So here's the thing (my brother-in-law LOVES it when I say that)--the east coast got a little sampling of what it's like to live in the rest of the country this week. And I say this with bitterness, of course, because what am I except bitter?
EVERYBODY LOVES NEW YORK. I got the memo. But the thing is, New Yorkers are kinda obnoxious. I know, I'm speaking from Alabama, the epicenter of moonshine swillin', incest-havin', NASCAR drivin' rednecks. I didn't forget. And New Yorkers do a LOT of stuff well, don't get me wrong: fashion, culture, and weight management leap to mind. BUT they're kind of media whores.
They also like to spend money on things like third basemen, itty-bitty condos, shoes, houses in the Hamptons. But, mostly, they like to be the center of the universe. Galileo would have had his work cut out with New Yorkers. What is this you say, Galileo? 'Tis not a Pomum Magnus-centric solar system, nay universe? Heretic! Death by New Jersey!
So, when the big quake hit this week, everyone on the eastern seaboard ducked and covered like good little 4th graders in a school drill. Except New Yorkers, who were like, meh. That wasn't an earthquake. I barely felt it. Too cool for school. BUT then, the Leno-ite, west coasters were like, oh MY GOD. The media is like totally freakin' out over like the smallest earthquake EVAH. Then, the New York Times ran a blog about how mean spirited the west coasters were. How they diminished the New Yorkers' tragedy of a the earthquake of the millenium. (What?!? It IS the first earthquake of the milennium. Or, rather, the ONLY.) Which left the valley girls sputtering, bbbbut? Like, nobody was hurt, and like your Louis Vuitton is like still ok. And Bloomingdales' only lost like a couple of things off the shelves, and like....WAIT A SECOND! What the hell did we do wrong?
True that, valley girls. Everything in New York is IMPORTANT. It AFFECTS things. Never you mind about Northridge, or Oakland, or that quaint little trading outpost you had up north that burned to the ground 100 years ago. That San? Something? I think it's famous for bread and poor people jeans, and NOT EVERYTHING ELSE, like New York.
THEN, as if God was heaping disaster upon catastrophe, and punishing the Jews and Homosexuals, he sent a tropical storm up the coast. New Yorkers, taken aback, were aghast that a natural disaster normally reserved for the mouth breathers of the Gulf South and the hilbillies of the South East was headed their way. How could THIS happen?
Everyone from the Weather Channel bimbos to the President of the United States was sounding the alarm about HISTORIC HURRICANE IRENE. Evacuate Manhattan! Close the subways! Save the Guggenheim! Tell your nannies to hide the children! Preserve Wall Street! Use the New Jersey trash islands to fortify the city! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!
They (and by they, I mean the liberal media) want us to know that the center of the world is in danger, because that's the only way they can get the entire western civilization to pay attention to New York all at once (unless they could arrange a Mets-Yankees World Series, and I suspect Fox Sports is working on this as we speak), and New Yorkers love that. They bask in it like the warm sun glancing off a yellow cab. But, of course, New Yorkers are blase and un-ruffle-able, so they have martini parties and catered hurricane shindigs, just to prove that they are too resilient to fear THE STORM OF THE CENTURY.
Now, the next time a Katrina barrels up the Mississippi River and an entire city is nearly wiped off the map, we'll have to hear all the people up in the Big Apple say, "hurricane? Pshaw. We've been through that. It's no big deal. We had a HISTORIC hurricane here in '11 and I weathered it with lobstah and Grey Goose. What's wrong with that New Or-lee-ans? They lack New York fortitude."
So, New-York centric media and the good citizens of Metropolis, I say this: stop blowin' crap outta proportion. You lose your authority. You're like parents who yell at their kids all the time and then when you REALLY need them to listen, they don't care. Do not hit the panic button until it is time to do so. I do not want to see anymore pictures of urban dwellers in the rain without power. There is tragedy, out there, people. Rain ain't it.
Showing posts with label pop culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pop culture. Show all posts
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sunday, December 26, 2010
And a partridge in a pear tree
Thank goodness, we survived. The holidays are over. The traffic, the insanity, the crazed WalMart death stare of the general citizenry is all gone.
Yah. That's right. I said it. I'm GLAD. I can say whatever I want because it's December 26th.
The best part, of course, is that I don't have to hear any godforsaken Christmas songs until next October, at worst.
I'm done with carols for the year
falalalala
I'm done with everyone else's cheer
falalalalala
I'm done with this assault on my ears
falalalalallala la la la.
Some of the worst offenders:
Silver Bells
Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer
Up On the Rooftop
Jingle Bells
The Twelve Days of Christmas
Even Cookie Monster cowtowed to the Facebook pressure, appeared on SNL and sang freaking carols with Jeff Bridges.
The Dude does NOT abide.
Another thing, while I'm Grinching it up. What is the deal with Jewish songwriters and the nauseating yule tunes? Yes, all of these were written by your circumcised friends, and some of them were famously penned in July:
There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays
I'll Be Home for Christmas
Silver Bells (again...blech)
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
The Dread (above mentioned) Rudolph
White Christmas
Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!
Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire (The Christmas Song)
Winter Wonderland
I'm blaming you, Irving Berlin. Okay, to be perfectly honest, I have a special place in my Harry and Sally-loving heart for Winter Wonderland. And at least these songs had the dignity to be recorded by velvety-toned crooner stars of their day before being slaughtered by every dolphin-pitched diva of my lifetime. But that is the only slack I'm cutting.
Why? Because not one of these famed Jewish songwriters could be bothered to put pen to sheet for Hanukkah. Oh, no. They left that task to the hapless Adam Sandler, who is:
a. not funny
b. not a songwriter
c. not really terribly appropriate for children
d. set his music to a movie flop that was neither a nor c.
ADAM SANDLER?!!? Christmas gets Irving Berlin and Jews are left with a crappy series of guitar chords claiming to be a song, but really is a list of dubious celebrities with equally dubious Jewish lineage. FOR REAL?!?
When I went to the kids' school to talk about Hanukkah, and was doing my part to convince 80 six-year-olds that
a) Hanukkah is fun
b) Hanukkah is as good as Christmas
c) Jewish 6 year olds think Hanukkah is a and b and do not resent Christmas at all
I realized that I was describing families playing "games" involving a top; eating fried vegetables; lighting birthday cake-sized candles; and singing "songs."
Really, not the most convincing talk I've ever given.
But the "songs" mentioned in one of the "Hanukkah really IS cool" books, subtitled "so are Orthodontics, Calculus, and 401Ks", SUCKED!
The first Jewtune, of course, is the Dreidel Song. Which really isn't a song at all, since 87% of the lyrics are, in fact, just the word dreidel. Not a song, really, so much as something to hum until your top stops spinning.
The second song, even WORSE, is O, Hanukkah. Worse, because 93% of the lyrics are the word Hanukkah. AND because it's simply sung to the tune of O Tannenbaum. To paraphrase Seth Meyers (a third reference to SNL tonight, and the only funny one so far) REALLY?!?
Yah. That's right. I said it. I'm GLAD. I can say whatever I want because it's December 26th.
The best part, of course, is that I don't have to hear any godforsaken Christmas songs until next October, at worst.
I'm done with carols for the year
falalalala
I'm done with everyone else's cheer
falalalalala
I'm done with this assault on my ears
falalalalallala la la la.
Some of the worst offenders:
Silver Bells
Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer
Up On the Rooftop
Jingle Bells
The Twelve Days of Christmas
Even Cookie Monster cowtowed to the Facebook pressure, appeared on SNL and sang freaking carols with Jeff Bridges.
The Dude does NOT abide.
Another thing, while I'm Grinching it up. What is the deal with Jewish songwriters and the nauseating yule tunes? Yes, all of these were written by your circumcised friends, and some of them were famously penned in July:
There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays
I'll Be Home for Christmas
Silver Bells (again...blech)
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
The Dread (above mentioned) Rudolph
White Christmas
Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!
Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire (The Christmas Song)
Winter Wonderland
I'm blaming you, Irving Berlin. Okay, to be perfectly honest, I have a special place in my Harry and Sally-loving heart for Winter Wonderland. And at least these songs had the dignity to be recorded by velvety-toned crooner stars of their day before being slaughtered by every dolphin-pitched diva of my lifetime. But that is the only slack I'm cutting.
Why? Because not one of these famed Jewish songwriters could be bothered to put pen to sheet for Hanukkah. Oh, no. They left that task to the hapless Adam Sandler, who is:
a. not funny
b. not a songwriter
c. not really terribly appropriate for children
d. set his music to a movie flop that was neither a nor c.
ADAM SANDLER?!!? Christmas gets Irving Berlin and Jews are left with a crappy series of guitar chords claiming to be a song, but really is a list of dubious celebrities with equally dubious Jewish lineage. FOR REAL?!?
When I went to the kids' school to talk about Hanukkah, and was doing my part to convince 80 six-year-olds that
a) Hanukkah is fun
b) Hanukkah is as good as Christmas
c) Jewish 6 year olds think Hanukkah is a and b and do not resent Christmas at all
I realized that I was describing families playing "games" involving a top; eating fried vegetables; lighting birthday cake-sized candles; and singing "songs."
Really, not the most convincing talk I've ever given.
But the "songs" mentioned in one of the "Hanukkah really IS cool" books, subtitled "so are Orthodontics, Calculus, and 401Ks", SUCKED!
The first Jewtune, of course, is the Dreidel Song. Which really isn't a song at all, since 87% of the lyrics are, in fact, just the word dreidel. Not a song, really, so much as something to hum until your top stops spinning.
The second song, even WORSE, is O, Hanukkah. Worse, because 93% of the lyrics are the word Hanukkah. AND because it's simply sung to the tune of O Tannenbaum. To paraphrase Seth Meyers (a third reference to SNL tonight, and the only funny one so far) REALLY?!?
- The whole of the songwriting industry talent is Jewish, yet plagiarizes a Christmas carol?
- A Christmas carol from GERMANY?
- IN GERMAN?!?
And, yet this is where the world is. The way I see it, there are 11 months between now and next Hanukkah. I propose a Festival o' Lights song writing contest. I'm not going to limit entrants to the Chosen folk--Taylor Swift, you've had a helluva year, bring your best--even Andy Samberg who suffers from the Adam Sandler A, B and C mentioned above--can contribute.
I DO want quality submissions, though. I don't want recycled carols, jokes, self-deprecating Jewish humor songs, lists of Jewish celebrities, songs about watching wooden toys spin.
I want celebratory! I want majestic! I want flames flickering! Gelt gleaming! I want Maccabees aplenty! I want to revel in it.
Neil Diamond, I'm looking at you.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The Physics of Parenting
As far as I understand physics, which is not very far, current theories abound on alternate dimensions, alternate realities, wormholes through mulitidimensional spaces, the possibility that our reality is merely a hologram, and a space/time continuum that can be disrupted with a flux capacitor.
Very intelligent people with very advanced degrees and brains much bigger than mine are probing the universe both vast and miniscule for proof of these ambitious theories. I, however, have found proof.
Yes, it's true. I know that you're thinking, "J, I've seen you try to calculate a tip at lunch. There is no way you have solved the enormous mysteries of the universe."
But, I have seen and heard with my own senses the reality of an alternate universe. For real. And people, that universe is beautiful.
First, let me explain the players in our universal dilemma:
Reality A: That is the reality I know. It's the reality in which my friends here exist, the planar dimension in which children, laundry, discipline, homework, and all other trappings of mortal life exist.
Reality B: This reality has accidentally intruded upon my reality. This is the reality for people without children who live in real cities, have disposable income and free time.
Wormhole: The cell phone, equipped with the flux capacitor, with which I am able to communicate with Reality B.
Holographic Me: HM. The person on the other end of the flux capacitor cell phone. Sounds a lot like my younger, married, blissfully childless sister.
Now, the first blip, if you will, of the space/time continuum between Realities A and B occurred last week. HM contacted me through the Wormhole and asked what I wanted for Christmas. Christmas? That's like 2 Reality A months away! Nobody in Reality A is thinking that far ahead. Reality A people have dug their claws in and are just trying to survive effing Halloween. Clearly, Reality B time accelerates much faster than ours.
The next blip occurred three days after the conversation with HM. A box arrived on my doorstep. Was this UPS man MY UPS man? Was he a Reality A UPS man? Or was he the John Connor of UPS men? Was he a messenger not of material goods, but of space and time itself?!?
Upon opening the box, I found a gorgeous Williams-Sonoma salt-keeper made of hand polished Italian olive wood. This very item was what I told the HM I wanted for Christmas. Holy shit!! HM is sending me my wishes from an alternate dimension.
Yesterday, another box arrived from HM. It was a very appropriate, hip and well-fitting sweater for M. HM had processed my request for clothing for my husband and sent it through the wormhole device through the personage of the intergalactic UPS man? Things were indeed getting seriously cool.
THEN. This conversation. Between me and HM through the Wormhole. all the evidence in the Reality A that another reality clearly exists.
HM: You said your kids needed pj's for Christmaskah. (wow. HM even knows my hybrid holidays)
Reality A Me: Yes. PJ's are things that children on our planet sleep in.
HM: Yes. I am in Target. In the boys' section. I see pj's. I need to know what size your boys are.
RA Me: S is XS. E is M. Thank you!?!
HM: E likes this Bakugan (buh-KU-gun) thing, no?
RA Me: Yes. It is called BAK-u-gan. I don't really understand it, but it appears to be something Earthlings his age are playing with.
HM: Target has these bak-u-GAN pjs here. They seem to be navy with some kind of bomb thingys all over the pants.
RA Me: Oh, yah. He has those. Weird. Those exist in your universe, too? Perhaps they have Phineas and Ferb pjs in his size. His brother already has the Phineas and Ferb ones, but E would probably like them, too.
HM: What are you saying? Fin YAY us and Fur?
RA Me: Sorry, the Wormhole connection must not be clear. Phineas and Ferb. It's a cartoon series.
HM: How would I recognize this Finny and Fur pj?
RA Me: Phineas and Ferb. There's a ninja fighting platypus on the front.
HM: Now you're just messing with me. You can't just put random words in order and make a sentence. You must use proper, sensical words in my universe.
RA Me: No, for real. His name is Agent P. The pants have his nemesis on them. Jewish looking dude in a lab coat? His name is Dufenshmirtz. Wanna hear his theme song?
HM: Seriously. I am looking for pajamas. I do not know what the hell you are talking....oh, shit. Look at that! I found the Ninja platypus. Part mammal, part reptile, entirely effed up.
RA Me: Yes, and my son tells me that the male platypus has a poisonous spur on his hind food. Seriously strange. But I digress.
HM: OK. I have the Finny Furry pjs. Now, what about the other son? They have something here with animated cars that talk and have eyeballs instead of headlights?
RA Me: No. Those aren't cool anymore.
HM: Does S want the Backy gan pjs?
RA Me: No. S hates Bakugan. (Why can HM not learn this word?!?) What else do they have?
HM: It appears as though there are Star Wars characters made out of....Lego pieces?
RA Me: Yes! PERFECT. He loves Lego Star Wars.
HM: There were no Legos in Star Wars. Also, what is this creature that looks like a lizard? What is a Clone Wars?
RA: Yes. We call it cross marketing. Lego has recreated the entire Star Wars Universe in Lego pieces. They sell the kits for bazillions of our monetary units. Also, George Lucas created another episode of the Star Wars saga with animated aliens to expand the time between the young Jedi Anakin's training and his rebirth as Darth Vader. I think the lizard thing you see might be Ahsoka. Is it female?
HM: What the @#(*() are you talking about?
RA Me: Actually, that was way nerdier than I anticipated. Yes, get the Lego-ized animated alien pajamas. That will make son #2 happy.
HM: Great. These are only like $12. Their Christmas shopping is done, too. I'll go over to the Lego store and pick up a couple of those kits.
RA Me: YOU HAVE AN ENTIRE LEGO STORE!?!? S would explode with happiness.
HM: Yes, it's right next door to Banana Republic.
RA Me: YOU HAVE BANANA REPUBLIC?!?! I would explode with happiness.
I love your universe.
HM: I've been shopping for like 3 hours. I'm almost done with my Christmaskah list.
RA Me: But how did you shop with the kids whining and bitching and touching and begging to go home?
HM: Don't have 'em. Don't want 'em. I'm done. I'll drop these things in the mail tomorrow. Bye.
RA Me: (left staring at the Wormhole) Woah. No kids. Banana Republic. Amazing. Christmas shopping all done in peace and quiet? Woah. *Shiver*
It's humbling, people. It's a big universe. And CLEARLY, there is intelligent life out there.
Very intelligent people with very advanced degrees and brains much bigger than mine are probing the universe both vast and miniscule for proof of these ambitious theories. I, however, have found proof.
Yes, it's true. I know that you're thinking, "J, I've seen you try to calculate a tip at lunch. There is no way you have solved the enormous mysteries of the universe."
But, I have seen and heard with my own senses the reality of an alternate universe. For real. And people, that universe is beautiful.
First, let me explain the players in our universal dilemma:
Reality A: That is the reality I know. It's the reality in which my friends here exist, the planar dimension in which children, laundry, discipline, homework, and all other trappings of mortal life exist.
Reality B: This reality has accidentally intruded upon my reality. This is the reality for people without children who live in real cities, have disposable income and free time.
Wormhole: The cell phone, equipped with the flux capacitor, with which I am able to communicate with Reality B.
Holographic Me: HM. The person on the other end of the flux capacitor cell phone. Sounds a lot like my younger, married, blissfully childless sister.
Now, the first blip, if you will, of the space/time continuum between Realities A and B occurred last week. HM contacted me through the Wormhole and asked what I wanted for Christmas. Christmas? That's like 2 Reality A months away! Nobody in Reality A is thinking that far ahead. Reality A people have dug their claws in and are just trying to survive effing Halloween. Clearly, Reality B time accelerates much faster than ours.
The next blip occurred three days after the conversation with HM. A box arrived on my doorstep. Was this UPS man MY UPS man? Was he a Reality A UPS man? Or was he the John Connor of UPS men? Was he a messenger not of material goods, but of space and time itself?!?
Upon opening the box, I found a gorgeous Williams-Sonoma salt-keeper made of hand polished Italian olive wood. This very item was what I told the HM I wanted for Christmas. Holy shit!! HM is sending me my wishes from an alternate dimension.
Yesterday, another box arrived from HM. It was a very appropriate, hip and well-fitting sweater for M. HM had processed my request for clothing for my husband and sent it through the wormhole device through the personage of the intergalactic UPS man? Things were indeed getting seriously cool.
THEN. This conversation. Between me and HM through the Wormhole. all the evidence in the Reality A that another reality clearly exists.
HM: You said your kids needed pj's for Christmaskah. (wow. HM even knows my hybrid holidays)
Reality A Me: Yes. PJ's are things that children on our planet sleep in.
HM: Yes. I am in Target. In the boys' section. I see pj's. I need to know what size your boys are.
RA Me: S is XS. E is M. Thank you!?!
HM: E likes this Bakugan (buh-KU-gun) thing, no?
RA Me: Yes. It is called BAK-u-gan. I don't really understand it, but it appears to be something Earthlings his age are playing with.
HM: Target has these bak-u-GAN pjs here. They seem to be navy with some kind of bomb thingys all over the pants.
RA Me: Oh, yah. He has those. Weird. Those exist in your universe, too? Perhaps they have Phineas and Ferb pjs in his size. His brother already has the Phineas and Ferb ones, but E would probably like them, too.
HM: What are you saying? Fin YAY us and Fur?
RA Me: Sorry, the Wormhole connection must not be clear. Phineas and Ferb. It's a cartoon series.
HM: How would I recognize this Finny and Fur pj?
RA Me: Phineas and Ferb. There's a ninja fighting platypus on the front.
HM: Now you're just messing with me. You can't just put random words in order and make a sentence. You must use proper, sensical words in my universe.
RA Me: No, for real. His name is Agent P. The pants have his nemesis on them. Jewish looking dude in a lab coat? His name is Dufenshmirtz. Wanna hear his theme song?
HM: Seriously. I am looking for pajamas. I do not know what the hell you are talking....oh, shit. Look at that! I found the Ninja platypus. Part mammal, part reptile, entirely effed up.
RA Me: Yes, and my son tells me that the male platypus has a poisonous spur on his hind food. Seriously strange. But I digress.
HM: OK. I have the Finny Furry pjs. Now, what about the other son? They have something here with animated cars that talk and have eyeballs instead of headlights?
RA Me: No. Those aren't cool anymore.
HM: Does S want the Backy gan pjs?
RA Me: No. S hates Bakugan. (Why can HM not learn this word?!?) What else do they have?
HM: It appears as though there are Star Wars characters made out of....Lego pieces?
RA Me: Yes! PERFECT. He loves Lego Star Wars.
HM: There were no Legos in Star Wars. Also, what is this creature that looks like a lizard? What is a Clone Wars?
RA: Yes. We call it cross marketing. Lego has recreated the entire Star Wars Universe in Lego pieces. They sell the kits for bazillions of our monetary units. Also, George Lucas created another episode of the Star Wars saga with animated aliens to expand the time between the young Jedi Anakin's training and his rebirth as Darth Vader. I think the lizard thing you see might be Ahsoka. Is it female?
HM: What the @#(*() are you talking about?
RA Me: Actually, that was way nerdier than I anticipated. Yes, get the Lego-ized animated alien pajamas. That will make son #2 happy.
HM: Great. These are only like $12. Their Christmas shopping is done, too. I'll go over to the Lego store and pick up a couple of those kits.
RA Me: YOU HAVE AN ENTIRE LEGO STORE!?!? S would explode with happiness.
HM: Yes, it's right next door to Banana Republic.
RA Me: YOU HAVE BANANA REPUBLIC?!?! I would explode with happiness.
I love your universe.
HM: I've been shopping for like 3 hours. I'm almost done with my Christmaskah list.
RA Me: But how did you shop with the kids whining and bitching and touching and begging to go home?
HM: Don't have 'em. Don't want 'em. I'm done. I'll drop these things in the mail tomorrow. Bye.
RA Me: (left staring at the Wormhole) Woah. No kids. Banana Republic. Amazing. Christmas shopping all done in peace and quiet? Woah. *Shiver*
It's humbling, people. It's a big universe. And CLEARLY, there is intelligent life out there.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
That hits the spot
I love Target. Everyone I know loves Target. I also love Lowe's. Not everyone I know loves Lowe's, but that is their personal shortfall.
Target's appeal isn't just to suburbanites like myself. My husband's sister-in-law (does this make her my sister-in-law?) is a city type who treks out to the suburbs for a Target trip. Its appeal, unlike Lowe's, is definitely skewed to women. Mostly, it seems, Type A women. Hipsters, grandmas, college kids, everyone can find something at Target. I think it's so universal that the nickname Tar-jay is unnecessary: no one feels compelled to make Target more upscale than it is anymore. Target is consumer heaven.
True, I have resolved to be less consumerist. To need, want, crave, have fewer accessories and crap cluttering the house. But the thing about Target is I can buy OTHER stuff there, too!
At Target, I can stroll through aisles of bins, baskets, and sorters, visualizing my hyper-organized alter ego. I can imagine cupboards and drawers lined with fashionista-patterned shelf paper. I can see office supplies stored away in tiny paper-clip sized totes. In Aisle 34 I can compartmentalize, label, and stow the disorder, both metaphorical and literal, of my life.
In Aisle 26 in the pharmaceutical section, I can picture myself thin. Healthy protein bars, diet supplements, vitamins, shakes, sketchy products containing 'magical herbs' all beckon and promise me a bikini ready body by summer.
Conversely, in the freezer section, I can satisfy all hormonal and emotional related food cravings. Everything from greasy potstickers and southwestern egg rolls to a rainbow of ice cream flavors and Chipwiches are ready to repair a damaged psyche or PMS.
Over in the clothing section, I can peruse the Target-ized versions of the latest trends. In fact, that white denim skirt I picked up is sure to fall apart after 10 washings, but then again, it will probably be out of style after 8. Tshirts are plentiful, and actually they wash pretty well. And I can always wear more shirts. The ever-useful yoga pants are right there, too. Comfy Saturdays. Solved.
And the shoes? The pleather wonder of the shoes? I actually never buy the shoes. For one thing, there is an inverse relationship between quality of shoe and weight of shoe, such that the wedge heels Target sells can only be worn by people with magnificently strong quads. I mean Mr. Munster had sleeker footwear. But, the kids' shoes are perfect..cheap and crappy sandals for summer? Check. Galoshes to splash in puddles (once)? Check.
Kidswear is perfect at Target. Especially for boys, who really don't care about clothes anyway. Graphic tees for summer? Yup. Swim trunks. Done. A dress shirt for that one night a year when the kids need one? $10 and done. Of course, the ever popular Spiderman underwear and Spongebob pj's are an excellent bribe if you're stuck with kids through the store. "We can get those if you behave through the grocery section."
For whatever reason, Target also has an 'intimates' section. And since I'm married now, and have only bad underwear and worse underwear instead of date underwear and monthly underwear, I can pick up a 12 pack for like $8. Perfect. The occasional night shirt can be found, too, if you're willing to pick through a bunch of Disney-fied grown up sizes (sleep shirts that have a dwarf on them that say "SLEEPY." Not even the most sex-deprived husband is going to want to caress a body clad in dwarfs. OHHHH. Maybe that's why they sell those.)
There's the toy section, but I'm skipping that, because I just can't take the chorus of "I want that" right now.
Finally, I suppose, are the groceries. Every packaged, high-fructose syrup infested, refined-flour having, artificially colored, flavored, preservative-laden food you can imagine awaits at Target. Individually wrapped baked goods, salty snacks that appear to have more salt than actual salt, and every sweet smelling NEW and IMPROVED cleaning agent you can imagine. I do love the new and improved.
I could spend mornings, days walking through Target's glistening aisles. The soothing fluorescent glow reflects off of the clam packaging to remind us that our homes could be decorated with the likes of Liberty of England, our bodies clad by fashion moguls of Izaac Mizrahi, and our kitchens accented with Graves designs. It's all possible. Everything from off-brand plasma TVs to Dora The Explorer umbrellas lies before you.
It's America. Made in China. And I love it.
Target's appeal isn't just to suburbanites like myself. My husband's sister-in-law (does this make her my sister-in-law?) is a city type who treks out to the suburbs for a Target trip. Its appeal, unlike Lowe's, is definitely skewed to women. Mostly, it seems, Type A women. Hipsters, grandmas, college kids, everyone can find something at Target. I think it's so universal that the nickname Tar-jay is unnecessary: no one feels compelled to make Target more upscale than it is anymore. Target is consumer heaven.
True, I have resolved to be less consumerist. To need, want, crave, have fewer accessories and crap cluttering the house. But the thing about Target is I can buy OTHER stuff there, too!
At Target, I can stroll through aisles of bins, baskets, and sorters, visualizing my hyper-organized alter ego. I can imagine cupboards and drawers lined with fashionista-patterned shelf paper. I can see office supplies stored away in tiny paper-clip sized totes. In Aisle 34 I can compartmentalize, label, and stow the disorder, both metaphorical and literal, of my life.
In Aisle 26 in the pharmaceutical section, I can picture myself thin. Healthy protein bars, diet supplements, vitamins, shakes, sketchy products containing 'magical herbs' all beckon and promise me a bikini ready body by summer.
Conversely, in the freezer section, I can satisfy all hormonal and emotional related food cravings. Everything from greasy potstickers and southwestern egg rolls to a rainbow of ice cream flavors and Chipwiches are ready to repair a damaged psyche or PMS.
Over in the clothing section, I can peruse the Target-ized versions of the latest trends. In fact, that white denim skirt I picked up is sure to fall apart after 10 washings, but then again, it will probably be out of style after 8. Tshirts are plentiful, and actually they wash pretty well. And I can always wear more shirts. The ever-useful yoga pants are right there, too. Comfy Saturdays. Solved.
And the shoes? The pleather wonder of the shoes? I actually never buy the shoes. For one thing, there is an inverse relationship between quality of shoe and weight of shoe, such that the wedge heels Target sells can only be worn by people with magnificently strong quads. I mean Mr. Munster had sleeker footwear. But, the kids' shoes are perfect..cheap and crappy sandals for summer? Check. Galoshes to splash in puddles (once)? Check.
Kidswear is perfect at Target. Especially for boys, who really don't care about clothes anyway. Graphic tees for summer? Yup. Swim trunks. Done. A dress shirt for that one night a year when the kids need one? $10 and done. Of course, the ever popular Spiderman underwear and Spongebob pj's are an excellent bribe if you're stuck with kids through the store. "We can get those if you behave through the grocery section."
For whatever reason, Target also has an 'intimates' section. And since I'm married now, and have only bad underwear and worse underwear instead of date underwear and monthly underwear, I can pick up a 12 pack for like $8. Perfect. The occasional night shirt can be found, too, if you're willing to pick through a bunch of Disney-fied grown up sizes (sleep shirts that have a dwarf on them that say "SLEEPY." Not even the most sex-deprived husband is going to want to caress a body clad in dwarfs. OHHHH. Maybe that's why they sell those.)
There's the toy section, but I'm skipping that, because I just can't take the chorus of "I want that" right now.
Finally, I suppose, are the groceries. Every packaged, high-fructose syrup infested, refined-flour having, artificially colored, flavored, preservative-laden food you can imagine awaits at Target. Individually wrapped baked goods, salty snacks that appear to have more salt than actual salt, and every sweet smelling NEW and IMPROVED cleaning agent you can imagine. I do love the new and improved.
I could spend mornings, days walking through Target's glistening aisles. The soothing fluorescent glow reflects off of the clam packaging to remind us that our homes could be decorated with the likes of Liberty of England, our bodies clad by fashion moguls of Izaac Mizrahi, and our kitchens accented with Graves designs. It's all possible. Everything from off-brand plasma TVs to Dora The Explorer umbrellas lies before you.
It's America. Made in China. And I love it.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Olympics Grinch
You've missed me, haven't you? It's okay, you can admit. My wit, my charm, my sunshiny attitude. I know, your life is a dank pit of misery without me. But, you see, important things have been happening. I have been rapt with the pageantry, the glory, the athletic stupendousness of the Olympics.
Yeah, I know. I can't sell it.
I am about to be the most unpopular person I know: I HATE the Olympics. I'll give you a moment to quit sputtering about pageantry, glory, and athletic stupendousness....you done?
I know. I know. They have trained, sacrificed, suffered, woken up at 3 AM to train before their god-awful jobs as a plate scrapers at Wok Lobster, Spaghetti Lobster, Wiener schnitzel Lobster, and Lobster, Eh? so they could gather here, in Vancouver, British Columbia to compete in the finest display of athletes from all over the globe. (Insert triumphant music here.)
My question is this: why couldn't they have sacrificed, suffered and trained in something that I am interested in? Curling? Meh. Ice Dancing? Really!?!? And Skeleton is not a sport so much as something Johnny Knoxville did in high school in one of his desperate attempts to have somebody notice him. Any sport that requires a phalanx of judges is not a sport; it reminds me of a very dynamic ad pitch for hair gel and cheap make-up to a bunch of corporate stiffs.
I'm not saying what they do is easy. God only knows how they defy gravity, spin like a blender, or race on a sled at 300 mph. I, for one, would be in a full body cast if I even attempted the downhill ski route with my skis wedged out in slow motion. And, yet. These sports are even more fake than the summer games, which at least are rooted in the tradition of competition thousands of years old. But don't get me started on Summer Olympics now. I have two years to stew over that.
Second, and again, unpopular. Al Michaels and Bob Costas make me want to end HiDef forever. Costas should sue whomever did that surgery to his eyes, and divorce his wife, who presumably assured him that the toupee/hair dye makes him look taller/smarter/younger. Michaels needs to see a dentist for some bleach/veneers/plaque removal. Bob Costas has ruined sports (in related news, see my tirade about college football). Everything, everyone (who's an American athlete) in the Olympicsis transformed into a COSTAS MOMENT.
Yeah, I know. I can't sell it.
I am about to be the most unpopular person I know: I HATE the Olympics. I'll give you a moment to quit sputtering about pageantry, glory, and athletic stupendousness....you done?
I know. I know. They have trained, sacrificed, suffered, woken up at 3 AM to train before their god-awful jobs as a plate scrapers at Wok Lobster, Spaghetti Lobster, Wiener schnitzel Lobster, and Lobster, Eh? so they could gather here, in Vancouver, British Columbia to compete in the finest display of athletes from all over the globe. (Insert triumphant music here.)
My question is this: why couldn't they have sacrificed, suffered and trained in something that I am interested in? Curling? Meh. Ice Dancing? Really!?!? And Skeleton is not a sport so much as something Johnny Knoxville did in high school in one of his desperate attempts to have somebody notice him. Any sport that requires a phalanx of judges is not a sport; it reminds me of a very dynamic ad pitch for hair gel and cheap make-up to a bunch of corporate stiffs.
I'm not saying what they do is easy. God only knows how they defy gravity, spin like a blender, or race on a sled at 300 mph. I, for one, would be in a full body cast if I even attempted the downhill ski route with my skis wedged out in slow motion. And, yet. These sports are even more fake than the summer games, which at least are rooted in the tradition of competition thousands of years old. But don't get me started on Summer Olympics now. I have two years to stew over that.
Second, and again, unpopular. Al Michaels and Bob Costas make me want to end HiDef forever. Costas should sue whomever did that surgery to his eyes, and divorce his wife, who presumably assured him that the toupee/hair dye makes him look taller/smarter/younger. Michaels needs to see a dentist for some bleach/veneers/plaque removal. Bob Costas has ruined sports (in related news, see my tirade about college football). Everything, everyone (who's an American athlete) in the Olympicsis transformed into a COSTAS MOMENT.
Three years ago, Brittanie Aimes suffered heartbreak. The love of her young 14 years passed away, leaving her alone with her psychotically
pushy mother and completely emasculated father. Her father, an
attorney and multigajillionaire, worked every day tirelessly. Only
later did Lindsay discover his long hours involved a liberating
affair with his buxom secretary, not just the drive to pay for her Olympic training. Lindsay's mother, desperately trying to recapture her own faded youth, pushed Lindsay to practice harder and harder.Every morning before home schooling, Lindsay went to
the backyard skating rink to practice and train with the finest coaches from around the world. Gregor Myanomich, the famed couples ice dancer from the 1976 games trained young Lindsay to the point of
exhaustion. Even after the tragic mishap when Lindsay's mother accidentally (she was acquitted) ran her over with the family SUV as Lindsay tried to flee the tyrannical regime of coach Myanomich, Lindsay practiced. With a cast on. And that's not easy on skates. Lindsay LITERALLY ate, slept and breathed ice dancing. Which is not easy on the lungs, as they are better equipped to breathe air.
And then tragedy struck. Lindsay's hamster died. Today. At. This. Moment. Lindsay. Aims. For. Redemption. She. Dances. For. Chuckles. The. Hamster. Today. Lindsay. Will. Dance. Her. Heart. Out. For. The. Love. Of. Her. Rodent. (whisper) Let's watch as her short program is about to begin.
Also, what is up with the outdated medals? Rap Stars have bigger jewelry. We need to update the bling that these kids take home. Gold? That stuff is like $400 an ounce right now. And it was probably mined by children in some country that can only dream of the comfort and coolness of snow. And the officials are GIVING it away up there. What happened to social responsibility? Ethics? We need to be giving these athletes recycled paper goods hand formed into medallions. Or recycled cans. Or rubber tire byproduct. It's so UnCanadian to consume materials unnecessarily. Unless, and I think I've stumbled onto a world conspiracy right here: all those "Mail us your ugly gold shit and we'll send you cash" commercials were run by the Canadian Olympic Committee as an ethical way to collect gold for the medals given to the athletes. Which makes so much sense. The reason they give such crappy dollar value for your gold is because they pay you in CANADIAN DOLLARS!
And here's another thing. I am not a rah rah person. Betcha didn't know that. I appreciate that these athletes participate in these games with some patriotic valor. And, of course, when American athletes get caught doping or cheating or juicing, I feel that is a stain on the country, not just the athlete. But, I just cannot get all patriotic when a fellow country(wo)man wins a medal. Maybe it's the global economy, and the facts like my Japanese car is made in Ohio, that I feel that all the lines are blurred. Chinese athletes train in Canada, Italian athletes train in Switzerland, and the hockey teams are the worst! The All-Star teams divided up, and assigned the ones who once hailed from some country back to that country. These guys all have Mcmansions in Florida where they don't pay income tax on their gigantic professional athlete salaries. WTF? Teams Canada and Russia have a deep seated, and perhaps insecure, national pride staked at every game, and the loser will skulk home in ignominy. Wayne Gretzky presides over these hockey games as a demi-god, a superhero of the puck and stick, Canada's living, breathing national treasure. But he did play for the LA Kings when I was a kid, and was a sports icon there to me. (I didn't really even know about the whole Edmonton thing until later. Sorry, Canada.) These are men I've cheered for in Toronto, in Chicago, in LA, and now they're on the other team? That's insane. No one, not even Costas, can expect me to sort all that out.
And finally, my last issue with the Olympics is selfish. During this bleak period of February, in the dark, cold, bleary days of winter when there is no light in my life save the weak rays of the sun, I always have February TV sweeps. I have those last few new episodes of my favorite programs before we descend into summer "encore presentation" hell. I have been CHEATED, dammit. I want my freaking programming back. I want ice dancing, Costas, and Michaels to go away. I don't want to hear 'sequins' and 'sports' used in the same sentence. Athletes should not wear grease makeup in 'performances.' I don't want curling on primetime. I want my crime procedural, my man candy, my sitcoms. Hell, after weeks of white snow backgrounds, I'll even take Leno back. Really, anything. Please. Let's get Polar Bear Patty to walk around, wave a flag, turn our eyes to whatever city's next, put out the flame and move on with our lives.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
All Hallow's Over
Halloween is theoretically a holiday for children. We know this because it is a holiday set up with a two sided power structure. Us vs. Them. Kids vs. grown ups. Pros vs. Cons. It is the only holiday that comes with built in arguments.
Can I wear this ghoulish freaky costumes with weeping wounds and dangling eyeballs?
No.
Can I arm myself to the teeth and bring 45 different types of knives, assault weapons, scythes, lasers, swords, blasters, and daggers to school for the costume parade?
No.
Can I roam the streets of this town at night, clad entirely in black knocking on strangers' doors by myself?
No.
Can I eat my weight in candy, including the disgusting year-old Werther Originals that the octogenarian neighbor fished out of the candy dish on her coffee table because she forgot to turn out the lights on the front porch and therefore wasn't expecting trick-or-treaters?
No.
So, we go around and 'round over the freaking Halloween crap. And I realize that only a child could get excited about this stupid holiday. But, no.
I've seen grown adults with glow in the dark skeleton earrings. Not small ones, either. Giant, shoulder-grazing skeleton earrings.
Patchwork sweatshirts. My Christmas favorite, theme clothing, also seems to have a significant Halloween constituency. Black gingham cats on purple t-shirts. Embroidered witches with witticisms like, "just wait 'til I get my broom!" Knitted sweaters with pockets. Flashing necklaces.
This doesn't even begin to cover the issue of adult costumes. Which I refuse to address because of my denial.
But the thing is, last night I got 3 trick-or-treaters. THREE! So, if this is a holiday for kids, and their grown ups are equally enthusiastic, where the hell were all the kids? Next year, I am going to tell my boys that trick or treat has been canceled, and I'll give them the giant bag of candy I usually buy for trick-or-treaters, we'll watch TV, hang a black sheet over the door so no one knows we're home, and just be done with the whole damn thing.
Argument over. Thankfully, so is the holiday. And I don't have to worry about it again until the costume catalogs come in the mail next August.
This plan does nothing to relieve me of a giant bag of candy that is specifically not permitted on the cardboard diet. Milk Duds, anyone?
Can I wear this ghoulish freaky costumes with weeping wounds and dangling eyeballs?
No.
Can I arm myself to the teeth and bring 45 different types of knives, assault weapons, scythes, lasers, swords, blasters, and daggers to school for the costume parade?
No.
Can I roam the streets of this town at night, clad entirely in black knocking on strangers' doors by myself?
No.
Can I eat my weight in candy, including the disgusting year-old Werther Originals that the octogenarian neighbor fished out of the candy dish on her coffee table because she forgot to turn out the lights on the front porch and therefore wasn't expecting trick-or-treaters?
No.
So, we go around and 'round over the freaking Halloween crap. And I realize that only a child could get excited about this stupid holiday. But, no.
I've seen grown adults with glow in the dark skeleton earrings. Not small ones, either. Giant, shoulder-grazing skeleton earrings.
Patchwork sweatshirts. My Christmas favorite, theme clothing, also seems to have a significant Halloween constituency. Black gingham cats on purple t-shirts. Embroidered witches with witticisms like, "just wait 'til I get my broom!" Knitted sweaters with pockets. Flashing necklaces.
This doesn't even begin to cover the issue of adult costumes. Which I refuse to address because of my denial.
But the thing is, last night I got 3 trick-or-treaters. THREE! So, if this is a holiday for kids, and their grown ups are equally enthusiastic, where the hell were all the kids? Next year, I am going to tell my boys that trick or treat has been canceled, and I'll give them the giant bag of candy I usually buy for trick-or-treaters, we'll watch TV, hang a black sheet over the door so no one knows we're home, and just be done with the whole damn thing.
Argument over. Thankfully, so is the holiday. And I don't have to worry about it again until the costume catalogs come in the mail next August.
This plan does nothing to relieve me of a giant bag of candy that is specifically not permitted on the cardboard diet. Milk Duds, anyone?
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Reach out and touch some one
Yesterday, I talked with a couple who were our best friends from Columbia, MO and are now our best long distance friends.
Not really significant in and of itself, but the conversation was striking to me in a couple of ways. First, I realized what great phone etiquette WB has. Not only did he ask about us, listen earnestly, and laugh at my jokes (perhaps most important of all), he put his wife, EI on the phone to speak as well. It seemed old fashioned sort-of. Like in the black and white TV shows when the whole family huddled around the rotary phone to participate in the rare long distance call. But it was lovely, and a rarity that I could chat with both partners of a couple. In this world of caller ID and personal cell phones, I never call some one's house and talk to the members of the household. My sister, who doesn't have a landline, often talks about this. If her husband's father calls, he calls her husband, they chat and they hang up. She could go weeks without talking to him. However, if there were a landline, most times, she would pick it up, chat for a moment and then put her husband on the line. With caller ID, we NEVER talk to people we don't want to, or people who we assume are calling for other members of our household. So, I chatted with both EI and WB about their individual careers, their individual relationships with their new pets, and I enjoyed it very much.
The second thing that really struck me was how misled we are by social networking sites. EI and WB post daily to their Facebook pages, and WB maintains a very compelling blog. I feel as though I'm pretty au courant about their goings on. And yet, talking to them in person was like looking through a clearer lens. I realize how inadequate FB is. Certainly, it is a great advance in keeping tabs on friends, and will probably (thankfully) obviate the need for live high school reunions, (Will this singlehandedly kill the diet products industry?) but isn't true social interaction. It doesn't offer the richness of some one's conversation. LOL doesn't cover WB's hearty laugh, which has always been one of my favorites or EI's perfect diction and grammar (which are art form in this day and age). Social networks are certainly a well-covered topic in the media and blogosphere, but this one little incident reminds me to pick up the phone, call a friend and make an actual appointment for lunch or coffee.
And though it wasn't really my favorite part of the film, the second half of Wall-E really does present us with life dominated by social networking. Rather than devolve down that road, I'm going to look out the window, make a phone call, write a letter, and reach out to my friends in real ways. A pre-new year's resolution. Coffee, anyone?
Not really significant in and of itself, but the conversation was striking to me in a couple of ways. First, I realized what great phone etiquette WB has. Not only did he ask about us, listen earnestly, and laugh at my jokes (perhaps most important of all), he put his wife, EI on the phone to speak as well. It seemed old fashioned sort-of. Like in the black and white TV shows when the whole family huddled around the rotary phone to participate in the rare long distance call. But it was lovely, and a rarity that I could chat with both partners of a couple. In this world of caller ID and personal cell phones, I never call some one's house and talk to the members of the household. My sister, who doesn't have a landline, often talks about this. If her husband's father calls, he calls her husband, they chat and they hang up. She could go weeks without talking to him. However, if there were a landline, most times, she would pick it up, chat for a moment and then put her husband on the line. With caller ID, we NEVER talk to people we don't want to, or people who we assume are calling for other members of our household. So, I chatted with both EI and WB about their individual careers, their individual relationships with their new pets, and I enjoyed it very much.
The second thing that really struck me was how misled we are by social networking sites. EI and WB post daily to their Facebook pages, and WB maintains a very compelling blog. I feel as though I'm pretty au courant about their goings on. And yet, talking to them in person was like looking through a clearer lens. I realize how inadequate FB is. Certainly, it is a great advance in keeping tabs on friends, and will probably (thankfully) obviate the need for live high school reunions, (Will this singlehandedly kill the diet products industry?) but isn't true social interaction. It doesn't offer the richness of some one's conversation. LOL doesn't cover WB's hearty laugh, which has always been one of my favorites or EI's perfect diction and grammar (which are art form in this day and age). Social networks are certainly a well-covered topic in the media and blogosphere, but this one little incident reminds me to pick up the phone, call a friend and make an actual appointment for lunch or coffee.
And though it wasn't really my favorite part of the film, the second half of Wall-E really does present us with life dominated by social networking. Rather than devolve down that road, I'm going to look out the window, make a phone call, write a letter, and reach out to my friends in real ways. A pre-new year's resolution. Coffee, anyone?
Thursday, September 17, 2009
OMG! Season Premiere Night!
So, yes. It's only a TV show.
OMG.
It's fake. It's pretend.
It'shere It'shere It'shere!!!
It isn't REAL. It's just TV.
I know I know I know. Ohmygod, Ohmygod, Ohmygod.
HOORAY!
I am squealing like a tween at Zac Efron.
TV season starts this week. Finally. This summer was the longest summer offseason for football, and because of the Hollywood Writers' Strike, this year's TV schedule was all messed up, too. I WANT MY TV, DAMMIT.
And it starts tonight tonight tonight! I am unreasonably excited about the season premiere of Bones. Good characters, good dialogue, good chemistry. M and I watched last season's finale today and I got all fired up about the premiere. I love resolution of cliffhangers. Especially ones that will (hopefully) clarify the relationship subplot between two of my favorite TV characters.
There was Angela and Tony, David and Maddie, Ross and Rachel,Joey and Dawson, Mulder and Scully, Buffy and Angel. Now I have Barney and Robin. Booth and Brennan. Like every other unabashed TV junkie, I have rooted for these relationships season after season. Sure, the romance diminishes the show. Sure, the shows generally jump the shark after the romance blooms. Nonetheless, I still root for it, I still grin and clap stupidly when the chemistry peaks, and I never get tired of a well-written romance (sub)plot in a good TV show.
Why the goofy enthusiasm for TV, you ask. Don't you have a life, you ask. Well, frankly, no. My life is that of normal married person with children. I don't have friends to meet in a bar at all hours of the night. I don't have murders to solve, bones to analyze, DNA scans to rush. I am not a suspiciously frequent victim of crime. So, no. I do not have a lot going on in my life, and frankly, I'm pretty glad.
I can sit down with some ice cream. (My friend Cici has said that if you stuff a bunch of raisins in your mouth all at once, you can pretend it's a brownie. Either Cici has never had a proper brownie, or she's finding some freaking awesome raisins.) I can ogle my TV man candy, (M LOVES it when I do that. He will provoke: "OOOH. Look at that charming smile. Ooh. I bet you love it. Why don't you marry it?" But I don't care about his 3rd grade ridicule. One, because I'm behaving like a third grader when I get all starry eyed about my TVMC, and two, because I don't care. My family is cared for, my job is done for the day, and for one short hour, I can be starry eyed and daydreamy and giggly if I want to. I can free my inner tween if I want to.
In fact, I used to have pin-up posters of my TV crushes (and George Clooney, whom, despite my love, I never watched on ER.) on the inside of the cabinet door at my desk. Publicity shots, headshots from imdb.com, pullouts from fan mags (I only bought them for the posters), whatever. It was, literally, a closet obsession. When we left Missouri, the pictures didn't make it with us. Despite that milestone in growth toward adulthood, I regress every evening to soak up my primetime faves.
3 hours and counting...
OMG.
It's fake. It's pretend.
It'shere It'shere It'shere!!!
It isn't REAL. It's just TV.
I know I know I know. Ohmygod, Ohmygod, Ohmygod.
HOORAY!
I am squealing like a tween at Zac Efron.
TV season starts this week. Finally. This summer was the longest summer offseason for football, and because of the Hollywood Writers' Strike, this year's TV schedule was all messed up, too. I WANT MY TV, DAMMIT.
And it starts tonight tonight tonight! I am unreasonably excited about the season premiere of Bones. Good characters, good dialogue, good chemistry. M and I watched last season's finale today and I got all fired up about the premiere. I love resolution of cliffhangers. Especially ones that will (hopefully) clarify the relationship subplot between two of my favorite TV characters.
There was Angela and Tony, David and Maddie, Ross and Rachel,Joey and Dawson, Mulder and Scully, Buffy and Angel. Now I have Barney and Robin. Booth and Brennan. Like every other unabashed TV junkie, I have rooted for these relationships season after season. Sure, the romance diminishes the show. Sure, the shows generally jump the shark after the romance blooms. Nonetheless, I still root for it, I still grin and clap stupidly when the chemistry peaks, and I never get tired of a well-written romance (sub)plot in a good TV show.
Why the goofy enthusiasm for TV, you ask. Don't you have a life, you ask. Well, frankly, no. My life is that of normal married person with children. I don't have friends to meet in a bar at all hours of the night. I don't have murders to solve, bones to analyze, DNA scans to rush. I am not a suspiciously frequent victim of crime. So, no. I do not have a lot going on in my life, and frankly, I'm pretty glad.
I can sit down with some ice cream. (My friend Cici has said that if you stuff a bunch of raisins in your mouth all at once, you can pretend it's a brownie. Either Cici has never had a proper brownie, or she's finding some freaking awesome raisins.) I can ogle my TV man candy, (M LOVES it when I do that. He will provoke: "OOOH. Look at that charming smile. Ooh. I bet you love it. Why don't you marry it?" But I don't care about his 3rd grade ridicule. One, because I'm behaving like a third grader when I get all starry eyed about my TVMC, and two, because I don't care. My family is cared for, my job is done for the day, and for one short hour, I can be starry eyed and daydreamy and giggly if I want to. I can free my inner tween if I want to.
In fact, I used to have pin-up posters of my TV crushes (and George Clooney, whom, despite my love, I never watched on ER.) on the inside of the cabinet door at my desk. Publicity shots, headshots from imdb.com, pullouts from fan mags (I only bought them for the posters), whatever. It was, literally, a closet obsession. When we left Missouri, the pictures didn't make it with us. Despite that milestone in growth toward adulthood, I regress every evening to soak up my primetime faves.
3 hours and counting...
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Do as I say, not as I YouTube
Sometimes it occurs to me that M and I are raising our children in the most fucked up way possible. For example, we often say sentences that end in phrases like "the most fucked up way possible." Not only is that ruining their sense of grammar, but it's a little vulgar.
Also, while M and I have cultivated our wry, dangerously dry, and completely jaded senses of humour over the last thirty years, our children seem to be immersed in daily ennui therapy and are in a DeVry crash course on sarcasm and vulgar comebacks so they will be properly void of any wonder and sweetness by the age of eight.
Additionally, M (and while I usually assume responsibility for these things jointly, this is squarely on his shoulders) feels obligated to allow our children to watch WILDLY inappropriate things on YouTube. So, in addition to wasting the lives of millions of teenagers across the world, YouTube is now sucking the sweetness right out of my little babies. For example, my kids LOVE the Gilly bit from SNL. They also like snippets from a TV show on Cartoon Network's Adult Swim called Robot Chicken. I don't know what the show is usually like, but my kids are hooked on a spoof of Star Wars as acted by stop-action animated Ken dolls, and voiced by supremely pissed off comedians. For example, the Emperor, deplaning his shuttle on to the Death Star starts complaining to Vader: "lemme tell you about my flight. It was a total nightmare. The tray table collapsed and spilled burning hot coffee all over my groin. Seriously. It was like dipping my wang in burning hot lava. But you know something about that, right?" Vader: (sadly, sagging his head) "yes." And, being children, the boys can instantly memorize every last syllable of the damn show, so that randomly, and often in front of people who are judging me (I am not paranoid), they regurgitate this filth leaving me with only nervous laughter and blather about how kids can learn ANYTHING on the Internet these days.
After watching that, though, no wonder my kids no longer have any room in their soul for Max and Ruby or Diego. They just can't watch those shows with unironic eyes anymore. Is that a tragic capitation of their childhood or just good sense? I am not sure. A friend of M's once told the story of his nieces and nephews who would respond out loud when a TV character asked a question and how he was so disappointed in them: "Come ON. I know you kids are smarter than to answer that completely OBVIOUS question." Well, my kids stopped doing that at around 3. "Why is Diego asking us questions, Mom? He can't even tell that we're ignoring him."
Sigh.
I, on the other hand, am completely responsible for another parenting failure. My kids are now totally obsessed with bad, one-hit wonder bands from the 90s. I realize that I have no musical taste whatsoever. (See: Coldplay collection on my ipod). I realize that occasionally I find myself singing along to the worst theme music ever (but Jimmy Buffett is on the radio ALL the time here.) Since my kids spend a huge amount of time with me in the car, driving all over creation to take their spoiled selves to activities to enrich the mind and body, they have adopted some of my musical pitfalls. So that when M asks them what kind of music they want to hear on YouTube, they never answer The Beatles or Van Morrison. They answer like S did today, with "Drops of Jupiter" (That band was called Train in case you blinked) or "Shattered: Turn the Car Around" (OAR). And little musical S, who remembers every syllable of everything, sweetly sings the pablum that is Train as though it were the most gentle of lullabies. Of course, this he does without a HINT of irony, which sends M through the roof. It also begs the question of why I bother to take them to music class at all, if I am going to make them listen to/appreciate schlock on the way to the class.
But there it is. Which explains why S has been singing "Around Midnight" from a soon to be forgotten band with the douchy pretentious name of Airborne Toxic Event. And why last night, as he was playing with his Star Wars figures, he reenacted the Robot Chicken coffee break scene: "Get your hands off me, asshole. I was hired to kill wookees."
Stand back--Parent of the Year coming through.
Also, while M and I have cultivated our wry, dangerously dry, and completely jaded senses of humour over the last thirty years, our children seem to be immersed in daily ennui therapy and are in a DeVry crash course on sarcasm and vulgar comebacks so they will be properly void of any wonder and sweetness by the age of eight.
Additionally, M (and while I usually assume responsibility for these things jointly, this is squarely on his shoulders) feels obligated to allow our children to watch WILDLY inappropriate things on YouTube. So, in addition to wasting the lives of millions of teenagers across the world, YouTube is now sucking the sweetness right out of my little babies. For example, my kids LOVE the Gilly bit from SNL. They also like snippets from a TV show on Cartoon Network's Adult Swim called Robot Chicken. I don't know what the show is usually like, but my kids are hooked on a spoof of Star Wars as acted by stop-action animated Ken dolls, and voiced by supremely pissed off comedians. For example, the Emperor, deplaning his shuttle on to the Death Star starts complaining to Vader: "lemme tell you about my flight. It was a total nightmare. The tray table collapsed and spilled burning hot coffee all over my groin. Seriously. It was like dipping my wang in burning hot lava. But you know something about that, right?" Vader: (sadly, sagging his head) "yes." And, being children, the boys can instantly memorize every last syllable of the damn show, so that randomly, and often in front of people who are judging me (I am not paranoid), they regurgitate this filth leaving me with only nervous laughter and blather about how kids can learn ANYTHING on the Internet these days.
After watching that, though, no wonder my kids no longer have any room in their soul for Max and Ruby or Diego. They just can't watch those shows with unironic eyes anymore. Is that a tragic capitation of their childhood or just good sense? I am not sure. A friend of M's once told the story of his nieces and nephews who would respond out loud when a TV character asked a question and how he was so disappointed in them: "Come ON. I know you kids are smarter than to answer that completely OBVIOUS question." Well, my kids stopped doing that at around 3. "Why is Diego asking us questions, Mom? He can't even tell that we're ignoring him."
Sigh.
I, on the other hand, am completely responsible for another parenting failure. My kids are now totally obsessed with bad, one-hit wonder bands from the 90s. I realize that I have no musical taste whatsoever. (See: Coldplay collection on my ipod). I realize that occasionally I find myself singing along to the worst theme music ever (but Jimmy Buffett is on the radio ALL the time here.) Since my kids spend a huge amount of time with me in the car, driving all over creation to take their spoiled selves to activities to enrich the mind and body, they have adopted some of my musical pitfalls. So that when M asks them what kind of music they want to hear on YouTube, they never answer The Beatles or Van Morrison. They answer like S did today, with "Drops of Jupiter" (That band was called Train in case you blinked) or "Shattered: Turn the Car Around" (OAR). And little musical S, who remembers every syllable of everything, sweetly sings the pablum that is Train as though it were the most gentle of lullabies. Of course, this he does without a HINT of irony, which sends M through the roof. It also begs the question of why I bother to take them to music class at all, if I am going to make them listen to/appreciate schlock on the way to the class.
But there it is. Which explains why S has been singing "Around Midnight" from a soon to be forgotten band with the douchy pretentious name of Airborne Toxic Event. And why last night, as he was playing with his Star Wars figures, he reenacted the Robot Chicken coffee break scene: "Get your hands off me, asshole. I was hired to kill wookees."
Stand back--Parent of the Year coming through.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Julie's Daytime Emmy Awards
Daytime Emmy Awards were given out yesterday. Daytime television doesn't really deserve any awards in my opinion. Has anyone under 72 watched daytime tv lately? Who has time? The Today Show? Honestly? I mean, it's basically a 4 hour marathon of insultingly inane "information" designed and (sponsored?) to get you out to the stores and consume stuff. They seem always to stuff in a segment to make you horribly afraid of something, too...ground beef, Botox, nail salons with fungus, contaminated spinach salads, stuff that people in third world countries don't even have, and stuff we are afraid of only because we have the luxury of not being afraid of REAL things (starvation, disease, lions). The Today Show makes me want to banish NBC from my remote control presets. I can picture the producer standing next to the cameraman making the "stretch" signal all morning long, so that a 45 second blurb about a snake in a toilet in Florida becomes an hour long dialog about how once Matt Lauer saw a lizard in his dressing room. I'd rather listen to thrash metal for 4 hours. To make matters worse, they put on Kathie Lee Gifford in the morning...or Kathie Lee, or Kathie Gifford. I'm pretty sure she's drunk all morning long. Her voice is about as relaxed as her husband's overly tucked facial muscles.
ANYWAY, I digress. Daytime Emmy Awards. Yes. Kevin Clash (Elmo) won for performance in a children's show. Which is funny, because kid's wouldn't recognize Kevin Clash if they met him. It's also strange that a tall, handsome black man is the voice of Elmo. Don't you picture Elmo's voice as coming from someone like the "Inconceivable" guy from The Princess Bride?
So, in honor of Kevin Clash, Sesame Street (which I love), and decent children's programming everywhere, I have decided to honor these shows with Zombies. (Those are my awards' names. Because of their degenerative effect on my children...love that electronic babysitter).
Most Phallic Kid's Character: The One-Eyed Penis from Yo! Gabba Gabba!
Most Irritating Kid's Character: Still, Barney after all these years.
Most Annoying New Character Clearly Created for Marketing Purposes: Abbie Kadabby of Sesame Street
Best Soundtrack for a Kid's Show: The Backyardigans
Most Soothing Animated Kid's Show: Little Bear
Most Psychedelic Kid's Show: Oswald (WTF is with this show? Snowmen run the ice cream shop, an octopus voiced by Fred Savage lives outside the water, his best friend is a roller skating daisy, his dog is a hot dog IN A BUN named Wienie, he lives next door to a penguin voiced by Squiggy from Laverne and Shirley. I mean HUH?)
Kid's Show Most Likely to Cause Nightmares: Clifford the Big Red Dog (Stomps through city, terrorizing Wienie...awesome crossover episode idea)
Lamest Idea from a Previously Winning Team: Dinosaur Train from the Jim Henson Studios
(I can see the pitch meeting for that: let's see, what do boys like? Dinosaurs and Thomas the Tank Engine....let's put those together and make 3 dinos purple so the girls will watch. Ugh)
TV Show Most Clearly Made to be a Video Game: Wow Wow Wubzy! (Did you know that Wubzy is a boy?)
Kid's Show Most Palatable to Adults: The Penguins of Madagascar. I would actually watch this show by myself. It is genuinely funny without the use of bodily functions, sight gags, or physical humor.
So, those would be my picks. Of course, the other winners of the REAL Emmys: Rachael Ray, Bold and the Beautiful, Susan Lucci, those stars and their shows don't really exist. They are just filler between the pharmaceutical commercials. But if it weren't for those ads, how would you know that you have Restless Leg Syndrome and need a medication that might cause irritability, dry mouth and death?
Just sit back and watch some Penguins.
ANYWAY, I digress. Daytime Emmy Awards. Yes. Kevin Clash (Elmo) won for performance in a children's show. Which is funny, because kid's wouldn't recognize Kevin Clash if they met him. It's also strange that a tall, handsome black man is the voice of Elmo. Don't you picture Elmo's voice as coming from someone like the "Inconceivable" guy from The Princess Bride?
So, in honor of Kevin Clash, Sesame Street (which I love), and decent children's programming everywhere, I have decided to honor these shows with Zombies. (Those are my awards' names. Because of their degenerative effect on my children...love that electronic babysitter).
Most Phallic Kid's Character: The One-Eyed Penis from Yo! Gabba Gabba!
Most Irritating Kid's Character: Still, Barney after all these years.
Most Annoying New Character Clearly Created for Marketing Purposes: Abbie Kadabby of Sesame Street
Best Soundtrack for a Kid's Show: The Backyardigans
Most Soothing Animated Kid's Show: Little Bear
Most Psychedelic Kid's Show: Oswald (WTF is with this show? Snowmen run the ice cream shop, an octopus voiced by Fred Savage lives outside the water, his best friend is a roller skating daisy, his dog is a hot dog IN A BUN named Wienie, he lives next door to a penguin voiced by Squiggy from Laverne and Shirley. I mean HUH?)
Kid's Show Most Likely to Cause Nightmares: Clifford the Big Red Dog (Stomps through city, terrorizing Wienie...awesome crossover episode idea)
Lamest Idea from a Previously Winning Team: Dinosaur Train from the Jim Henson Studios
(I can see the pitch meeting for that: let's see, what do boys like? Dinosaurs and Thomas the Tank Engine....let's put those together and make 3 dinos purple so the girls will watch. Ugh)
TV Show Most Clearly Made to be a Video Game: Wow Wow Wubzy! (Did you know that Wubzy is a boy?)
Kid's Show Most Palatable to Adults: The Penguins of Madagascar. I would actually watch this show by myself. It is genuinely funny without the use of bodily functions, sight gags, or physical humor.
So, those would be my picks. Of course, the other winners of the REAL Emmys: Rachael Ray, Bold and the Beautiful, Susan Lucci, those stars and their shows don't really exist. They are just filler between the pharmaceutical commercials. But if it weren't for those ads, how would you know that you have Restless Leg Syndrome and need a medication that might cause irritability, dry mouth and death?
Just sit back and watch some Penguins.
Monday, July 6, 2009
BA--Bejeweled Anonymous
I have never been much of an addictive personality. I like certain things, don't get me wrong. I mean my nightly cocktail is pretty essential. Of course, I have my obsessive crazies, but addiction has never been one of them.
But tonight, I post out of fear of addiction. I have that hand-trembling, stomach churning need right now. I am worried about myself. I am worried that tonight when I go to sleep I will be dreaming of my next fix.
One of my Facebook friends got me hooked. I blame her completely. I will forever be an addict. Even if I stop tomorrow, I will be an addict.
I am not trying to make light or minimize the pain of addiction. I think there are places where the symptoms of addiction are enumerated.
A frequent symptom cited is an "inability to perform normal responsibilities." Well, there is a pile of dishes in the sink, a heap of laundry in the laundry room, my house is a mess, and M tells me it is very hot in here as I forgot to adjust the thermostat when I came in this afternoon.
Another symptom is that the sufferer continues to use substances or engage in behavior even when it is dangerous. Ok, maybe not dangerous, but certainly negligent to my children.
Suddenly, I have a fresh empathy for gamblers or compulsive porn watchers.
I want to come clean now. I want the cycle of addiction to break.
I am hooked on Bejeweled. I need help. Some one has to remove that tantalizing bookmark icon from the bottom of my Facebook page. Hours, days of my life are going to swirl down the drain of Bejeweled. The eternal challenge of a higher personal best--the humiliation and disappointment of all-time lows. This is my future--unless something can be done, I will be lost to Bejeweled.
This is a cry for help.
But tonight, I post out of fear of addiction. I have that hand-trembling, stomach churning need right now. I am worried about myself. I am worried that tonight when I go to sleep I will be dreaming of my next fix.
One of my Facebook friends got me hooked. I blame her completely. I will forever be an addict. Even if I stop tomorrow, I will be an addict.
I am not trying to make light or minimize the pain of addiction. I think there are places where the symptoms of addiction are enumerated.
A frequent symptom cited is an "inability to perform normal responsibilities." Well, there is a pile of dishes in the sink, a heap of laundry in the laundry room, my house is a mess, and M tells me it is very hot in here as I forgot to adjust the thermostat when I came in this afternoon.
Another symptom is that the sufferer continues to use substances or engage in behavior even when it is dangerous. Ok, maybe not dangerous, but certainly negligent to my children.
Suddenly, I have a fresh empathy for gamblers or compulsive porn watchers.
I want to come clean now. I want the cycle of addiction to break.
I am hooked on Bejeweled. I need help. Some one has to remove that tantalizing bookmark icon from the bottom of my Facebook page. Hours, days of my life are going to swirl down the drain of Bejeweled. The eternal challenge of a higher personal best--the humiliation and disappointment of all-time lows. This is my future--unless something can be done, I will be lost to Bejeweled.
This is a cry for help.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Fake TV Shows I Suspect My Children Are Watching
I carefully monitor my children's television intake: they watch only Noggin or PBS or Nick Jr. Sometimes, if E is desperate, I will let him watch something violent on Cartoon Network. (I swore I never would.)
There are all kinds of studies that demonstrate children are deeply affected by what they see on TV. Violence, behaviour modeling, every aspect of their personality is altered, however minutely, when they watch TV.
But, I am beginning to suspect that my children are watching TV that I have not approved. I am not sure when they find the time (in between pestering me and pestering me?) to find these shows, but they must be--for I can think of no other source for some of their more "colorful" behaviour.
First, How to Throw A Celebrity Tantrum. There must be a show with a bunch of starlets whose names I only vaguely recognize and aspiring leading men who have that floppy, ridiculous hair and somewhat effeminate faces (probably because they are barely pubescent) who show their bad behaviour when the clerk at Gucci doesn't have the belt/purse they are so desperate to drop a couple of grand on. But, my children have this petulant whine and stomping foot combination that reeks of spoiled star. S will lay on the floor and in total monotone, repeat endlessly, "But I'm still hungry," until he is either yelled at or fed. Ridiculous.
Second, Becoming A Lawyer in 30 Minutes per Day. This must-be infomercial-type programming was hosted by Billy May until his recent passing. The show teaches lawyer-ese, negotiation methods, and how to appear as though you are offering a service when really you are giving your client the shaft.
Third, I Live Like a Millionaire, (but make no money). The kids have parties, playdates, swimdates, and restaurant luncheons behind them, and three vacations ahead of them. They wake up and ask, "what are we doing today?" E claims that we are eating out less often, until I remind him that I take him and his brother out to eat lunch three days per week! They have full housekeeping, laundry, chef services, companionship and entertainment budgets. They have nearly any Netflix movie a kid could dream of, a Blu Ray disk player and big screen to watch it on. And the words "Thank you" are becoming less and less a part of their vocabularies.
So, I am thinking of pre-programming the DVR with some shows I'd like them to see:
SuperNanny/Nanny 911. I'd like them to see what it would be like to have some one whip them in to shape. It'd be nice to have a lovely British woman who doesn't take any BS come and whip my little darlings into shape. I picture jaws agape and defiance. But slowly, that triumphant conclusion where a child no longer treats his mother like a short order cook is so enviable.
Second, Any Soap Opera. I'd like them to remember that there are always going to be children who will need therapy more than they.
C-Span. My children need to learn that not everything in this world is entertainment for them.
Dirty Jobs: As a friendly reminder that if they don't love us, treat us nicely, and respect us, we will spend their college savings on a 365 day long cruise, and they will find themselves shoveling pig manure into heaps for some energy product that THEY could have invented if only they had treated their parents better.
I think I need a programming gig at Fox, no?
There are all kinds of studies that demonstrate children are deeply affected by what they see on TV. Violence, behaviour modeling, every aspect of their personality is altered, however minutely, when they watch TV.
But, I am beginning to suspect that my children are watching TV that I have not approved. I am not sure when they find the time (in between pestering me and pestering me?) to find these shows, but they must be--for I can think of no other source for some of their more "colorful" behaviour.
First, How to Throw A Celebrity Tantrum. There must be a show with a bunch of starlets whose names I only vaguely recognize and aspiring leading men who have that floppy, ridiculous hair and somewhat effeminate faces (probably because they are barely pubescent) who show their bad behaviour when the clerk at Gucci doesn't have the belt/purse they are so desperate to drop a couple of grand on. But, my children have this petulant whine and stomping foot combination that reeks of spoiled star. S will lay on the floor and in total monotone, repeat endlessly, "But I'm still hungry," until he is either yelled at or fed. Ridiculous.
Second, Becoming A Lawyer in 30 Minutes per Day. This must-be infomercial-type programming was hosted by Billy May until his recent passing. The show teaches lawyer-ese, negotiation methods, and how to appear as though you are offering a service when really you are giving your client the shaft.
Third, I Live Like a Millionaire, (but make no money). The kids have parties, playdates, swimdates, and restaurant luncheons behind them, and three vacations ahead of them. They wake up and ask, "what are we doing today?" E claims that we are eating out less often, until I remind him that I take him and his brother out to eat lunch three days per week! They have full housekeeping, laundry, chef services, companionship and entertainment budgets. They have nearly any Netflix movie a kid could dream of, a Blu Ray disk player and big screen to watch it on. And the words "Thank you" are becoming less and less a part of their vocabularies.
So, I am thinking of pre-programming the DVR with some shows I'd like them to see:
SuperNanny/Nanny 911. I'd like them to see what it would be like to have some one whip them in to shape. It'd be nice to have a lovely British woman who doesn't take any BS come and whip my little darlings into shape. I picture jaws agape and defiance. But slowly, that triumphant conclusion where a child no longer treats his mother like a short order cook is so enviable.
Second, Any Soap Opera. I'd like them to remember that there are always going to be children who will need therapy more than they.
C-Span. My children need to learn that not everything in this world is entertainment for them.
Dirty Jobs: As a friendly reminder that if they don't love us, treat us nicely, and respect us, we will spend their college savings on a 365 day long cruise, and they will find themselves shoveling pig manure into heaps for some energy product that THEY could have invented if only they had treated their parents better.
I think I need a programming gig at Fox, no?
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Midnight Mayhem
There is a recently not-renewed, failing in the ratings, extended miniseries on TV right now. It is poorly acted, poorly scripted, and completely terrible. The plot represents something like Melrose Place meets Survivor. Only rather than getting voted off the island, our characters are individually picked off by a sadistic and really stealthy mass murderer. So, I confess, I have been watching every episode of Harper's Island.
Last night we made the mistake of watching it last thing before bedtime. Then, I had to go outside in the dark all alone, to let the dog pee. When I come inside, M is waiting around the corner and scares the living daylights out of me. In the total dark of the house, he's whispering "die, die, die" as we go up the stairs. In the dark bedroom, I turn on my nightstand light, and he's like 4 inches from my face, making the I'm about to stab you gesture and wearing a psychopath expression. Absolute cardiac arrest.
By now, I have enough adrenaline in my blood to run to Pensacola, and it's unlikely that I will be dozing off anytime soon.
M raises his eyebrows at me in the universal husband signal for "hey, baby..." and I respond with, "doing it would be more terrifying than the movie." And that is his punishment for scaring me.
I tell him that we should hope neither kid wanders into our room in the middle of the night, as I will be in heightened self-defense mode, and will probably knock him out. (Actually, E DID wander in to our room, and I managed to differentiate his profile from that of serial killer, and slept with him in his room for a while. He was having nightmares--and really who am I not to empathize with that? Also, his room has REALLY spooky noises at night.)
Finally, the adrenaline starts to ebb, and I can hear M's breathing start to become more shallow and even and quiet. I am feeling bitter that he can just go to sleep unaffected by the terrifying slaughter of a bunch of twenty-somethings alone on an island in the Pacific Northwest. (As a side note, what family knows only beautiful people, consists of only beautiful people, and manages to stay beautiful despite being hunted through the beautiful forests and beautiful rustic towns of Washington State?) My bitterness grows. I am lying there, thinking of the gruesome dis-arming of one of tonight's characters. I am also irritated that I have been sucked into this idiotic show. It's B-A-D. I start silently speculating how many weeks of the show are left, and whom, among the final 7 are going to make it back to civilization. Then, I realize I am STILL awake, and still affected by this stupid show.
So, I sneak up right above M, grasp him suddenly, and give him a scary "argh!" He sits upright in bed, totally disoriented and scared. I feel better about everything, roll over to sleep, and leave him lying next to me, adrenaline pumping.
Last night we made the mistake of watching it last thing before bedtime. Then, I had to go outside in the dark all alone, to let the dog pee. When I come inside, M is waiting around the corner and scares the living daylights out of me. In the total dark of the house, he's whispering "die, die, die" as we go up the stairs. In the dark bedroom, I turn on my nightstand light, and he's like 4 inches from my face, making the I'm about to stab you gesture and wearing a psychopath expression. Absolute cardiac arrest.
By now, I have enough adrenaline in my blood to run to Pensacola, and it's unlikely that I will be dozing off anytime soon.
M raises his eyebrows at me in the universal husband signal for "hey, baby..." and I respond with, "doing it would be more terrifying than the movie." And that is his punishment for scaring me.
I tell him that we should hope neither kid wanders into our room in the middle of the night, as I will be in heightened self-defense mode, and will probably knock him out. (Actually, E DID wander in to our room, and I managed to differentiate his profile from that of serial killer, and slept with him in his room for a while. He was having nightmares--and really who am I not to empathize with that? Also, his room has REALLY spooky noises at night.)
Finally, the adrenaline starts to ebb, and I can hear M's breathing start to become more shallow and even and quiet. I am feeling bitter that he can just go to sleep unaffected by the terrifying slaughter of a bunch of twenty-somethings alone on an island in the Pacific Northwest. (As a side note, what family knows only beautiful people, consists of only beautiful people, and manages to stay beautiful despite being hunted through the beautiful forests and beautiful rustic towns of Washington State?) My bitterness grows. I am lying there, thinking of the gruesome dis-arming of one of tonight's characters. I am also irritated that I have been sucked into this idiotic show. It's B-A-D. I start silently speculating how many weeks of the show are left, and whom, among the final 7 are going to make it back to civilization. Then, I realize I am STILL awake, and still affected by this stupid show.
So, I sneak up right above M, grasp him suddenly, and give him a scary "argh!" He sits upright in bed, totally disoriented and scared. I feel better about everything, roll over to sleep, and leave him lying next to me, adrenaline pumping.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Not-So-Guilty Pleasures
EVERYBODY has guilty pleasures...Godiva Chocolate, reality TV, Ben and Jerry's, gin and tonic, all of these at the same time, whatever. Sometimes we are even made to feel guilty over a pleasure that is not indulgent or embarrassing. Over the last day, I have discovered that Night At the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian is a made-to-feel-guilty pleasure. But, I sit here proudly in my workout clothes (for which there is no workout in sight...) and say, "Nay. I defy you to watch that movie and tell me it was not fun!" In fact, I will go further, and assert that this movie was more fun than the last.
Gasp. I hear that taken aback silence. I hear you snickering. Ok, now I hear your outright laughter. So, sue me. It was fun. Allow me to present my evidence:
1. Ben Stiller is a quality leading man. He is funny, handsome, and can legitimately deliver a straight line. He was good as the schlep guard in the first movie, and he is good in this film as the newly-confident businessman. He actively convinces us of his character, demonstrates how his character has matured since we saw him last, and wins us over with charm, good looks, and genuine affection for his museum friends.
2. Amy Adams is a star. First off, she is talented. Second, she is beautiful. Third, she's in practically every scene of this movie, and rocking it. Her staccato delivery of her olde-tyme language is convincing and bizarrely natural. Her soft smile and bouncy hairdo are disarming and sweet. Her enthusiasm for her character is solid and contagious. She's got that "goget'em, girl" attitude and we're buying.
3. The writing was solid. The jokes were a combination of subtle and over the top in a movie that was visually over the top. The plot, though obviously (and intentionally) implausible, was straightforward and clear. The writers didn't give us a convoluted story line, overfilled with backstory. The plot was linear, sensible, and as far as fantasy premises go, rational.
4. The visual gags were worth it. Let's face it, there was a lot going on in this movie. But if you've ever been to the Smithsonian, it feels like there's a lot going on there, too. The Smithsonian has often been referred to as the nation's attic. The visual atmosphere of the movie complemented that notion beautifully. Things were random, yet not unpredictable. Funny, but not totally ridiculous. Would you not believe there's a giant squid specimen in the Smithsonian? Sure. Would you not believe that you could see a mummy, Archie Bunker's chair, and a taxidermied hippo in one day were you to tour the museums? Sure. It works. The Wright Brothers eating freeze-dried NASA ice cream is funny. The original actors from the Apollo 13 cast having cameo roles as launch technicians in the Air and Space Museum is funny. Bringing crappy souvenir dolls to life as rocket scientists is funny.
5. This was not a movie about stupid gags. This was not about turning the corner in a museum to be terrified by a screeching T Rex. This wasn't about silly Jim Carey faces or bodily function jokes. This was an entertaining movie about a guy and his friends saving the world from a power-hungry villain. It happens that it was not violent, didn't have foul language or sex, and happens to be rated PG. It happens that some of the heroes are animated mannequins or miniatures, sure, but that's not what the movie was about.
So, I will be shouting from the rooftops that I had fun at Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian. It's not my favorite movie of all time or anything, but I didn't feel ripped off, either. I was promised an entertaining, escapist, comedy, and Museum delivered on that promise.
And, by the way, "pitchy" cupid Jonas Brothers ARE FUNNY.
Gasp. I hear that taken aback silence. I hear you snickering. Ok, now I hear your outright laughter. So, sue me. It was fun. Allow me to present my evidence:
1. Ben Stiller is a quality leading man. He is funny, handsome, and can legitimately deliver a straight line. He was good as the schlep guard in the first movie, and he is good in this film as the newly-confident businessman. He actively convinces us of his character, demonstrates how his character has matured since we saw him last, and wins us over with charm, good looks, and genuine affection for his museum friends.
2. Amy Adams is a star. First off, she is talented. Second, she is beautiful. Third, she's in practically every scene of this movie, and rocking it. Her staccato delivery of her olde-tyme language is convincing and bizarrely natural. Her soft smile and bouncy hairdo are disarming and sweet. Her enthusiasm for her character is solid and contagious. She's got that "goget'em, girl" attitude and we're buying.
3. The writing was solid. The jokes were a combination of subtle and over the top in a movie that was visually over the top. The plot, though obviously (and intentionally) implausible, was straightforward and clear. The writers didn't give us a convoluted story line, overfilled with backstory. The plot was linear, sensible, and as far as fantasy premises go, rational.
4. The visual gags were worth it. Let's face it, there was a lot going on in this movie. But if you've ever been to the Smithsonian, it feels like there's a lot going on there, too. The Smithsonian has often been referred to as the nation's attic. The visual atmosphere of the movie complemented that notion beautifully. Things were random, yet not unpredictable. Funny, but not totally ridiculous. Would you not believe there's a giant squid specimen in the Smithsonian? Sure. Would you not believe that you could see a mummy, Archie Bunker's chair, and a taxidermied hippo in one day were you to tour the museums? Sure. It works. The Wright Brothers eating freeze-dried NASA ice cream is funny. The original actors from the Apollo 13 cast having cameo roles as launch technicians in the Air and Space Museum is funny. Bringing crappy souvenir dolls to life as rocket scientists is funny.
5. This was not a movie about stupid gags. This was not about turning the corner in a museum to be terrified by a screeching T Rex. This wasn't about silly Jim Carey faces or bodily function jokes. This was an entertaining movie about a guy and his friends saving the world from a power-hungry villain. It happens that it was not violent, didn't have foul language or sex, and happens to be rated PG. It happens that some of the heroes are animated mannequins or miniatures, sure, but that's not what the movie was about.
So, I will be shouting from the rooftops that I had fun at Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian. It's not my favorite movie of all time or anything, but I didn't feel ripped off, either. I was promised an entertaining, escapist, comedy, and Museum delivered on that promise.
And, by the way, "pitchy" cupid Jonas Brothers ARE FUNNY.
Monday, May 25, 2009
An Open Letter Regarding Facebook
When I joined FB, it was really to keep in touch with people--not to find old flames, check up on old classmates, or really 'rediscover' anyone. I did it to communicate with the same people I email, by and large, only more often.
So, this weekend, I exchanged emails with a friend from Chicago. I tried to persuade her to join FB, and she declined, insisting on her "dinosaur" ways. This is the email I sent her, slightly edited, to convince her to join. I have converted it to an open letter to my friends and family to join FB to keep in touch:
Dear Friends,
The thing about FB is this. Yes, it is a gigantic time suck. Guilty guilty guilty. I mean the other day, I actually invested time to take the quiz to see which totally awesome animated film character I am (Edna from The Incredibles) and making lists (5 things which everyone seems to like that I don't: anorexic girls, Hollywood remakes, winter, televised high speed chases, and American Idol)
But, I NEVER spend time looking for old friends, because if they want me they can come and find me.(Good luck spelling my married name, losers from high school!) and I get short, brief updates every day from people, like a 5 minute conversation while dropping the kids off at school. It's more natural than having to remember everything I've done for the last 6 months, condense it into letter/email and sending it off. Like, for example, MC (who I NEVER see or talk to unless college friends are getting married) has a massive nesting instinct at the start of her third trimester. And that's cute. I feel involved. It's also voyeuristic--I know NOTHING about another friend, LSJ, except that 1. her wedding pictures were gorgeous and 2. she just joined a Professional Women's Group on FB. So. There ya go. I always have photos on my page, for one thing. You can also find critical information about me revealed through quizes: which zoo animals do I like? I know you're wondering. The answer is Okapis--find out why on my FB page...., my favorite smells: plumeria, beach smell, bleach...You can also find non-essential information like what my hippie name is, or what my birthdate reveals about me, what character from The Office I am like.
Also, don't you dare join Twitter. I will not read something, no matter how profound, if it is called a tweet.
Love,
J
So, this weekend, I exchanged emails with a friend from Chicago. I tried to persuade her to join FB, and she declined, insisting on her "dinosaur" ways. This is the email I sent her, slightly edited, to convince her to join. I have converted it to an open letter to my friends and family to join FB to keep in touch:
Dear Friends,
The thing about FB is this. Yes, it is a gigantic time suck. Guilty guilty guilty. I mean the other day, I actually invested time to take the quiz to see which totally awesome animated film character I am (Edna from The Incredibles) and making lists (5 things which everyone seems to like that I don't: anorexic girls, Hollywood remakes, winter, televised high speed chases, and American Idol)
But, I NEVER spend time looking for old friends, because if they want me they can come and find me.(Good luck spelling my married name, losers from high school!) and I get short, brief updates every day from people, like a 5 minute conversation while dropping the kids off at school. It's more natural than having to remember everything I've done for the last 6 months, condense it into letter/email and sending it off. Like, for example, MC (who I NEVER see or talk to unless college friends are getting married) has a massive nesting instinct at the start of her third trimester. And that's cute. I feel involved. It's also voyeuristic--I know NOTHING about another friend, LSJ, except that 1. her wedding pictures were gorgeous and 2. she just joined a Professional Women's Group on FB. So. There ya go. I always have photos on my page, for one thing. You can also find critical information about me revealed through quizes: which zoo animals do I like? I know you're wondering. The answer is Okapis--find out why on my FB page...., my favorite smells: plumeria, beach smell, bleach...You can also find non-essential information like what my hippie name is, or what my birthdate reveals about me, what character from The Office I am like.
Also, don't you dare join Twitter. I will not read something, no matter how profound, if it is called a tweet.
Love,
J
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Ice Crapades
There are things I do for my children that I would not do for anybody else in the world. I go to McDonald's, I wipe boogers, I get up in the middle of the night. I spend time and money on things that would otherwise be avoided like swine flu. Last night, M and I went to Disney on Ice's "Special" performance of "Worlds of Fantasy." I have questions:
1. Whose fantasy involves bad ice skaters wearing muppets? Muppets, maybe. But ice skates are dangerous.
2. Who were those people there WITHOUT children? M argues that these are the otherwise sane-looking adults who wear theme sweatshirts from Disney World. Awww..look. That woman with the bad perm is feeling Eeyorish this morning.
3. What is the Circle of Life? And why didn't it end before I walked into the Mobile Civic Center?
4. How can ice with sugar syrup cost $10? Why are parents willing to put such a steep price tag on their children's love?
5. Are there ever concessions at these shows NOT so sticky as to require commercial grade solvents to remove?
6. Why were there teenagers on a date behind us? Worst date ever! The poor guy is gonna look cheap if he doesn't buy his date the cotton candy with the Tinkerbell hat for $12, but he had to work 3 hours at Taco Bell stuffing gorditas for that money. Hardly seems fair.
7. Why did I see Honey Helper #2 from Winnie the Pooh: Live selling programs last night? Why did I see Winnie the Pooh: Live?
8. How is it possible that the Tinkerbell segment was totally incomprehensible to me? Did I miss a movie?
9. Why did they assure us that "theatrical smoke" used during the performance was completely safe? I mean, I assumed it was before you mentioned it. And what about the bubbles? Nobody told me the bubbles were safe.
10. Why do kids like spinning flashlights?
11. Why did the stampeding herd of gnus from the Lion King segment do such a halfhearted performance? Somebody backstage was not getting everything from his performers.
12. At what point to the performers think, "I've made it into showbiz. That's my 1974 Winnebago out front and I live there with 6 men who play garden fairies, and I have arrived."?
13. At what point do the performers' parents think, "really? I drove to ice skating lessons 5 days a week for 15 years for THIS? My kid (age 24) is seahorse choir member #3 in a florescent slinky outfit?
As the questions accumulated in my brain (clearly, brain was not occupied by show), I kept watching M. Who was missing the Bruins game. And didn't seem to find my assurances that Disney on ice is like three-quarters of hockey. Ice. Zamboni Machine. Animals in the rink. People carrying sticks (with butterflies on them). Mermaids...oh, wait. Not that part. M had this ten mile stare on his face. The face he gets when he starts trying to remember starting pitching rotations for the 1908 Detroit Tigers. The face he gets when he is mentally moving himself somewhere less tortuous. I wish I could do that. He tuned in to the show twice--once when Prince Eric almost dropped Ariel and once when Tinkerbell fell on her Tinkerbutt. I think those were his favorite parts.
My favorite part was knowing my kids won't ever take ice skating lessons.
1. Whose fantasy involves bad ice skaters wearing muppets? Muppets, maybe. But ice skates are dangerous.
2. Who were those people there WITHOUT children? M argues that these are the otherwise sane-looking adults who wear theme sweatshirts from Disney World. Awww..look. That woman with the bad perm is feeling Eeyorish this morning.
3. What is the Circle of Life? And why didn't it end before I walked into the Mobile Civic Center?
4. How can ice with sugar syrup cost $10? Why are parents willing to put such a steep price tag on their children's love?
5. Are there ever concessions at these shows NOT so sticky as to require commercial grade solvents to remove?
6. Why were there teenagers on a date behind us? Worst date ever! The poor guy is gonna look cheap if he doesn't buy his date the cotton candy with the Tinkerbell hat for $12, but he had to work 3 hours at Taco Bell stuffing gorditas for that money. Hardly seems fair.
7. Why did I see Honey Helper #2 from Winnie the Pooh: Live selling programs last night? Why did I see Winnie the Pooh: Live?
8. How is it possible that the Tinkerbell segment was totally incomprehensible to me? Did I miss a movie?
9. Why did they assure us that "theatrical smoke" used during the performance was completely safe? I mean, I assumed it was before you mentioned it. And what about the bubbles? Nobody told me the bubbles were safe.
10. Why do kids like spinning flashlights?
11. Why did the stampeding herd of gnus from the Lion King segment do such a halfhearted performance? Somebody backstage was not getting everything from his performers.
12. At what point to the performers think, "I've made it into showbiz. That's my 1974 Winnebago out front and I live there with 6 men who play garden fairies, and I have arrived."?
13. At what point do the performers' parents think, "really? I drove to ice skating lessons 5 days a week for 15 years for THIS? My kid (age 24) is seahorse choir member #3 in a florescent slinky outfit?
As the questions accumulated in my brain (clearly, brain was not occupied by show), I kept watching M. Who was missing the Bruins game. And didn't seem to find my assurances that Disney on ice is like three-quarters of hockey. Ice. Zamboni Machine. Animals in the rink. People carrying sticks (with butterflies on them). Mermaids...oh, wait. Not that part. M had this ten mile stare on his face. The face he gets when he starts trying to remember starting pitching rotations for the 1908 Detroit Tigers. The face he gets when he is mentally moving himself somewhere less tortuous. I wish I could do that. He tuned in to the show twice--once when Prince Eric almost dropped Ariel and once when Tinkerbell fell on her Tinkerbutt. I think those were his favorite parts.
My favorite part was knowing my kids won't ever take ice skating lessons.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Artificial Intelligence
Yesterday, being Sunday, I loitered for a long time on Facebook. I was taking very important quizzes (What alcohol are you? Tequila. What How I Met Your Mother character are you? Marshall. Who were you in your former life? Pablo Picasso) and while I was very satisfied with the results (we all know I am no classy cognac), something weird started to happen.
Down at the bottom of the screen of one of my results pages, was this phrase, "Julie, Michael thinks you are an idiot." Now, rationally I know this is one of those ad quizzes that just sucks you in to a cell phone company or something, but then I got to thinking.
How did Facebook know that? I've always suspected, but Facebook seemed so sure. And Facebook knows everything. I mean, of course, if I were a Golden Girl, I would be Dorothy. And clearly, if I were a car, I'd be a Corolla.
What if my computer really started speaking to me; telling me other truths? What if I ran spellcheck on a document, and it changed all the phrases to, "you need to stop swearing." or "your children need love, not criticism." Or, what if I Googled something, and all one million hits were, "Julie, you should call your mother. And be nice to her this time." or "Here are some recipes for dinner--get off the computer and cook tonight." What if my George Clooney desktop wallpaper started talking to me: "From here, it looks like you should shower and put on some make up." "You know the screen adds 10 pounds...wait! YOU'RE not on the screen, I am. Go diet, woman!" "It's not you, it's me. I just don't see this relationship going anywhere."
I would be heartbroken. I mean that last moment when I turn off my computer and George is there, all alone on my desktop with no icons around him, it's like he's winking and saying, "Goodnight, babe. See you tomorrow."
But, then again, I'm willing to stray into the realm of sci fi, because of quizzes like the one my friend WB took, "What animal would you ride into battle and what weapon would you carry? Riding a dinosaur, carrying a smaller dinosaur." Awesome. I mean that is just SO WB.
And who would know WB better than a Facebook quiz?
Down at the bottom of the screen of one of my results pages, was this phrase, "Julie, Michael thinks you are an idiot." Now, rationally I know this is one of those ad quizzes that just sucks you in to a cell phone company or something, but then I got to thinking.
How did Facebook know that? I've always suspected, but Facebook seemed so sure. And Facebook knows everything. I mean, of course, if I were a Golden Girl, I would be Dorothy. And clearly, if I were a car, I'd be a Corolla.
What if my computer really started speaking to me; telling me other truths? What if I ran spellcheck on a document, and it changed all the phrases to, "you need to stop swearing." or "your children need love, not criticism." Or, what if I Googled something, and all one million hits were, "Julie, you should call your mother. And be nice to her this time." or "Here are some recipes for dinner--get off the computer and cook tonight." What if my George Clooney desktop wallpaper started talking to me: "From here, it looks like you should shower and put on some make up." "You know the screen adds 10 pounds...wait! YOU'RE not on the screen, I am. Go diet, woman!" "It's not you, it's me. I just don't see this relationship going anywhere."
I would be heartbroken. I mean that last moment when I turn off my computer and George is there, all alone on my desktop with no icons around him, it's like he's winking and saying, "Goodnight, babe. See you tomorrow."
But, then again, I'm willing to stray into the realm of sci fi, because of quizzes like the one my friend WB took, "What animal would you ride into battle and what weapon would you carry? Riding a dinosaur, carrying a smaller dinosaur." Awesome. I mean that is just SO WB.
And who would know WB better than a Facebook quiz?
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