Friday, May 16, 2008

"Spouse" perhaps?

I don't know. If a person has gotten to a point in a relationship where they feel the need to dump their significant other into a vat of acid, can you really call that person a "hubby"? Seems a little, I don't know, friendlier than the situation would warrant.


Very interesting. I've seen a tv report about athletes with these running prostheses. And if you ever get a chance to see one of the runners go, take it. Totally freaking amazing. A small part of it is that you are watching someone overcome a challenge. But honestly, the biggest thing is that it looks really, really cool. It's not Peg Leg Pete dancing a jig. It's watching someone turn into a rocket. It's not about ability, it's about super-ability.

I can kind of see why they might want to put careful consideration into whether they let people use them in the Olympics. A person using a sport model prostheses can actually potentially run faster than a person on two feet. But then again, it's not like steroids and done by a simple injection. Not many people would be willing to have their legs amputated in order to up their level of competition. I'd say not any, but I'm not willing to bet that about some people. But I hardly think there will be an epidemic of people desperate for gold who will be removing limbs for their shot at the 2012 Olympics. Plus, it's not like you just get a prosthesis and suddenly are a world class athlete. You have to learn to walk, literally, before you can run. And for those people who are actually inclined to run, they'd need to practice and train in order to be able to control your running motion. Practice and train. What does that sound like? Oh, I don't know. An athlete?

Maybe they would be too good. But is the fact that they can go faster any more their fault than the fact that Jessie Owens could blow past other athletes? This is competition. People with two feet could be pushed out of competition by people with non-organic limbs. Maybe that will be the spurt that pushes athletics to a whole new level of achievement. Or maybe not. The world is getting faster in many ways. The next wave of evolution may not come from a genetic anomaly. It may come from a laboratory.

Dress for Success

So, my cousin's wedding is common up next weekend. Off to Arkansas. Whoo hooo! Okay, AR is probably not considered a glamor spot. But, I do have a moderate level of expectation here. The best fried pickles I've ever had were at a BBQ joint in Arkansas. Okay, that's also probably not most people's idea of a culinary highlight, but I'm easily entertained.

The big difficulty has been finding something to wear. I actually have semi-formal stuff that I could have pulled out of the closet pretty easily. But this is going to be a small wedding at a college chapel. And I have a major hole in my wardrobe in the pretty/dress/casual area. I just don't have any aspect of my life where a nice summer dress is applicable. Plus I don't have a light and summery dress figure. I look better bundled up. I could totally rock a birkha. But unfortunately, the wedding doesn't take place in Taliban occupied territory.

But I found this great seersucker dress in green and white. Little ruffle placket down the front. It was sleeveless, and I was worried about my fleshy arms in a picture. No problem. I found a matching sweater. Then, miracle of miracles, I found a pair of green and white striped wedges. Who's going to be cute? I am.

Of course this is all in my head. Until I try on the whole outfit at home. Yikes. I looked like a sack of potatoes. Lumpy. Shapeless. And just plain odd. Or both plain and odd. Call it plainodd. You've heard of 10 pounds of crap in a 5 pound bag? I looked like 5 pounds of crap in 10 pound bag. I was totally shocked at how wrong I could be. And totally panicked because there was no way in hell I was going to be photographed in this freak show of an ensemble. To be ensconced in a photo album somewhere looking like I had been invited to the wedding so that I could mop the floors after the reception.

So, in a panic I ran to my go-to establishment - Target. Where I found a purple gingham Isaac Mizrahi shirt dress. Sort of 50s looking, with a full skirt. Sleeves, so no sweater needed. And any pair of white shoes will work. I've tried it on twice, checked everything in a full length mirror, in natural and fluorescent light. I'm almost positive I don't look like a nightmare. Almost. I've been wrong before. Obviously. I'm having people over for mojitos on Sunday, so I may try it on for them and get some extra opinions. Since I can't be trusted. One must never upstage a bride on her day. By looking better than she does. Or much, much worse.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Excuse me. Would you mind letting me get off this before you set it on fire?

Some days I feel like Indiana Jones. Not the happy Indiana Jones, with the golden head thingy. The Indy who's standing on the rope bridge watching the shouting native dude. The shouting native dude who's holding a bow and a fistful flaming arrows.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Death to Bridezilla

Yeah! Yeah! Yeah for the recession! Yeah!!

See? There's always a silver lining.

You might be a Jeff Foxworthy joke if . . .;_ylt=AjQgpBMC0ZDRsC.e1rvKYnlvzwcF

A proven two-step strategy for avoiding prosecution for setting forest fires:

  1. Do not wear a haircut that says "I enjoy light beer, t-shirts with the arms cut out to the waist, quiet walks on the beach and setting forest fires."
  2. Do not set forest fires.

Call the HazMat team

So I'm walking into the bathroom. I see someone coming towards me. I prepare my usual vague, polite, yet non-conversation starting smile. She walks straight from the interior door to the exterior door. Without breaking stride. No hesitation. No apparent contemplation of the act. To clarify, I mean she completely bypassed the sinks. Sailed right by.

Uh, whaaaaa? Even if you went in to get a tissue to blow your nose. Or went in to practice our scales in the really groovy bathroom acoustics. Even if you have hand-sanitizer at your desk that you plan to use. You should at least make a token attempt to wash. A bare moment fanning your hands in the general vicinity of the faucet. If you went to the bathroom to do what god and Mr. Crapper intended, then it's not optional. Soap. Water. Plenty of it.

It's the not breaking stride that is flipping me out. The blatant disregard for sanitary standards. The fact that she must have missed that day in pre-school (splishy-splashy-sploshy, give your hands a washy) is evident. But the fact that over the years (many) she has completely avoided the force of peer pressure. And will walk past the sinks under the very eyes of another human being. The very, very appalled eyes. I would have less trouble with this if she'd even stood there in front of the sinks and made some show of putting thought into "hmmm, how clean are my hands? hmmmm. hmmm. hmmm. Naahhh." Or even tried to avoid my eyes, head ducked in unhygenic shame. Some acknowledgment that this is a step that she was skipping. Nope. That caisson kept rolling along. Fooo-wah.

Deal breaker

Y'all may remember Mr. Fox. I blogged about him periodically. Oh, he of the snappy wardrobe and snazzy silver hair. When last we updated on Foxy, I had determined, after much non-threatening stalking, that he wasn't wearing a wedding band. Which lead me to the bifurcated conclusion that he was either a:) a single, metro-male, on the prowl in the city, or b:) gay.

Well, here's the update.

Yesterday, I got off the train, and was passed by Foxy on the way out to the parking lot. He's a quick little bugger. I did my usual style check. Hair, nice. Shirt, nice. Jeans, nice. Manly Man Commission approved "carry all", nice. RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-thud. I come to a screeching halt at his feet. Man clogs.

There are (once again with the duality), only 2 reasons for man clogs: a:) gay, or b:) such a delusional sense of fashion as may require major anti-psychotic drugs to remedy. I take that back, you can be gay and delusional about fashion. It happens. So really there's only one reason. There's just no excuse for this heinous travesty in footwear. Other than that the doc needs to up your meds. And the wrongness of man clogs on Foxy may have scarred me for life. Ugh. I get the willies just thinking about it. So wrong. So very, very wrong. The only thing worse would have been man capris. Oh, dear god, I've got to stop. I'm just grossing myself out. It's over, baby. It's not me. It's definitely you.

Au revoir, mon petit renard argent. Tant pis. Tant pis.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

At the movies

Well, I went to see Iron Man on Saturday. Here's what I walked away with:

  • Man, I want to see the new Indiana Jones movie. Oh, sure, there's Harrison Ford, lookin' like a house on fire. Aging well, if I do say so. And there look to be some excellent action sequences as well. But what really caught me in the trailer is the almost autonomic reaction I have when I hear Indy's theme music - du-du-du-DU-du-du-DU - And whammo! My hypothalmus twitches. It's like I've been wired to know those sounds mean fun. Hand me my bullwhip. I'm ready to roll.
  • Also looks like a good year for SNL alums. The trailers for the new Adam Sandler and Mike Meyers movies looked funny. Possibly too funny. They could be loaded with all the laughs in the trailers, and you wonder why you paid $9 to see the full movie. Doesn't that aggravate the hell out of you? Of course, I thought that might be the case when I saw the Austin Powers trailer. And damned if the movie didn't have even funnier stuff. So, I'm guardedly optimistic on this front.
  • As to the main attraction itself, I gotta say, when it comes to sci-fi action, Jon Favreau may be the guy to beat these days. He seems to be able to combine the visceral action sequence with the go for the gut storytelling. That is a rare commodity in Hollywood. I think maybe they could have trimmed about 15 minutes out of the movie, but I'd still put it in the A category. And, on a side note, kudos to him for dropping some weight. He's not down to his Swingers fighting weight. But he's stepped back from the looking like a parade float edge.
  • Robert Downey Jr. Hmm. I think I may have discovered why his career is so odd. He's a leading man. No question. He's got the looks. He's got the chops - both serious and comic. He's got big screen presence. But he's never been quite as big as his qualifications would indicate. I think I may have figgered it out. His eyes are really, really dark. So dark that, in close-up, he's really hard to read. There's something about those big dark eyes on the big screen that makes him virtually unreadable. Oh, I think he's worth the extra effort. I can just see how he would have special challenges for a director. Well, special challenges other than his giant trolley full of baggage.
  • And speaking of Mr. Downey's baggage. Boy did it bring him some major creditibility in this roll. When you're talking about hard partying history, you really get a sense that he's a guy who knows whereof he speaks. And also there's an added sense that he knows what redemption is about. Lord knows, redemption is one of my favorite themes. And this boy can act the hell out of it. And likewise, kudos to him for taking care of himself. Very nice.

It Ain't All Eating Peanuts and Drinking Coke

When I was a little kid, I hated going to bed. Couldn't stand it. I'm a natural night owl. Plus, I just knew I'd be missing something. I'd be in my nightie, teeth brushed and face washed, dancing around, begging and begging to stay up. My Dad would look at me, "You think we'll just be sitting around drinking Cokes and eating peanuts, don't you?" "Yes!!" This wasn't a completely unwarranted conclusion on my part. I'd find empty Coke bottles and the peanut jar lid with one peanut left in it (Dad never bothered with a bowl, he'd just pour peanuts into the lid) in the living room. I just knew they were having a good old time without me. If there was Coke drinking going on, I wanted in on it.

And I thought that was what being an adult was all about. Staying up late, sitting in the big chair, watching whatever you wanted on TV, eating peanuts and drinking Coke. And I could not wait. I was going to be the best adult ever.

Now I know that, with three kids, my folks were waiting until bed time to have enough quiet to string 2 thougths together. And they probably weren't sitting around yucking it up. They were returning the house to some semblance of order after whatever catastrophe me and the sibs had cooked up that day. There was all the stuff that you couldn't do with 3 rugrats hanging on you, and the sooner they had us off to bed the sooner all that could get done. What a gyp. And I don't have kids. But I still find that my evenings are often full of restoring order after chaos. Dishes and laundry and vacuuming and bills and grocery shopping. Obviously, as a kid I underestimated the workload that comes along with getting to stay up late at night.

But every once in awhile, I do get those moments, when everything's clean, nobody wants my money, all's right with the world, where I just get to enjoy that time before my now very late bed time, thank you very much. I get to sit in the big chair, eating peanuts, sipping an ice-cold Coca-Cola and enjoying life. Yeah, adulthood is pretty good.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Don't confuse me with logic. Especially at night.

I had always heard that watching several horror movies in a row could give you nightmares. Seems reasonable. I wouldn't know. I can barely watch one through the finger screen, let alone several scream fests. But little did I know that watching a Eureka marathon could do the same thing.

Let's start with the nightmare. My usual, there's an intruder in my room nightmare. A sound alerts me. I'm frozen with fear. I don't know what to do. I try to figure out whether I can make it to the phone and dial 911. I jump from the bed, by this time I'm awake, but I can't shake the dream. It's still with me. I'm still scared.

But here's the twist. Before I jump from bed, I send out an alert regarding the intruder. Send help. Then I move around the house. I realize that there is, indeed, no stranger in my home. I contemplate, sending out a message that it was a false alarm. But if I do that, will they believe me? Will they think that the intruder has me and is forcing me to call off the help team. No, I'll just have to lie down and wait, and when they get here I can explain what happened as they search the house. Embarrassing.

Who's they? I don't know. How am I communicating with them? Oh. Telepathically. Uh-huh. And I should point out that I've been awake enough at this point that I've walked around my room, turned on lights, and totally freaked out the cat. And I'm still contemplating how to deal with the armed security detachment that will be soon entering my home. That's it. No more than 2 SciFi channel shows in a row.


Well, pbllllbbbt! (I think that's way you spell blowing a raspberry. I may have an extra "b" in there.) CNN totally stole my "staycation" word. Bastards. They had no right to steal the word that I stole from somebody else. I stole it fair and square, and they need to stop copying me. Come up with your own things to steal, CNN! Or can't you think up anything orginal to steal yourselves? Ugh. Whatever. Now I have to go steal something else. Thanks a lot.

A VERY Special Lifetime Movie;_ylt=AjIiMLT4yDRUwwBgDzGOg55vzwcF

Okay, with the way the term gets thrown around, this may sound derogatory. Or condescending. I don't mean it in that way in any way shape or form. This story would make the BEST Lifetime movie ever. Seriously. I would get excited, and put it in my calendar. And then pop popcorn, get into my jammies and be on my couch with a glass of wine at least five minutes ahead so that I wouldn't miss a second. This would be appointment TV.

I used to do that a lot on a Sunday night. There used to be Hallmark Hall of Fame movies. Or the big mini-series (North & South, The Stand, any trashy thing from Danielle Steele) that would start on Sunday. I always looked forward to them. And would make my little plans. When I was a teenager, before the popcorn and chardonnay, it was Coke and French onion dip. And I'd bargain with my family to make sure I had unobstructed access to the TV. And woe betide anyone who'd try to watch Sunday night football when I'm trying to watch V.

And basically, this Pavlovian reaction is because of years of pre-conditioning. All the good specials were on Sunday night when I was a kid. The Disney Sunday movie and all the animated specials like Riki Tiki Tavi and the Hobbit. And if anything, the seeds of event TV were sewn by the After School Special. How would I know anything about the real world (anorexia, date rape, leukemia, interracial dating, teen pregnancy, addiction to prescription medicine) if it weren't the After School Special? Really, the entire Lifetime network is After School Specials for women who never grew out of them.

And the story of this student would make the best Movie Event. It's got all the elements. Racial tension. An over achieving young person learning life lessons. A kindly mentor who will dole out advice. Uplifting ending. Well, it's got everything except for one tiny point. It's about a dude. Dang it. Kind of goes against the television for women thing. But I really think an exception could be made here. I mean, they did it for Too Young To Be A Father (although that one was more about his mother).

And, like I said, I don't mean this condescendingly. I just think this would be an excellent Lifetime movie. I want to see him being recruited. His first day. His plucky roommate. His struggle for understanding and acceptance. And the really cute guy they'd get to play him. Oh, my god. I just so want to see this. Lifetime, do it for me. If not you, then who? Spike TV? I think not. Please, please, please. I have the popcorn and wine ready to go.

Oh, boy.

Okay, well, hopefully this will show for my 360 pals. Looks like the site has been blocked from this computer. Bummer. I will figure out what to do and get back with you. I still should be able to communicate from here. But I wanted y'all to know what's going on. See ya in a bit.

TIME: Quotes of the Day