And we're kind of overdue on seeing Yma, so here she is, my sweetie.
Posted by Hello
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Leaving Bisible
I was thinking today about a boy I worked with in Pittsburgh, Miguel. Very sweet, soft spoken, funny; he bussed tables at the restaurant where I worked.
One day he came up to me and said, with a sad and disgusted look, "I am in Bisible."
Where the heck was Bisible? It took me a minute to figure out what he meant, but it stopped me in my tracks when I realized that he meant, "I am invisible." Why would this sweet funny kid say such a thing?
Because when he filled water glasses at the tables, no one looked at him. When he cleared away the used plates, no one looked at him. When he smiled and said hello, and went above and beyond his job, NO ONE looked at him.
How many people do we meet in a day who are, to us, invisible? How many times have we, ourselves, felt invisible? Probably pretty often.
You know what? I'm gonna start looking people in the eye --- the cashier, the video store clerk, the guy at the bus stop. I'm gonna stop being too rushed and self-important, and I'm going to risk making that connection. I'm gonna start trying to really see.
I am an invisible man...I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids --- and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me.
--- Ralph Ellison
Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. --- Hebrews xiii. 2.
One day he came up to me and said, with a sad and disgusted look, "I am in Bisible."
Where the heck was Bisible? It took me a minute to figure out what he meant, but it stopped me in my tracks when I realized that he meant, "I am invisible." Why would this sweet funny kid say such a thing?
Because when he filled water glasses at the tables, no one looked at him. When he cleared away the used plates, no one looked at him. When he smiled and said hello, and went above and beyond his job, NO ONE looked at him.
How many people do we meet in a day who are, to us, invisible? How many times have we, ourselves, felt invisible? Probably pretty often.
You know what? I'm gonna start looking people in the eye --- the cashier, the video store clerk, the guy at the bus stop. I'm gonna stop being too rushed and self-important, and I'm going to risk making that connection. I'm gonna start trying to really see.
I am an invisible man...I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids --- and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me.
--- Ralph Ellison
Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. --- Hebrews xiii. 2.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Love of My Life
I've been a little worried about Che this week. That would make my husband laugh, because I'm generally a little worried about Che most of the time. But Small Dog has definitely been under the weather, or dealing with an existential crises, or plagued by fears regarding the state of the union.
To whit: he has been hiding under the server in the kitchen, just kind of staring out at us in a brooding fashion. Picture Heathcliffe, if Wuthering Heights was set in a kennel. Wednesday he would not eat his breakfast, even when I hand-fed him.
(Yes, I said hand-fed. Because he carries my heart in his tiny paw, that's why.)
Yesterday he was jumping up and down in typical Chihuahua fashion. Those in the know realize that this can reach heights slightly in excess of three feet, depending on the Chi. Considering that he's less than one foot tall, that makes him the Michael Jordan of the canine world. It also means that he can get hurt if he lands badly. Which he does, on occasion. And did, yesterday afternoon.
My immediate response was something along the lines of, "Oh, poor schweetie, did ooo hurt oooself? Let Mommy see..." At which, Che began limping around the room, whimpering softly, looking up at me with melting dark eyes, agony emanating from every fibre of his being.
Yes, folks, I know I was played. Yes, I am aware that if this dog falls in front of my husband, he jumps right back up and goes on with his business. Yes, I am aware that I am, as we say in my house, a first-class sucka.
But what am I gonna do? I've only been in love a couple of times, and this is possibly my grand passion. Scott knows it, Small Dog knows it, life goes on. You can't help who you love, as they say. It just happens that I fell in love with a short, semi-balding fatty who will grow old far too quickly and leave me. This honestly breaks my heart whenever I think about it.
The funny thing is, when Scott suggested we drive out to Somerset to look at a Chihuahua puppy I wasn't that interested. I wanted a dog, but a Chihuahua? Come on. But OK, it'll be a nice drive; I'll try to keep an open mind.
Even when we got there and I saw Che for the first time, I just wasn't that impressed. He had bald spots (which never went away); I was convinced it was mange. He stank. Really, really stank. He was a greedy feeder. He had scabs on his ears.
This was NOT the puppy of my dreams.
Scott, in fact, was Che's saving grace. My husband insists to this day that I was looking for a baby-substitute, that my nesting instincts were in overdrive, and that was his reasoning behind choosing a Chi. Maybe he's right, who knows?
So whether it was an indefinable something he could see in the tiny puppy, a desire to remove him from the somewhat dicey circumstances in which we found him, or the low low bargain price they were asking --- probably closest to the truth, but let's not judge --- I found myself riding home with a small, smelly baby-substitute in a cardboard box on my lap.
Dismayed is not the word.
Then, on the drive home, something happened. I can't explain it, and I probably wouldn't want to analyze it too much, to be perfectly honest. But gazing down into that box, I started to fall in love. And by the time we got home, I almost didn't even want Scott to touch him. Because Che was mine.
And is, to this day. Sure, he likes Scott; sometimes he even prefers being with him over being with me. But I think that's because he knows I'm his slave, and he just doesn't get to hang with my husband that much. Both the dogs know to run to the kitchen when Scott goes in, because he's the one who makes the food, and because he is a slob and drops stuff on the floor frequently. (They don't even blink when I go to the kitchen. The only thing I do in there is make tea; even the dogs recognize a lack of culinary skill when they see it.) But there's no denying that Che knows who to turn to when he's not feeling well, when he needs to feel like the big dog.
Science may debate whether or not animals feel love, but for me the debate was over before it began. When the little blast furnace is curled up under a blanket beside me, grumbling at the world, I can't help but believe that my soul mate exists. He just chose the form of a dog.
To whit: he has been hiding under the server in the kitchen, just kind of staring out at us in a brooding fashion. Picture Heathcliffe, if Wuthering Heights was set in a kennel. Wednesday he would not eat his breakfast, even when I hand-fed him.
(Yes, I said hand-fed. Because he carries my heart in his tiny paw, that's why.)
Yesterday he was jumping up and down in typical Chihuahua fashion. Those in the know realize that this can reach heights slightly in excess of three feet, depending on the Chi. Considering that he's less than one foot tall, that makes him the Michael Jordan of the canine world. It also means that he can get hurt if he lands badly. Which he does, on occasion. And did, yesterday afternoon.
My immediate response was something along the lines of, "Oh, poor schweetie, did ooo hurt oooself? Let Mommy see..." At which, Che began limping around the room, whimpering softly, looking up at me with melting dark eyes, agony emanating from every fibre of his being.
Yes, folks, I know I was played. Yes, I am aware that if this dog falls in front of my husband, he jumps right back up and goes on with his business. Yes, I am aware that I am, as we say in my house, a first-class sucka.
But what am I gonna do? I've only been in love a couple of times, and this is possibly my grand passion. Scott knows it, Small Dog knows it, life goes on. You can't help who you love, as they say. It just happens that I fell in love with a short, semi-balding fatty who will grow old far too quickly and leave me. This honestly breaks my heart whenever I think about it.
The funny thing is, when Scott suggested we drive out to Somerset to look at a Chihuahua puppy I wasn't that interested. I wanted a dog, but a Chihuahua? Come on. But OK, it'll be a nice drive; I'll try to keep an open mind.
Even when we got there and I saw Che for the first time, I just wasn't that impressed. He had bald spots (which never went away); I was convinced it was mange. He stank. Really, really stank. He was a greedy feeder. He had scabs on his ears.
This was NOT the puppy of my dreams.
Scott, in fact, was Che's saving grace. My husband insists to this day that I was looking for a baby-substitute, that my nesting instincts were in overdrive, and that was his reasoning behind choosing a Chi. Maybe he's right, who knows?
So whether it was an indefinable something he could see in the tiny puppy, a desire to remove him from the somewhat dicey circumstances in which we found him, or the low low bargain price they were asking --- probably closest to the truth, but let's not judge --- I found myself riding home with a small, smelly baby-substitute in a cardboard box on my lap.
Dismayed is not the word.
Then, on the drive home, something happened. I can't explain it, and I probably wouldn't want to analyze it too much, to be perfectly honest. But gazing down into that box, I started to fall in love. And by the time we got home, I almost didn't even want Scott to touch him. Because Che was mine.
And is, to this day. Sure, he likes Scott; sometimes he even prefers being with him over being with me. But I think that's because he knows I'm his slave, and he just doesn't get to hang with my husband that much. Both the dogs know to run to the kitchen when Scott goes in, because he's the one who makes the food, and because he is a slob and drops stuff on the floor frequently. (They don't even blink when I go to the kitchen. The only thing I do in there is make tea; even the dogs recognize a lack of culinary skill when they see it.) But there's no denying that Che knows who to turn to when he's not feeling well, when he needs to feel like the big dog.
Science may debate whether or not animals feel love, but for me the debate was over before it began. When the little blast furnace is curled up under a blanket beside me, grumbling at the world, I can't help but believe that my soul mate exists. He just chose the form of a dog.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Dog People vs. Cat People
I realized today that there are dog people, and there are cat people. No, not which animal one prefers, but how you relate to other people.
For example, my husband and his family are "dog" people. Always metaphorically sniffing each other's bottoms, gettin' up in each other's business, establishing the hierarchy. Dog people.
My family is quintessentially "cat". We're affectionate, but aloof; we'll swat you when we're playing; we just wanna be comfortable and not bothered too much.
Ever see a couple of cats when they're not getting along? Turn their backs and studiously ignore each other: "I can't see you. If I can't see you, I don't have to fight with you." That's us.
Scott's family will just start barking, stirring stuff up because, well, what else is there to do? They get each other all riled up then they go look for something to eat, because it never meant anything in the first place.
The joke around my family is that we won't stand if we can sit, and we won't sit if we can lay down. Lounging is our pastime and our passion, and we take it about as seriously as we take anything. We just don't get all those dogs running around barking.
"Whatever," thinks the cat. "Too much ado about nothing. Hey, dog, get me a drink while you're up."
There are some drawbacks to this approach, however. No one in my family will say shit if they have a mouthful, no one will tell you when you are royally fucking up, no one will tell you when you're making a first-rate arse of yourself.
On the other hand, Scott's family will talk you to death --- because they care. Sigh.
There has to be a compromise somewhere. I'll let you know when I figure it out.
For example, my husband and his family are "dog" people. Always metaphorically sniffing each other's bottoms, gettin' up in each other's business, establishing the hierarchy. Dog people.
My family is quintessentially "cat". We're affectionate, but aloof; we'll swat you when we're playing; we just wanna be comfortable and not bothered too much.
Ever see a couple of cats when they're not getting along? Turn their backs and studiously ignore each other: "I can't see you. If I can't see you, I don't have to fight with you." That's us.
Scott's family will just start barking, stirring stuff up because, well, what else is there to do? They get each other all riled up then they go look for something to eat, because it never meant anything in the first place.
The joke around my family is that we won't stand if we can sit, and we won't sit if we can lay down. Lounging is our pastime and our passion, and we take it about as seriously as we take anything. We just don't get all those dogs running around barking.
"Whatever," thinks the cat. "Too much ado about nothing. Hey, dog, get me a drink while you're up."
There are some drawbacks to this approach, however. No one in my family will say shit if they have a mouthful, no one will tell you when you are royally fucking up, no one will tell you when you're making a first-rate arse of yourself.
On the other hand, Scott's family will talk you to death --- because they care. Sigh.
There has to be a compromise somewhere. I'll let you know when I figure it out.
This Just Makes Me Happy
Rats Tickled Pink With New Rodent Laughter Research
Associated Press
BOWLING GREEN, Ohio - Rats just want to have fun.
The fact that rats can laugh, and do, is nothing new to scientists, but a researcher at Bowling Green State University found that the rodents most people consider filthy pests are also playful - and love to be tickled.
"About a year ago, I literally came into the lab one morning and said, 'Let's go tickle some rats,"' said Jaak Panksepp, a psychobiologist. "As soon as we did it, it was 'Eureka!' This vocalization came on right away, and more intense than before. And the data have literally been flowing ever since."
A graduate student came up with the idea of recording the giggling rats by using "bat detectors," sophisticated instruments that register high-pitched sounds humans cannot hear.
"Lo and behold ... it sounded like a playground," Panksepp said, adding that keeping rats laughing isn't difficult.
"It's quite easy. They're small, of course, but it's really no different than running your fingers as if you're tickling a child," he said. "You get the most laughter at the nape of the neck, where they direct each other's play behavior."
Rats register their gratitude with little nips.
"I have literally tickled hundreds of rats," Panksepp said. "The amazing thing is, prior to starting this line of research, I had never been bitten by a rat. But since I've started this, I've been bitten hundreds, if not thousands, of times, but always in a playful way.
"The skin has never been broken. It's like a puppy dog biting you."
Panksepp knows people may laugh at his research, but he doesn't care since his goal is to track the biological origins of joy.
"We interpret this as a primitive, childlike joyfulness," he said. "Where do we humans get more laughter than anywhere else? On the playground, where kids are running and playing. It's the same with tickled rats."
Associated Press
BOWLING GREEN, Ohio - Rats just want to have fun.
The fact that rats can laugh, and do, is nothing new to scientists, but a researcher at Bowling Green State University found that the rodents most people consider filthy pests are also playful - and love to be tickled.
"About a year ago, I literally came into the lab one morning and said, 'Let's go tickle some rats,"' said Jaak Panksepp, a psychobiologist. "As soon as we did it, it was 'Eureka!' This vocalization came on right away, and more intense than before. And the data have literally been flowing ever since."
A graduate student came up with the idea of recording the giggling rats by using "bat detectors," sophisticated instruments that register high-pitched sounds humans cannot hear.
"Lo and behold ... it sounded like a playground," Panksepp said, adding that keeping rats laughing isn't difficult.
"It's quite easy. They're small, of course, but it's really no different than running your fingers as if you're tickling a child," he said. "You get the most laughter at the nape of the neck, where they direct each other's play behavior."
Rats register their gratitude with little nips.
"I have literally tickled hundreds of rats," Panksepp said. "The amazing thing is, prior to starting this line of research, I had never been bitten by a rat. But since I've started this, I've been bitten hundreds, if not thousands, of times, but always in a playful way.
"The skin has never been broken. It's like a puppy dog biting you."
Panksepp knows people may laugh at his research, but he doesn't care since his goal is to track the biological origins of joy.
"We interpret this as a primitive, childlike joyfulness," he said. "Where do we humans get more laughter than anywhere else? On the playground, where kids are running and playing. It's the same with tickled rats."
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
I Feel a Blog Coming On....
Lovely afternoon, bought myself a pink mug with a ruffly edge (because pink is my favorite colour and because I don't think Scott would touch a frilly pink mug) and an issue of Southern Accents was waiting in my mailbox when I got home (thanks, Sis!). So I had afternoon tea with my new cup and a decorating magazine and some soft classical music in the background. Heaven.
It's funny, the small things that can make you happy. When you get right down to it, it usually is the small things, isn't it? A pink tea mug, a compliment from a friend, an hour to read a magazine without interruption, a funny thing the dog did or your spouse said.
Few and far between are the big joys --- the weddings, the births, the lottery winnings, the public accolades. But you can almost always count on something small to make you smile at least once in a day. I think the trick is to save them up, store them like acorns so you can find them when you need them.
As the saying goes, joy is in the connection, not perfection. How true.
It's funny, the small things that can make you happy. When you get right down to it, it usually is the small things, isn't it? A pink tea mug, a compliment from a friend, an hour to read a magazine without interruption, a funny thing the dog did or your spouse said.
Few and far between are the big joys --- the weddings, the births, the lottery winnings, the public accolades. But you can almost always count on something small to make you smile at least once in a day. I think the trick is to save them up, store them like acorns so you can find them when you need them.
As the saying goes, joy is in the connection, not perfection. How true.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Hey Everybody, This is Ted & Annette Fleming
Title has nothing to do with today's post, sorry. Just watched Ghostbusters on television last night and that line tickled me.
Loved the long weekend, but it went by waaay too fast. Because I did nothing but sleep. Again. (See the pattern emerging?)
Actually, that's not entirely true, I went to my friend's Saturday night. Little drinking, little dining, little female bonding --- fabulous. I wish I could make a living doing that, just kind of hanging out chatting and drinking some nice wine and eating some delicious cheese. I haven't seen any want ads for that, yet, but I'm gonna keep looking. I think it'd be under the "Socialite" column.....
But, the topic at hand is: Does the universe deliver? Does it listen with an uncritical ear and present you with what you've asked for? More to the point, is the universe a literal thinker?
I believe the answer to that is, Yes. The universe is literal, and that's part of its sense of humor, so you'd damn well better be careful about what you're asking for. Like the genie who always finds a way to screw up your wishes (anybody else see that episode of The Twilight Zone? The Man in the Bottle?), the universe will not distinguish between your true desires and the negative loop you're running in your head 24/7. And from experience I can say that that loop isn't really yours, more likely a parent's or an ex-lover's or somesuch. Well, they've had their life to live, and this one's yours, so stop forcing yourself into their tired mold. It never fit you that well, anyway.
So, let's be careful what we wish for, kids. Let's not affirm being friendless and poverty stricken; let's affirm finding the job of our dreams (Socialite, anyone?) and the love of our lives and everything else that's good and holy.
And remember, thinking to yourself that this is simplistic bullshit is still affirming, just not affirming something that'd really make you happy. I'm really tired of how our society presents being positive as being naive, while being negative and a real bummer is being "realistic" and "edgy". Fuck that. If being Pollyanna is gonna make me happy, you'd better start calling me Polly
Won't bother me any; I'll be sitting with my friends, eating cheese and drinking wine.
Loved the long weekend, but it went by waaay too fast. Because I did nothing but sleep. Again. (See the pattern emerging?)
Actually, that's not entirely true, I went to my friend's Saturday night. Little drinking, little dining, little female bonding --- fabulous. I wish I could make a living doing that, just kind of hanging out chatting and drinking some nice wine and eating some delicious cheese. I haven't seen any want ads for that, yet, but I'm gonna keep looking. I think it'd be under the "Socialite" column.....
But, the topic at hand is: Does the universe deliver? Does it listen with an uncritical ear and present you with what you've asked for? More to the point, is the universe a literal thinker?
I believe the answer to that is, Yes. The universe is literal, and that's part of its sense of humor, so you'd damn well better be careful about what you're asking for. Like the genie who always finds a way to screw up your wishes (anybody else see that episode of The Twilight Zone? The Man in the Bottle?), the universe will not distinguish between your true desires and the negative loop you're running in your head 24/7. And from experience I can say that that loop isn't really yours, more likely a parent's or an ex-lover's or somesuch. Well, they've had their life to live, and this one's yours, so stop forcing yourself into their tired mold. It never fit you that well, anyway.
So, let's be careful what we wish for, kids. Let's not affirm being friendless and poverty stricken; let's affirm finding the job of our dreams (Socialite, anyone?) and the love of our lives and everything else that's good and holy.
And remember, thinking to yourself that this is simplistic bullshit is still affirming, just not affirming something that'd really make you happy. I'm really tired of how our society presents being positive as being naive, while being negative and a real bummer is being "realistic" and "edgy". Fuck that. If being Pollyanna is gonna make me happy, you'd better start calling me Polly
Won't bother me any; I'll be sitting with my friends, eating cheese and drinking wine.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Self Aggrandizement for Fun and Profit
I really love people who raise self promotion to a higher level, who make not only a living but an art of showing themselves in their best light. Deep down inside, I wish I had this sort of gumption, but I'd just keep snickering and fucking it up.
Exhibit A: Sarah Brightman. Now, I know she has some rabid fans out there, and I assure you that I actually enjoy her performances (although not for the reasons an average fan would list, I grant you.)
In point of fact, she is not the best singer, she is not the best dancer, she is not the prettiest woman, and her tastes can lean towards the meretricious. However, combined with her incredible talent for self-promotion, the whole package becomes appealing. She tells us she is beautiful --- straight from the harem, as it were --- and we believe her. We have no choice.
Who would dare to posit herself as a sexy belly dancer, a frail Titanic-style consumptive, and a Moulin Rouged cabaret girl on a velvet swing --- all in one show --- besides the divine Sarah? No one, that's who, because no one else would dare. Sure, we'd all like to have a fancy tiara and be showered with rose petals, but we just don't believe we deserve it. Not Sarah; she even goes so far as to give away her very tiara as a contest prize because, of course, there isn't anyone alive who isn't lusting for a headpiece that had been touched by her raven locks.
And the audience eats it up. Vicarious wish fulfillment? Why the hell not?!
Exhibit B: Lea Thompson. She is now involved with a project on Hallmark Television (!) titled Jane Doe.
What I love about this show is that it is so unrealistic, even for the ridiculous premise, which is that Lea Thompson's character is a retired super-detective who has been lured out of retirement by her former boss/platonic flirtation/unrequited love interest. The catch? She has to keep all knowledge of her work from her normal-suburban-family (construction-career husband, pretty-and-annoying teen-aged daughter, precocious-and-annoying pre-teen son) for their own safety. Of course. (I seem to remember this show the first time it was on television. It was called Scarecrow and Mrs. King.)
Her character, Cathy Davis, is supposed to be an amazing solver of puzzles. Yet, in the episode I watched, it took her about a day and a half to realize that the list of addresses the evil mastermind was forcing her to visit all contained names of the signers of the Declaration of Independence (which happened to be the very item she was searching for. Do yourself a favor, don't ask. It's too complicated.) Ok, even I --- semi-retarded at best when it comes to puzzles, word games, what have you --- figured this out the second the list of addresses was read off. And you're going to tell me it took the genius THAT long to get it? Of course it did, it was an hour-long show.
Ok, so in addition to being a puzzle genius who can't get even simple clues before it's very nearly too late, she is also computer illiterate. She had to get help from her 12 year old son to enlarge a photo on her laptop TWICE. Why wasn't she paying attention the first time? What person --- let alone super genius puzzle detective --- doesn't know how to use a computer in this day and age?
Another delicious item is that Lea's character is an unwitting femme fatale. Yes, this completely average looking forty-something, getting-a-little-puffy-it's-ok-we've-all-been-there soccer mom gets hit on everywhere she goes. Everywhere. In fact, she beats out the totally hot, hipper-than-thou, late-20s-if-she's-a-day Asian detective, Helen, in getting hit on. Really. Because that happens in real life all the time.
But, for all of that, I still love the show. I love that Lea's puttin' it out there, wearing a hip baby tee that is just a little too tight for her, doing her best to convince us that she could be, it is entirely possible, a detective hottie of above average intelligence.
(As a little aside, I also loved the LIfetime-style porn they added to the end of the show: Lea comes home from a hard day retrieving the Declaration of Independence and getting into cat fights with Helen, and her adorable perfect husband has prepared a candlelight dinner. Just for her. With dessert planned for later, wink wink as he nuzzles her lovingly on the neck. Swooning ensues.
This just makes me laugh. If I'd known this is what women really want I would have been pimping Scott out years ago. He does all the cooking, he knows his way around a mop and broom, and he's as romantic as a box of Valentines. Solid gold, if the marketers targeting my demographic are to be believed. And he's still young enough to do what you tell him....)
Anyway, I admire these ladies' guts, I really do. I wish I could follow their example. I know we could all learn at least a little something about self-esteem from it, and probably should.
But, as they say, I'm glad I don't have their nerve in my tooth.
Exhibit A: Sarah Brightman. Now, I know she has some rabid fans out there, and I assure you that I actually enjoy her performances (although not for the reasons an average fan would list, I grant you.)
In point of fact, she is not the best singer, she is not the best dancer, she is not the prettiest woman, and her tastes can lean towards the meretricious. However, combined with her incredible talent for self-promotion, the whole package becomes appealing. She tells us she is beautiful --- straight from the harem, as it were --- and we believe her. We have no choice.
Who would dare to posit herself as a sexy belly dancer, a frail Titanic-style consumptive, and a Moulin Rouged cabaret girl on a velvet swing --- all in one show --- besides the divine Sarah? No one, that's who, because no one else would dare. Sure, we'd all like to have a fancy tiara and be showered with rose petals, but we just don't believe we deserve it. Not Sarah; she even goes so far as to give away her very tiara as a contest prize because, of course, there isn't anyone alive who isn't lusting for a headpiece that had been touched by her raven locks.
And the audience eats it up. Vicarious wish fulfillment? Why the hell not?!
Exhibit B: Lea Thompson. She is now involved with a project on Hallmark Television (!) titled Jane Doe.
What I love about this show is that it is so unrealistic, even for the ridiculous premise, which is that Lea Thompson's character is a retired super-detective who has been lured out of retirement by her former boss/platonic flirtation/unrequited love interest. The catch? She has to keep all knowledge of her work from her normal-suburban-family (construction-career husband, pretty-and-annoying teen-aged daughter, precocious-and-annoying pre-teen son) for their own safety. Of course. (I seem to remember this show the first time it was on television. It was called Scarecrow and Mrs. King.)
Her character, Cathy Davis, is supposed to be an amazing solver of puzzles. Yet, in the episode I watched, it took her about a day and a half to realize that the list of addresses the evil mastermind was forcing her to visit all contained names of the signers of the Declaration of Independence (which happened to be the very item she was searching for. Do yourself a favor, don't ask. It's too complicated.) Ok, even I --- semi-retarded at best when it comes to puzzles, word games, what have you --- figured this out the second the list of addresses was read off. And you're going to tell me it took the genius THAT long to get it? Of course it did, it was an hour-long show.
Ok, so in addition to being a puzzle genius who can't get even simple clues before it's very nearly too late, she is also computer illiterate. She had to get help from her 12 year old son to enlarge a photo on her laptop TWICE. Why wasn't she paying attention the first time? What person --- let alone super genius puzzle detective --- doesn't know how to use a computer in this day and age?
Another delicious item is that Lea's character is an unwitting femme fatale. Yes, this completely average looking forty-something, getting-a-little-puffy-it's-ok-we've-all-been-there soccer mom gets hit on everywhere she goes. Everywhere. In fact, she beats out the totally hot, hipper-than-thou, late-20s-if-she's-a-day Asian detective, Helen, in getting hit on. Really. Because that happens in real life all the time.
But, for all of that, I still love the show. I love that Lea's puttin' it out there, wearing a hip baby tee that is just a little too tight for her, doing her best to convince us that she could be, it is entirely possible, a detective hottie of above average intelligence.
(As a little aside, I also loved the LIfetime-style porn they added to the end of the show: Lea comes home from a hard day retrieving the Declaration of Independence and getting into cat fights with Helen, and her adorable perfect husband has prepared a candlelight dinner. Just for her. With dessert planned for later, wink wink as he nuzzles her lovingly on the neck. Swooning ensues.
This just makes me laugh. If I'd known this is what women really want I would have been pimping Scott out years ago. He does all the cooking, he knows his way around a mop and broom, and he's as romantic as a box of Valentines. Solid gold, if the marketers targeting my demographic are to be believed. And he's still young enough to do what you tell him....)
Anyway, I admire these ladies' guts, I really do. I wish I could follow their example. I know we could all learn at least a little something about self-esteem from it, and probably should.
But, as they say, I'm glad I don't have their nerve in my tooth.
Saturday, February 19, 2005
How Do I Love Ya? Let's Count It Down:
There are many reasons to love my husband.
He is smart, he is funny, he is kind. He will visit people in the hospital; when I'm sick he makes me matzo ball soup. From scratch.
If it is anywhere within the realm of reason, he is happy to cater to my whims. He thinks I'm sort of lazy. He doesn't really care if I'm lazy. He is handsome, and is not even very vain about it, although he is a bit of a clotheshorse. When he describes his ideal woman, he describes me.
He has a nice, manly name: Scott. He still prefers to be called 'Scotty'. He loves Halloween and costume parties as much as I do. He appreciates Kurosawa, but breaks out the popcorn just as happily for Galaxy Quest. He loves word games, and he's a little corny, if you wanna know the truth.
He calls talk radio programs. He has opinions. He is a hard worker. He's a great cook. He has a strange kind of luck. He'll sing karaoke, even when he's nervous, because he's a great big ham. He loves dogs and babies.
He is a funny, confusing, wonderful friend to me, and I hope to have at least sixty more years to figure him out, to go with the six years I've already tried.
Posted by Hello
He is smart, he is funny, he is kind. He will visit people in the hospital; when I'm sick he makes me matzo ball soup. From scratch.
If it is anywhere within the realm of reason, he is happy to cater to my whims. He thinks I'm sort of lazy. He doesn't really care if I'm lazy. He is handsome, and is not even very vain about it, although he is a bit of a clotheshorse. When he describes his ideal woman, he describes me.
He has a nice, manly name: Scott. He still prefers to be called 'Scotty'. He loves Halloween and costume parties as much as I do. He appreciates Kurosawa, but breaks out the popcorn just as happily for Galaxy Quest. He loves word games, and he's a little corny, if you wanna know the truth.
He calls talk radio programs. He has opinions. He is a hard worker. He's a great cook. He has a strange kind of luck. He'll sing karaoke, even when he's nervous, because he's a great big ham. He loves dogs and babies.
He is a funny, confusing, wonderful friend to me, and I hope to have at least sixty more years to figure him out, to go with the six years I've already tried.
Posted by Hello
Thursday, February 17, 2005
A Happy Monkey
I made this one for my friend Madam Monkeyshines to cheer her up. I downloaded it from a free site, wish I could remember which one so I could give proper credit to the creator. If you recognize it, please leave a comment!
Posted by Hello
Posted by Hello
An Annoying Habit My Husband Has
He sets stuff down. As in, not where things belong, but on any flat surface. The real problem is, he's 6'4", so what's at eye-level to him is above even the top of my head. And because he is also absent-minded, he will carry something from the only proper room for it to be in, through the entire house, to set it down somewhere that you would never, in a million years, suspect it could be.
So now the item in question is in the wrong room, up high, and he has absolutely no memory of carrying it there. In fact, the only way he'll even concede that he might possibly have been the culprit is upon finding, for example, the remote control...in the kitchen...on top of the refrigerator. Like a twisted game of Clue, he is then forced to admit that it couldn't have been me because I almost never go into the kitchen and I can't reach the top of the fridge. Case closed.
So, I think what I'm gonna hafta do is sew all his pockets shut. It's scary how much stuff he can stuff into them. It's gotta take a force of will that the average person can only imagine to squeeze a wallet, checkbook, cellphone, three pens, four highlighters, a pad of sticky notes, three candybar wrappers, five receipts, and an entire roll of paper towels into the pockets of one pair of trousers. And the remote control. Incredible.
Of course, if I'm honest I must admit that I'm not that much better: I stack things. If I can stack them in baskets or drawers, so much the better. In a recent frenzy of housecleaning I tidied our lone kitchen counter by putting all the bills and important-looking papers in the bill box, where my husband will be sure to stumble across them at least once this month, and everything else --- unimportant-looking papers, stuff to go in the gift box downstairs, receipts, coupons, dog treats, etc. --- was stacked in a basket. Everything had the appearance of tidy organization. Appearance, I say, not genuine organization.
As I found out the next morning as my husband frantically searched for the guidelines he needed to do his brief for his upcoming moot court. He looked everywhere: in his office, in the bedroom, where he last remembered reading it; in the living room with his books. All to no avail. I was pretty much just ignoring his increasingly desperate pleas for help --- not my paper, hadn't seen it, he should be more careful with his stuff, darn it. (I think you see where this is headed....) Yes, the missing document was eventually found, in the basket of unimportant-looking papers in the kitchen. Oops!
But, in all fairness, I do believe upon reflection that I moved it from the top of the china cabinet...in the spare bedroom...where Col. Mustard left it...when he was looking for his candlestick.
So now the item in question is in the wrong room, up high, and he has absolutely no memory of carrying it there. In fact, the only way he'll even concede that he might possibly have been the culprit is upon finding, for example, the remote control...in the kitchen...on top of the refrigerator. Like a twisted game of Clue, he is then forced to admit that it couldn't have been me because I almost never go into the kitchen and I can't reach the top of the fridge. Case closed.
So, I think what I'm gonna hafta do is sew all his pockets shut. It's scary how much stuff he can stuff into them. It's gotta take a force of will that the average person can only imagine to squeeze a wallet, checkbook, cellphone, three pens, four highlighters, a pad of sticky notes, three candybar wrappers, five receipts, and an entire roll of paper towels into the pockets of one pair of trousers. And the remote control. Incredible.
Of course, if I'm honest I must admit that I'm not that much better: I stack things. If I can stack them in baskets or drawers, so much the better. In a recent frenzy of housecleaning I tidied our lone kitchen counter by putting all the bills and important-looking papers in the bill box, where my husband will be sure to stumble across them at least once this month, and everything else --- unimportant-looking papers, stuff to go in the gift box downstairs, receipts, coupons, dog treats, etc. --- was stacked in a basket. Everything had the appearance of tidy organization. Appearance, I say, not genuine organization.
As I found out the next morning as my husband frantically searched for the guidelines he needed to do his brief for his upcoming moot court. He looked everywhere: in his office, in the bedroom, where he last remembered reading it; in the living room with his books. All to no avail. I was pretty much just ignoring his increasingly desperate pleas for help --- not my paper, hadn't seen it, he should be more careful with his stuff, darn it. (I think you see where this is headed....) Yes, the missing document was eventually found, in the basket of unimportant-looking papers in the kitchen. Oops!
But, in all fairness, I do believe upon reflection that I moved it from the top of the china cabinet...in the spare bedroom...where Col. Mustard left it...when he was looking for his candlestick.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Boring Post Today, Kids
I have been doing absolutely nothing for the past four days besides eating and sleeping. I decided to attack the insomnia problem with both barrels while I had a long weekend to sleep, and so have been taking my prescription every night. So now I'm sleeping 'til three or four in the afternoon. Scott brings me something to eat, then I take a nap. Honestly, the life of Reilly.
And despite being so sedentary, I did meet my weight loss goal for the month, hurrah! Of course, I was so focused on meeting yesterday's goal I sort of forgot that there's another one after that,and another one after that, and another one after that.....
What I can't understand is why no one ever told me about breaking the big goal down into smaller, more manageable goals, as relates to losing weight. Maybe it was just assumed? Maybe I'm just too plank stupid to figure it out? Maybe (and this is probably waaaaay closer to the truth) I wasn't ready to hear the message before now? Oooooh, right.
I've been reading Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way. (Some of the girls at work are getting a group together, just one of the non-work-related benefits of working with the cool people who gravitate to the non-profit sector...) Anyway, writing the morning pages has been really great for reasons I can't even define. I'm writing down a lot of things I'd probably be griping at my husband for, stuff that he has absolutely no control over, so we're not having those stupid little arguments that tend, for us, to blow up into big ones.
(Ok, I know what you're thinking: Quinnbee, you are sleeping 16 hours per day, how could you and your husband possibly get into an argument when you are, for all intents and purposes, comatose?
Well, I'll tell ya, if anyone could, we could. Arguing is like a hobby for us. It usually doesn't mean anything, and one of us usually has the good sense to back down or make a joke, but we really will argue about anything. We once had a knock-down-drag-out about Wittgenstein, and I don't even know who that is!)
Anyway, the topic at hand was being ready to hear the message. So I'm doing some work on that, and I'll let you know how it goes. I guess I'm really no different than anyone else; I want to be of use, I want to get things figured out, I want to get along in this world. Isn't it great we have all these communities available to do that? 'Rah!
And despite being so sedentary, I did meet my weight loss goal for the month, hurrah! Of course, I was so focused on meeting yesterday's goal I sort of forgot that there's another one after that,and another one after that, and another one after that.....
What I can't understand is why no one ever told me about breaking the big goal down into smaller, more manageable goals, as relates to losing weight. Maybe it was just assumed? Maybe I'm just too plank stupid to figure it out? Maybe (and this is probably waaaaay closer to the truth) I wasn't ready to hear the message before now? Oooooh, right.
I've been reading Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way. (Some of the girls at work are getting a group together, just one of the non-work-related benefits of working with the cool people who gravitate to the non-profit sector...) Anyway, writing the morning pages has been really great for reasons I can't even define. I'm writing down a lot of things I'd probably be griping at my husband for, stuff that he has absolutely no control over, so we're not having those stupid little arguments that tend, for us, to blow up into big ones.
(Ok, I know what you're thinking: Quinnbee, you are sleeping 16 hours per day, how could you and your husband possibly get into an argument when you are, for all intents and purposes, comatose?
Well, I'll tell ya, if anyone could, we could. Arguing is like a hobby for us. It usually doesn't mean anything, and one of us usually has the good sense to back down or make a joke, but we really will argue about anything. We once had a knock-down-drag-out about Wittgenstein, and I don't even know who that is!)
Anyway, the topic at hand was being ready to hear the message. So I'm doing some work on that, and I'll let you know how it goes. I guess I'm really no different than anyone else; I want to be of use, I want to get things figured out, I want to get along in this world. Isn't it great we have all these communities available to do that? 'Rah!
La-D-Da Gentle Spirit
I made this one for my friend Julie's God Wall. It's going to be different interpretations of God through art --- brilliant! Anyway, the sentiment sums up my feelings about a higher power, and I loved the idea of using a favorite craft to express it, like Amish quilts or Shaker furniture. I think maybe we spend too much time pondering God and not enough time just being present in the presence of God, as it were.
Posted by Hello
Posted by Hello
An Interesting Factoid
...from Town & Country Baby Names: "...[g]irls have appropriated the unisex names....That trend is not new -- Alice, Anne, Crystal, Lucy and Maude all used to be boys names."
Carol and Stacey, yes; Kim, sure. But Alice?!!!
(An explanatory aside to those closest to me: No, we have no reason to be looking for baby names. We just like looking at baby names. Sorry!)
BTW, a lovely name for a baby is Owen, which is the name of my good friend's little boy. Check her out at La Vida Lisa; you won't regret it!
Carol and Stacey, yes; Kim, sure. But Alice?!!!
(An explanatory aside to those closest to me: No, we have no reason to be looking for baby names. We just like looking at baby names. Sorry!)
BTW, a lovely name for a baby is Owen, which is the name of my good friend's little boy. Check her out at La Vida Lisa; you won't regret it!
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Birds of a Feather Anne Wells Sampler
I worked the center part of this for my friend Sue's birthday this year. I think it would make a good gift for wedding or housewarming, too.
Posted by Hello
Posted by Hello
Fancy a Butcher's?
Nearly incomprehensible, wildly entertaining, and bound to become the Next Big Thing thanks to the incomprehensibly entertaining Guy Ritchie movies and all those damn video game ads, Cockney Rhyming Slang needs a little translation for the average American. (And probably most of the rest of the world, as well.) Check it out while I have some Omar and pig....
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