early bedtimes. We were freed from all the restrictions and inconveniences of traveling with kids.
So, here's what we did: We woke up when breakfast was delivered to our door. We ate our breakfast, trekked out to immaculate, old Scandinavian cities. We came home. We showered and dressed. We ate dinner. We went to bed.
As it turns out, we failed to consider a few things:
1. The sun comes up at 4:30 when you are at the Arctic Circle.
2. We get tired walking miles and miles around old, immaculate Scandinavian cities
3. There's really not that much to do on a ship unless you like to shop.
4. Our ship pulled into ports at unholy early hours, so we had to wake up before 7 anyway.
In essence, our routine was the same as it was with the kids. The primary difference was we had about half as much crap in our postage sized cabin. Is this what we were expecting? Weren't we supposed to be living it up? Where was the liberation? The kicking up of heels? The romantic deck strolls? The dancing in the wee hours? Wasn't all this in the brochure?
Thank goodness for Happy Hour. (You knew this was going somewhere, didn't you?)
Happy Hour is great-- BOGO (buy one, get one) drinks. If I order something M doesn't really like, I get them both. Heh heh.
So, there we are at Happy Hour. In the Crow's Nest Bar, where just months earlier with the kids we had been ordering 2 for 1 Shirley Temples.
This couple, young, (especially by cruise standards) {about our age. I still can categorize ourselves as young on a cruise} maniacally signals us to sit with them. Apparently, Happy Hour coincides with Trivia. They need a third and, marginally, a fourth. (It's Happy Hour, and that doesn't lend itself to my finest thinking. I'm primarily for moral support)
M and I were reluctant to join. We've had some trivia debacles in the past. We also have a couple of trophies from the fine Shit Ship Carnival Triumph. (Unsurprisingly, the trivia competition on Carnival ships is not that steep because it's always Happy Hour on Carnival. There was even booze served to those poor people wading hip deep in their own waste.) Trivia gets ugly on cruise ships. There's always a Cheater. A Know it All. A Wanna Be. An Arguer. A person who NEVER EVER hears the questions. A Grader Who Wants to Split Hairs Between Answers like "Mandarin" and "Chinese." It's all so predictable. And the stakes are so low. (Although I now have accumulated a set of matching luggage tags.)
But, here we are. Child-free. An hour to go before late seating for dinner. Double fisting gin and tonics. (M isn't a fan) Are these one of the Cruise Trivia Types? Are they normal? Will the fight us for the luggage tag? What if they're INSANE and throw us overboard if we lose?
We sit down to introductions. For my purposes here, everything is very confusing because we all had the same initials. So, we'll go with TM and TD (Traveling mom and dad).
TM and TD are instantly, noticeably interesting. And good at trivia. And competitive. The last thing worries me a bit, since I know I'm not bringing much to the trivia table and this could mean we're with the Arguer or the Grader Who Splits Hairs. We small talk between questions. (This infuriates Person Who Never Hears The Questions.) Which is funny. TM has a great laugh. It's a little hoarse, but considering how petite she is, it's big and infectious.) TD has his trivia-game face on. A harder nut for me to crack.
Then, it happens. TM reveals something so powerful that I am stunned into silence. Something so momentous that I realize my world is so small and controlled and narrow. Something that shames my parenting, and shakes the very foundation of the love I think (?!?) I have for my boys.
THIS IS WHAT SHE SAYS:
She and TD packed up their house in LA, sold their cars, put ALL their stuff in storage or in the trash, they un-enrolled their kids for school last year, and began an around the world trip.
So, let me summarize for you what TM said: Their family of 4 has been traveling the world in only 4 small suitcases TOTAL. They have been on 52 commercial airline flights. They have been on 6 continents. They have all been Together (yes. With a capital T) in various apartments and rentals non stop for nearly 12 months.
Let me tell you what I heard: TD had only 3 pairs of pants total for an entire year. TSon had lost 4 teeth on this trip. TDaughter had applied to high school via a Skype interview in Switzerland. There are no chicken nuggets in India. The potties in South America are BYOTP. Anti-malarials give you nightmares. They each had only one suitcase. They had been together in various apartments and rentals non stop for nearly 12 months.
Now, my reaction: I would kill myself.
Not entirely true, but maybe. I'd love to see the world on a grand family adventure. I'm not so sure I'd be up for swimming in the Ganges, but the world is out there, to be explored. I don't think I could share cars and 15"airplane seats and tents and dinner tables and bedrooms with my family every day for an entire year without a break. How is this possible? How can a family be that close? How bad of a parent AM I?
Fortunately, TM was forthcoming about her trip. She didn't tell me that every day was rainbows and unicorns. Her children fought and sometimes cried. She was sometimes overwhelmed. But, overall, her stories were positive. She told me some of the nitty gritty (see BYOTP info on South America). She told me that they were restless in LA. They needed to DO something. So, they did it ALL.
At some point during trivia, Travelingson arrived. He told us about their trip, too. From the point of view of a kid who used to only eat spaghetti and hot dogs.
I was hooked. Their stories were compelling. Their experience singular. For the next 10 days, whenever we could (except Berlin. Damn the late train from Berlin!) we met with the TravelingFamily for trivia. We adopted Travelingson, in a way. We got to know them, their adventure, their stories. And our Alone Vacation became a sort of Family Vacation. Which was both unexpected and lovely.
Which brings me back to my blank page. TM and TD are writers. They get paid to write. They looked down at a blank page and decided to leave everything behind and find the world. The blank page dared them to fill it and they rose to the challenge.
My blank page dared me to fill it and I retold their story. It's not daring. But it's a start. And it doesn't require me to bring my own TP.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
One Day at a Time
I can only do one thing at a time. Lately, that one thing has not been blogging. I guess marginally, it's been exercising and focusing on my weight (is the scale broken, can it only go upwards? That needs to be investigated further.)
I know writers, I've been married to one for quite some time, and I find myself thinking "just sit down and write," and yet. I find Blitz games on Facebook for hours at a time rather than write for just a few moments.
Mostly, I've lost my sense of humor about my kids. About parenting. It's been less fun lately. It's been more worry lately. It's less fun and sassy Emma Stone, and more desperate and inexplicable like Lindsay Lohan. It's all expecting catastrophe and not being surprised when it arrives. It was fighting about homework and just trying to make it to the weekend. It was all boys punching and arguing and being mean and me and M caught in the middle trying to make peace. It was fighting and name calling and don't let those 2 be in the same room together lest something gets broken.
So summer brings new challenges.
From the last day of school until the middle of June, my sister and her husband were here. That's a story unto itself. Literally, the day we said goodbye to them, my parents arrived. Then, M and I took our vacation. Our long awaited vacation. Our first vacation since 2007 without the kids. We were gone. On another continent. My parents were in charge. And there (apparently) was no fighting, no punching, no don't leave them in the same room lest something get broken. It was apparently easy peasy lemon squeezy. Who were those kids? How did my parents find Emma Stone where we left Lindsay Lohan, all disheveled and hungover looking?
Now, we're back to just the four of us. Two parents restored by vacation, two kids spoiled by grandparents. It's supposed to be all fresh and new and sassy and post-rehab Lindsay. But I don't feel changed. I don't feel invigorated. Blech.
Each morning, I wake up and think "today I will do better. I will be a better parent." After that first cup of coffee, after watching the kids fight argue first thing in the morning about what to eat for breakfast, I want to give up. I'm giving up. Today is the day I quit parenting.
Maybe that will help me write. If I can only do one thing at a time, maybe I should do that.
I know writers, I've been married to one for quite some time, and I find myself thinking "just sit down and write," and yet. I find Blitz games on Facebook for hours at a time rather than write for just a few moments.
Mostly, I've lost my sense of humor about my kids. About parenting. It's been less fun lately. It's been more worry lately. It's less fun and sassy Emma Stone, and more desperate and inexplicable like Lindsay Lohan. It's all expecting catastrophe and not being surprised when it arrives. It was fighting about homework and just trying to make it to the weekend. It was all boys punching and arguing and being mean and me and M caught in the middle trying to make peace. It was fighting and name calling and don't let those 2 be in the same room together lest something gets broken.
So summer brings new challenges.
From the last day of school until the middle of June, my sister and her husband were here. That's a story unto itself. Literally, the day we said goodbye to them, my parents arrived. Then, M and I took our vacation. Our long awaited vacation. Our first vacation since 2007 without the kids. We were gone. On another continent. My parents were in charge. And there (apparently) was no fighting, no punching, no don't leave them in the same room lest something get broken. It was apparently easy peasy lemon squeezy. Who were those kids? How did my parents find Emma Stone where we left Lindsay Lohan, all disheveled and hungover looking?
Now, we're back to just the four of us. Two parents restored by vacation, two kids spoiled by grandparents. It's supposed to be all fresh and new and sassy and post-rehab Lindsay. But I don't feel changed. I don't feel invigorated. Blech.
Each morning, I wake up and think "today I will do better. I will be a better parent." After that first cup of coffee, after watching the kids fight argue first thing in the morning about what to eat for breakfast, I want to give up. I'm giving up. Today is the day I quit parenting.
Maybe that will help me write. If I can only do one thing at a time, maybe I should do that.
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