Recently, I was reading an article from the November 10, 2008, New Yorker entitled "Suffering Souls - The Search for the Roots of Psychopathy." It was a fascinating article and combines several areas of study that I have always been interested in: psychopathology and criminal behavior. But this post isn’t really about the article. You can read it for yourself if you are really interested.
Not surprisingly, the article focused on psychopaths in the prison inmate population, highlighting the work of a psychologist in the Western New Mexico Correctional Facility. What struck me about the article was a quote seen on a poster in the common room at the prison:
"I am here because there is no refuge, finally, from myself."
I have been thinking about that quote since I read it. It struck a chord in me and I can’t seem to get it out of my head. While I see the application to prison inmates, I think it applies to the broader human experience. Maybe it’s because the economy is so bad or maybe because it’s the holiday season, but lately I have been hearing a lot of people do the "woe-is-me" talk. I have sympathy for what others are experiencing, even though I think my life could stand up to anyone else’s in the crazy-shit-happening department. But there are limits to my sympathy.
Everyone has tough times. Everyone should talk to their friends about their tough times. My patience wears thin when all I hear from people is how bad their life is when they are doing absolutely nothing to change it. All of us suffer from that feeling of utter hopelessness. I have been hanging on the bottom rung several times. At those times, one wants to turn to every other possible solution to their problems - drinking, drugs, inappropriate sex with inappropriate people, excessive spending, gambling, violence . . . whatever it is.
It took me a long time to realize none of those things were helping in the long term (not that I tried all of them). I spent a good portion of my 20s and early 30s trying to fix my problems by filling them in with outside things. My solutions, whether bad or good, never helped for long. Partying was fun (and still is), but certainly didn’t do anything to make me feel whole. The wrong men were nice distractions, but usually took away more of me than was missing when I met them. Work and school were never solid enough distractions for me to forget the bad things.
All of my attempts to fix the situation were nullities. Saying, "My life will be perfect when ________" meant my life was never perfect because there was always another __________ after the first one. There was always something more that I felt I needed to make myself feel better or be better or be whole. But, in the end, there is only myself.
Self-imposed exile was my remedy for the really bad times. After my first year of law school, I went back to my crappy retail job and tried to pretend the past nine months had never happened. One day, I gave up. I unplugged my phone, took the TV into my bedroom, and spent the next two weeks in bed. I only emerged to work and then went home and back to bed. Friends thought I had lost it. Maybe I had.
But, in the end, you can’t hide from yourself in a cell, whether it is the cell you have created in your bedroom or a prison cell. You have to deal with the reality of yourself within the confines of the reality of life. No one else can do it for you. I may not be able to control everything in my life . . . but I can control my responses to everything in my life.
I am here (mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually) because, in the end, there is no hiding from myself. And, finally . . . I like that.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
My Typical Interaction with Facebook
I joined Facebook about six months ago because my 21 year old cousin said I should. Despite the 16 year difference in our ages, she insists I should try to be cool like her. When I joined Facebook, I looked around for people I knew and asked for several of them to be my friends. I immediately saw that my parents were both friends with my cousins, so I invited my parents to be my friends. My mother accepted by invitation right away.
My dad has still not accepted my invitation. I asked him about it saying, "Why won't you be my friend on Facebook?" My dad said, "Because I'm not your friend . . . I'm your father." My dad clearly doesn't understand the way Facebook functions.
Anyway, after my initial sign-up, I haven't done a lot of searching for friends. I have looked at everyone who says they graduated from the same high school, college, or law school that I did in the same year I did. The strange thing is that I don't know half of the people who say they graduated in my classes. I really, really don't remember them. And it is not like I went to huge schools. My college class was probably the largest, with about 400 people in it. There were only about 150 in my law school graduating class, so one would think I would recognize some of these people.
So, either because my memory sucks or because people are pretending to want to be my friend just to up their friend numbers, I get a fair number of Facebook emails from people I don't recognize. I just got another one over the weekend. My reaction to this one is pretty typical.
Facebook: Jane has added you as a friend on Facebook. We need to confirm you know Jane in order for you to be friends on Facebook.
Jane: "You may not recognize my married name, but you'd know me if I said my maiden name was Smith. :) How are you Miss Smarty-Smarty Lawyer Pants?"
Me: Who the fuck is Jane? (I am able to rule out her belonging to my law school class because, as a general rule, lawyers don't address each other as "Miss Smarty-Smarty Lawyer-Pants.)
Facebook: To confirm this friend request, follow the link below.
Me: Okay . . . follow the link. Now, I am reading the friend request and it says we have one friend in common. Click on that link. I see the one friend we have in common is a friend from my pre-law school days. Really, just a drinking-partying-doing-stupid-stuff friend, but we bonded quite a few times over shots, so she and I have become friends on Facebook.
Me: So, I still have no idea who Jane is. I suppose I might as well accept her friend request. She clearly thinks she knows me. And it is driving me crazy because I can't place her from her blurry-shot-in-a-bar profile picture. Click on confirm.
Facebook: Don't you want to see how many people you know in common?
Me: No. Click on profile pictures. Scan through pictures of kid, husband, dog, house, kid, kid, kid, husband . . . the very last picture is Jane with her husband and kid and I actually recognize her. OHHHHH . . . JANE!
Me: (writing on Jane's Wall) Hey! How are you? What are you doing in PA? You have a cute kid!!
Then, I figure my Facebook obligation is over. She and I are now friends, she can look at my profile and all my pictures, comment on a few, send me a few stupid drink requests or plants or best friend awards, and the whole thing will die off soon enough.
Notsomuch.
Jane: "Hello!!! So glad to see you on fb! I've found more people that I thought I'd never see again (all good--- you included! :) ). Yes, we live in PA---and are ready to move on. We love where we live, but jobs for husband have all but dried up in this area. [The baby] is 15 months now and becoming quite a handful. She's just incredible and worth the wait, let me tell you. Looks like you've been busy reproducing as well, yes? I'm so impressed with your job--you scored! how's the family?"
Well, that was probably more information than I needed, thanks Jane. That's exactly what I tell people when they ask what I've been doing for the last 10 years . . . reproducing and lawyering. Little bit here, little bit there . . . whatever.
My dad has still not accepted my invitation. I asked him about it saying, "Why won't you be my friend on Facebook?" My dad said, "Because I'm not your friend . . . I'm your father." My dad clearly doesn't understand the way Facebook functions.
Anyway, after my initial sign-up, I haven't done a lot of searching for friends. I have looked at everyone who says they graduated from the same high school, college, or law school that I did in the same year I did. The strange thing is that I don't know half of the people who say they graduated in my classes. I really, really don't remember them. And it is not like I went to huge schools. My college class was probably the largest, with about 400 people in it. There were only about 150 in my law school graduating class, so one would think I would recognize some of these people.
So, either because my memory sucks or because people are pretending to want to be my friend just to up their friend numbers, I get a fair number of Facebook emails from people I don't recognize. I just got another one over the weekend. My reaction to this one is pretty typical.
Facebook: Jane has added you as a friend on Facebook. We need to confirm you know Jane in order for you to be friends on Facebook.
Jane: "You may not recognize my married name, but you'd know me if I said my maiden name was Smith. :) How are you Miss Smarty-Smarty Lawyer Pants?"
Me: Who the fuck is Jane? (I am able to rule out her belonging to my law school class because, as a general rule, lawyers don't address each other as "Miss Smarty-Smarty Lawyer-Pants.)
Facebook: To confirm this friend request, follow the link below.
Me: Okay . . . follow the link. Now, I am reading the friend request and it says we have one friend in common. Click on that link. I see the one friend we have in common is a friend from my pre-law school days. Really, just a drinking-partying-doing-stupid-stuff friend, but we bonded quite a few times over shots, so she and I have become friends on Facebook.
Me: So, I still have no idea who Jane is. I suppose I might as well accept her friend request. She clearly thinks she knows me. And it is driving me crazy because I can't place her from her blurry-shot-in-a-bar profile picture. Click on confirm.
Facebook: Don't you want to see how many people you know in common?
Me: No. Click on profile pictures. Scan through pictures of kid, husband, dog, house, kid, kid, kid, husband . . . the very last picture is Jane with her husband and kid and I actually recognize her. OHHHHH . . . JANE!
Me: (writing on Jane's Wall) Hey! How are you? What are you doing in PA? You have a cute kid!!
Then, I figure my Facebook obligation is over. She and I are now friends, she can look at my profile and all my pictures, comment on a few, send me a few stupid drink requests or plants or best friend awards, and the whole thing will die off soon enough.
Notsomuch.
Jane: "Hello!!! So glad to see you on fb! I've found more people that I thought I'd never see again (all good--- you included! :) ). Yes, we live in PA---and are ready to move on. We love where we live, but jobs for husband have all but dried up in this area. [The baby] is 15 months now and becoming quite a handful. She's just incredible and worth the wait, let me tell you. Looks like you've been busy reproducing as well, yes? I'm so impressed with your job--you scored! how's the family?"
Well, that was probably more information than I needed, thanks Jane. That's exactly what I tell people when they ask what I've been doing for the last 10 years . . . reproducing and lawyering. Little bit here, little bit there . . . whatever.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Dear Smart Car Driver . . .
I think it is absolutely wonderful that you have shown your green-superiority to the rest of us by purchasing a Smart Car. I think it is great that you can park your car at a bike rack instead of taking up one of my parking spaces. Frankly, I am jealous that you are using all of your excess gas money to buy Birkenstocks, clothing made from recycled plastic, and reusable tampons.But I have one favor to ask. Just one little thing from this gas-car-driving consumer . . . .
Could you PLEASE drive the FUCKING SPEED LIMIT? I know you have a tiny electric car. I know it was a really, really big hill. I know it feels like you are driving a beer can with wheels and when I pass you in my Hyundai, the vibrations make it feel like your hubcaps are going to fly off. However, these things are not my problem.
What is my problem is you driving 30 miles per hour in a 45 mile per hour zone. Sure, I was feeling a little grumpy because I had just come from the mall where I had to deal with the drone-people who think they need to start Christmas shopping on NO-FREAKING-VEMBER 15th all because I promised my kid she could ride on the Christmas train. I take ownership for my part in this situation. I'm just asking you to drive the speed limit.
Or, like . . . five miles over the speed limit. THAT would be really nice.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Dishwasher Dishwasher Dishwasher Dishwasher DISHWASHER!
After six months of dishpan hands, I finally have a new dishwasher. Or, I should say, newly installed dishwasher. The new dishwasher itself has actually been in my possession for six months. It's just been sitting in my garage because of the asshats who put the last dishwasher in my house.
Anyway, it's in and it works, even though it sticks out from the face of the cabinets by like four inches. (Ahh . . . such is the joy of an old house). Tonight, I'm going to wash EVERY SINGLE DISH in my house. I don't care if they are dirty or not. I'm going to do it because I can. And . . . I'm considering washing anything that will fit in the dishwasher tonight. I have really, really missed having a dishwasher.
Through all of this turmoil, I have learned that quite a few people either don't have or don't use dishwashers. I would like to know what is wrong with you people. Sure, I went through the apartment living too and didn't have a dishwasher in many an apartment. But I'm talking about people who own homes. When I was looking for a house, I told my realtor that my future house must have three things: (1) central air conditioning; (2) a gas stove; and (3) a dishwasher.
Even worse are the people who have dishwashers in their kitchens and don't use them. One of my good friends stores her cookies in the dishwasher. Like Oreos and Milanos. In the dishwasher. I find that very strange. Why would you not use the time saving device installed in your home?
My secretary has taken great joy in telling me that washing dishes by hand is good for me. It is not good for me. It makes me crabby. It gives me dry hands and I hate having dry hands. What I have saved in water costs, I have spent in hand lotion.
But you know what this means? It is time for another appliance to break. Bring it on.
Anyway, it's in and it works, even though it sticks out from the face of the cabinets by like four inches. (Ahh . . . such is the joy of an old house). Tonight, I'm going to wash EVERY SINGLE DISH in my house. I don't care if they are dirty or not. I'm going to do it because I can. And . . . I'm considering washing anything that will fit in the dishwasher tonight. I have really, really missed having a dishwasher.
Through all of this turmoil, I have learned that quite a few people either don't have or don't use dishwashers. I would like to know what is wrong with you people. Sure, I went through the apartment living too and didn't have a dishwasher in many an apartment. But I'm talking about people who own homes. When I was looking for a house, I told my realtor that my future house must have three things: (1) central air conditioning; (2) a gas stove; and (3) a dishwasher.
Even worse are the people who have dishwashers in their kitchens and don't use them. One of my good friends stores her cookies in the dishwasher. Like Oreos and Milanos. In the dishwasher. I find that very strange. Why would you not use the time saving device installed in your home?
My secretary has taken great joy in telling me that washing dishes by hand is good for me. It is not good for me. It makes me crabby. It gives me dry hands and I hate having dry hands. What I have saved in water costs, I have spent in hand lotion.
But you know what this means? It is time for another appliance to break. Bring it on.
Monday, November 10, 2008
You Know What? BITE ME.
I just learned something fairly interesting and completely childish. Today, I published a post on my blog. It was a simple little post, an answer to one of those little memes that goes around the blogging world. Nothing too serious . . . just a little laugh to start off a Monday.
Just like many of my posts, I created several links to other bloggers or other sites that might explain my posts. To some people, my posts can be a little confusing or overly intellectual or contain too many big words and some of those words may need further information. Or sometimes, I create links to be funny. You know, because sometimes I try to be funny.
You know, sometimes people don't agree with me. Sometimes they think my use of the word fuck is too liberal. Sometimes they don't like my politics. Some people like to comment on what I do or don't do with my breasts. Or sometimes they might call me mean. But NOT ONCE has anything on my blog been censored or deleted or completely removed from the online forum that I list as "One of My Favorite Things" on said blog.
But today it was.
Apparently, someone finds one particular link so disturbing, so over the top, so . . . wrong, that my post was deliberately removed from a local blog roll on a local forum.
No, seriously. Really.
What in the sam hell did you link to, Ms. PH? What could be SOOOOO offensive to the good people of Peoria that such a harmless little post was removed? What was it? A snuff film? Baby seal clubbing videos? A picture of that big ball of twine in Minnesota?
No, no. It was worse. I linked to the other Peoria forum. I know - the horror.
So, therefore, you know what dear so-and-so? Get over yourself. Grow the fuck up. Take your head out of your ass. Censorship for moral or political reasons is wrong. Censorship because of local forum wars? That's just stupid.
And, oh yeah . . . bite me.
Just like many of my posts, I created several links to other bloggers or other sites that might explain my posts. To some people, my posts can be a little confusing or overly intellectual or contain too many big words and some of those words may need further information. Or sometimes, I create links to be funny. You know, because sometimes I try to be funny.
You know, sometimes people don't agree with me. Sometimes they think my use of the word fuck is too liberal. Sometimes they don't like my politics. Some people like to comment on what I do or don't do with my breasts. Or sometimes they might call me mean. But NOT ONCE has anything on my blog been censored or deleted or completely removed from the online forum that I list as "One of My Favorite Things" on said blog.
But today it was.
Apparently, someone finds one particular link so disturbing, so over the top, so . . . wrong, that my post was deliberately removed from a local blog roll on a local forum.
No, seriously. Really.
What in the sam hell did you link to, Ms. PH? What could be SOOOOO offensive to the good people of Peoria that such a harmless little post was removed? What was it? A snuff film? Baby seal clubbing videos? A picture of that big ball of twine in Minnesota?
No, no. It was worse. I linked to the other Peoria forum. I know - the horror.
So, therefore, you know what dear so-and-so? Get over yourself. Grow the fuck up. Take your head out of your ass. Censorship for moral or political reasons is wrong. Censorship because of local forum wars? That's just stupid.
And, oh yeah . . . bite me.
Wow - I've Been Blinged
This has never happened to me before . . . Cameron from over at Get the Stink Off gave me some bling, which I was really excited about until I realized it was just some kinda girly square misspelled bannery thing. (I guess, unlike Cameron, I have not forfeited my man card.) But then he called me really smart and I forgave him and decided to play his game.
So, apparently, here are the rules:
(1) List six things that make you happy
(2) Pass the award on to 6 more kreativ bloggers
(3) Link back to the person who gave you the award
(4) Link to the people you are passing it on to and leave them a comment to let them know.
(5) Request scantily clad photos of your blogger friends of the opposite sex.
(Hmmm . . . I'm thinking I might not play part 5 of this game.)
But here are six things that make me happy, in no particular order:
(1) Veteran's Day. Since it's tomorrow, this is really timely happiness. I explained my reasons for loving Veteran's Day some time ago in this post, so I will not elaborate again. Let's just say: Day Off + Day Care Open + No Family Obligations = Happy Day.
(2) Laughing with my children. There is nothing better than raising children who have good senses of humor. I love laughing with them when they say something funny and know they've said something funny, and they are laughing because I am laughing and I am laughing because they are laughing. I just want to squeeze them and cover them with kisses when that happens.
(3) Office Supplies. I love office supplies. Everything from fancy paperclips to every shape of Post-It note, I love them. Particularly pens. And my favorite pens (Pilot V Ball Extra Fine in black) are very hard to come by, so they are usually on my Christmas list. Oh, and stickers and markers and calendars and three-hole-punches and white-out and staple removers and those rubber thumb thingys. I don't really know what those rubber thumb thingys are for, but I have one in my desk drawer. Just in case.
(4) Coffee, Chocolate, Wine, and Pastries. To be more specific, strong coffee, dark chocolate, good wine, and cream-filled pastries.
(5) Mail. Getting real mail makes me happy. Not bills or junk mail or catalogs or reminder notices. Real mail that someone handwrote, hand addressed, and put a stamp on. Makes me feel really special.
(6)
Now I have to link to six more creative bloggers. Hmmmm . . . . After careful consideration, I have decided to only link to female bloggers, because I think Cameron pretty much covered all of the male bloggers when he said his real favorite things were "family, friends, boobs, beer, food, and boobs." I could be wrong, but I don't think so. So, here are the six newest recipients of some blogger "bling."
Notes from the Trailerhood
It Was Only a Dream
Vanilla Bean Counter
Keep Passing the Open Windows
Cjay . . . What?
My Flock Rocks
*You may all think number six is blank. It isn't. It is written in invisible ink. A girl's entitled to have some secrets, isn't she? Well, some sort-of secrets, anyway, since number six was discussed in great length over here last night.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
The Advantages of a Room with a View
I could have gotten a better picture if I hadn't been using my cell phone camera. You can't really tell, but it was a double rainbow, nearly a complete arc, and ended at the Par-A-Dice casino. I kid you not.Tuesday, November 4, 2008
10 Favorite Pick-Me-Up Movies
It is apparently Ms. PH month at HBO On Demand because they have five of my favorite pick-me-up movies available this month. I felt so honored and touched that I decided to make a list of my top 10 favorite pick-me-up movies. These are movies that, if I am surfing the channels on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon with nothing else to do, I will absolutely stop and watch them every time. They are also movies that make me laugh and movies that I quote randomly, usually at inappropriate times when no one has any clue what I am talking about.
The first five are on HBO On Demand right now and the rest are just my favorites. (And, for those of you who can't count, there are actually 12 movies on the list. I just couldn’t decide which ones to cut, so I included all of them.)
(1) Blue Streak - Martin Lawrence, Luke Wilson, Dave Chappelle. I really don’t know what it is about this movie that makes me love it so much. Could it be the dumbass cops who can’t figure out that Martin Lawrence isn’t actually a cop? Maybe. I also love Luke Wilson, so that could be the reason too. Who cares, really. I love it. Seen it like 25 times.
(2) Knocked Up - Seth Rogan, Katherine Heigl, Paul Rudd. If you think about it, the basic story of this movie is not all that funny. Nothing like a totally unplanned pregnancy resulting from a drunken one-night-stand to bring your mood down. However, the underlying humor in this movie is hysterical. One of my favorite parts is when Seth Rogan and Paul Rudd go to Vegas, eat some shrooms, and Paul Rudd obsesses about the number and type of chairs in the hotel room. I think about that every time I am in a hotel room and I find myself counting the number of different chairs. Oh, and this exchange: Dad: "Don’t ever do what they just did." Little Girl: "I’m gonna do it!!"
(3) The Last Supper - Cameron Diaz, Ron Eldard, Annabeth Gish. For those who don’t remember this movie, the basic premise is a bunch of liberal graduate students living in Iowa City together in a house. They decide they will invite people over whose views they do not agree with and kill them. Fantastic. Great for those days when the conservative wing nuts get you down.
(4) Never Been Kissed - Drew Barrymore, David Arquette, Michael Vartan. How can you not love this movie? It is every unpopular girl’s dream come true. Plus, there are so many situations where you can use the quote, "What? I can grab a bull’s balls!!"
(5) The Truth about Cats and Dogs - Uma Thurman, Janeane Garofalo, Ben Chaplin. I may bear a passing resemblance to Uma Thurman (if you squint your eyes and turn your head to the side) because I am tall, blonde, and of Swedish descent, but I totally identify with Janeane Garofalo in this movie. Cat-owning, violin playing, socially-awkward dork who might threaten to shove her violin bow up a guy’s nose to scramble his brain if she was pushed hard enough. (I’ve totally grown out of that now . . . except for the cat-owning and violin playing. And probably the dork thing too.)
(6) Hudson Hawk - Bruce Willis, Danny Aiello, Andie MacDowell. Sure, it is a dumb-ass movie. It makes no logical sense. It has Bruce Willis in it both trying to be funny and singing. However, no matter how depressed I am, this movie will make me laugh every time. So, if you ever hear me say, "I must go talk to the dolphins now! Eeeee . . . Eeeee . . . Eeeee" or sing "Swinging on a Star" you will know why.
(7) Big Daddy - Adam Sandler, Jon Stewart, Joey Lauren Adams. This is by far the funniest quote movie ever. Ever. I can’t tell you the number of times I said, "But I wipe my own ass!" while potty-training my daughter. Appropriate? No. Funny? Hell, yes. That or "Hip . . . Hip . . Hip-hop-anonymous?" I am not ashamed to admit that I use some of the best parenting tips from that movie while raising my own kids.
(8) Galaxy Quest - Tim Allen, Alan Rickman, Sigourney Weaver. Oh, and Justin Long and Tony Shalub. Too funny for words, especially if you are the type of person who likes to make fun of Star Trek fans.
(9) Old School - Vince Vaughn, Luke Wilson, Will Ferrell. Because of this movie, I am trying really hard to teach my daughter "EARMUFFS" so I can swear in front of her, but she isn’t buying it. For a long time, some friends and I would yell at each other when we were leaving, "YOU’RE MY BOY BLUE!" And just picturing Vince Vaughn smoking while attempting the ring exercise makes me giggle.
(10) Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story - Vince Vaughn, Ben Stiller, Justin Long. Hmm . . . it has just occurred to me that I might have the sense of humor of a 14 year old boy. Anyway, when Rip Torn says, "If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a dodgeball!" and smacks Justin Long with a wrench, I can’t stand it. Too Damn Funny.
(11) Men in Black - Tommy Lee Jones, Will Smith, Vincent D’Onofrio. I loved this movie from start to finish. I even wanted to name my next cat Orion because of this movie. But the best part of this movie (and a quote I use with some frequency in my professional life) is, "No Ma’am . . . we at the FBI do not have a sense of humor we are aware of." Classic.
(12) Office Space - Ron Livingston, Jennifer Aniston, Gary Cole. Any person that does not find this movie funny needs to be shot in the head. They clearly have no sense of humor whatsoever and I have no use for them. Because of this movie, I also have a deep love of flair. I have flair on my facebook page. I collect random buttons. This weekend, I can be found wearing all of my flair at Julep’s Closet on my apron. And anytime I see the words "PC load letter," I want to kick the shit out of a printer.
The first five are on HBO On Demand right now and the rest are just my favorites. (And, for those of you who can't count, there are actually 12 movies on the list. I just couldn’t decide which ones to cut, so I included all of them.)
(1) Blue Streak - Martin Lawrence, Luke Wilson, Dave Chappelle. I really don’t know what it is about this movie that makes me love it so much. Could it be the dumbass cops who can’t figure out that Martin Lawrence isn’t actually a cop? Maybe. I also love Luke Wilson, so that could be the reason too. Who cares, really. I love it. Seen it like 25 times.
(2) Knocked Up - Seth Rogan, Katherine Heigl, Paul Rudd. If you think about it, the basic story of this movie is not all that funny. Nothing like a totally unplanned pregnancy resulting from a drunken one-night-stand to bring your mood down. However, the underlying humor in this movie is hysterical. One of my favorite parts is when Seth Rogan and Paul Rudd go to Vegas, eat some shrooms, and Paul Rudd obsesses about the number and type of chairs in the hotel room. I think about that every time I am in a hotel room and I find myself counting the number of different chairs. Oh, and this exchange: Dad: "Don’t ever do what they just did." Little Girl: "I’m gonna do it!!"
(3) The Last Supper - Cameron Diaz, Ron Eldard, Annabeth Gish. For those who don’t remember this movie, the basic premise is a bunch of liberal graduate students living in Iowa City together in a house. They decide they will invite people over whose views they do not agree with and kill them. Fantastic. Great for those days when the conservative wing nuts get you down.
(4) Never Been Kissed - Drew Barrymore, David Arquette, Michael Vartan. How can you not love this movie? It is every unpopular girl’s dream come true. Plus, there are so many situations where you can use the quote, "What? I can grab a bull’s balls!!"
(5) The Truth about Cats and Dogs - Uma Thurman, Janeane Garofalo, Ben Chaplin. I may bear a passing resemblance to Uma Thurman (if you squint your eyes and turn your head to the side) because I am tall, blonde, and of Swedish descent, but I totally identify with Janeane Garofalo in this movie. Cat-owning, violin playing, socially-awkward dork who might threaten to shove her violin bow up a guy’s nose to scramble his brain if she was pushed hard enough. (I’ve totally grown out of that now . . . except for the cat-owning and violin playing. And probably the dork thing too.)
(6) Hudson Hawk - Bruce Willis, Danny Aiello, Andie MacDowell. Sure, it is a dumb-ass movie. It makes no logical sense. It has Bruce Willis in it both trying to be funny and singing. However, no matter how depressed I am, this movie will make me laugh every time. So, if you ever hear me say, "I must go talk to the dolphins now! Eeeee . . . Eeeee . . . Eeeee" or sing "Swinging on a Star" you will know why.
(7) Big Daddy - Adam Sandler, Jon Stewart, Joey Lauren Adams. This is by far the funniest quote movie ever. Ever. I can’t tell you the number of times I said, "But I wipe my own ass!" while potty-training my daughter. Appropriate? No. Funny? Hell, yes. That or "Hip . . . Hip . . Hip-hop-anonymous?" I am not ashamed to admit that I use some of the best parenting tips from that movie while raising my own kids.
(8) Galaxy Quest - Tim Allen, Alan Rickman, Sigourney Weaver. Oh, and Justin Long and Tony Shalub. Too funny for words, especially if you are the type of person who likes to make fun of Star Trek fans.
(9) Old School - Vince Vaughn, Luke Wilson, Will Ferrell. Because of this movie, I am trying really hard to teach my daughter "EARMUFFS" so I can swear in front of her, but she isn’t buying it. For a long time, some friends and I would yell at each other when we were leaving, "YOU’RE MY BOY BLUE!" And just picturing Vince Vaughn smoking while attempting the ring exercise makes me giggle.
(10) Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story - Vince Vaughn, Ben Stiller, Justin Long. Hmm . . . it has just occurred to me that I might have the sense of humor of a 14 year old boy. Anyway, when Rip Torn says, "If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a dodgeball!" and smacks Justin Long with a wrench, I can’t stand it. Too Damn Funny.
(11) Men in Black - Tommy Lee Jones, Will Smith, Vincent D’Onofrio. I loved this movie from start to finish. I even wanted to name my next cat Orion because of this movie. But the best part of this movie (and a quote I use with some frequency in my professional life) is, "No Ma’am . . . we at the FBI do not have a sense of humor we are aware of." Classic.
(12) Office Space - Ron Livingston, Jennifer Aniston, Gary Cole. Any person that does not find this movie funny needs to be shot in the head. They clearly have no sense of humor whatsoever and I have no use for them. Because of this movie, I also have a deep love of flair. I have flair on my facebook page. I collect random buttons. This weekend, I can be found wearing all of my flair at Julep’s Closet on my apron. And anytime I see the words "PC load letter," I want to kick the shit out of a printer.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Creepiest Happy Meal Toy Ever.
I want to know who had the idea to crossbreed Madame Alexander dolls and the characters from the Wizard of Oz. Seriously . . . worst idea ever. And, even if fusing Madame Alexander dolls and characters from the Wizard of Oz was a good idea, like for characters such as Dorothy, the good witch, the munchkins, etc., who was the villiage idiot who thought young children would enjoy a Madame Alexander Flying Monkey?
What are they going to do next? Cabbage Patch Kid Transformers? (Well, we are almost finished with the prototype but these damn chubby cheeks keep getting in the way. There is no possible engineering solution to this problem. NO WAIT! I've got it! Chubby face cheeks transform to chubby butt cheeks. Perfect! Not creepy at all! Will be loved by the masses!)
Most kids I know (including myself) are scared shitless of the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz. Giving them the cute baby face did not help. Giving them the cute little cupie doll haircut didn't help either.
But here's another problem. See that little vest the monkey is wearing? OK, now see that tail sticking out behind the monkey? Yeah, well . . . that tail is not attached to the monkey. It is attached to the bottom of the monkey's vest. WTF?
I mean, if you are going to make a creepy possessed smurf colored three toed flying simian primate, why would you not at least try to attach its tail to its freaking body?
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Neither the High Road nor the Low Road
Sometimes, you read something or you hear something and you get pissed off. If you’re me, that happens fairly frequently. I have a very low tolerance for things I think are stupid or wrong or discriminatory or just plain ass-backwards. Sometimes, in response to these things, you want to write nasty emails, post nasty blog entries, or throw mud in the offending person’s general direction. Sometimes, it feels good to let it all out, to make your voice heard, to one-up the person who has offended you so.
And then there are times for being nice. My mother always used to say to me, "You know, you’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar." Well sure you will, but who wants to catch flies anyway? I really prefer to stalk flies with a rolled up magazine and smash them into teeny-tiny little bits while yelling, "Take that, sucka!!" And yes, it does make me feel powerful to kill something 1/100th of my size with overly-zealous force. So much so that sometimes, I do a little victory dance after I kill a fly. I’m not ashamed to admit it.
For about six months when I was 14 years old, my mother decided it was time to get involved in the Unitarian Church. We’re not a family of church-goers generally, and I was suspicious of this decision. She and my father attended the services and my brother and I went to Sunday School. As it turns out, she wanted to enroll me in Sunday School at this particular church because they had a very progressive sex education program. And when I say very progressive I mean that some of the things we talked about and viewed were my first experience with pornography.
Anyway, my mother didn’t last long in this type of organized religion. This is probably a clue as to how our family views religion in general. If my mother couldn’t stomach the Unitarians, she probably will never be able to be a member of any organized religion. She tried to belong, but she was too realistic for the granola-crunchy members, too smart for the new-age members, and too bossy for the church leadership.
Every service ended with members sharing some piece of good news about their families or anything, really. Our last Sunday in church, one of the other mothers of teenagers in the church stood up to expound on the virtues of her children. At great length. Little Tommy had scored a touchdown in football. Little Suzy was on the honor roll again. They had both won awards for creative writing, or art, or music or some shit like that. Everybody politely clapped (and rolled their eyes). Except my mother.
My mother blew a gasket. She marched up to the lectern and grabbed the microphone. She said, "I would just like to tell everyone about my children. They did absolutely nothing spectacular this week. They were completely normal. They haven’t won any awards and haven’t done exceptionally well in school. But I’m still proud of them. Thank you." She dropped the microphone and walked out.
Like I said, that was our last Sunday in church.
But I learned something from her behavior that day. Sometimes, you need to take a few breaths, count to 10 and NOT say the first thing that comes to your mind. Into a microphone. In front of a large audience.
But sometimes you do.
Bottom line . . . sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t.
The question is, do I feel nutty today? Well? Do I?
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Nope. I still don’t know. But I'll tell you one thing. I don’t like being classified as a Mommy Blogger. I may be a mommy and a blogger. However, calling me a Mommy Blogger is like making cake using only flour and eggs. And it takes a whole lot more to make a cake. Particularly a Pointlessly Hypertechnical cake. Those are some damn complicated pastries.
And then there are times for being nice. My mother always used to say to me, "You know, you’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar." Well sure you will, but who wants to catch flies anyway? I really prefer to stalk flies with a rolled up magazine and smash them into teeny-tiny little bits while yelling, "Take that, sucka!!" And yes, it does make me feel powerful to kill something 1/100th of my size with overly-zealous force. So much so that sometimes, I do a little victory dance after I kill a fly. I’m not ashamed to admit it.
For about six months when I was 14 years old, my mother decided it was time to get involved in the Unitarian Church. We’re not a family of church-goers generally, and I was suspicious of this decision. She and my father attended the services and my brother and I went to Sunday School. As it turns out, she wanted to enroll me in Sunday School at this particular church because they had a very progressive sex education program. And when I say very progressive I mean that some of the things we talked about and viewed were my first experience with pornography.
Anyway, my mother didn’t last long in this type of organized religion. This is probably a clue as to how our family views religion in general. If my mother couldn’t stomach the Unitarians, she probably will never be able to be a member of any organized religion. She tried to belong, but she was too realistic for the granola-crunchy members, too smart for the new-age members, and too bossy for the church leadership.
Every service ended with members sharing some piece of good news about their families or anything, really. Our last Sunday in church, one of the other mothers of teenagers in the church stood up to expound on the virtues of her children. At great length. Little Tommy had scored a touchdown in football. Little Suzy was on the honor roll again. They had both won awards for creative writing, or art, or music or some shit like that. Everybody politely clapped (and rolled their eyes). Except my mother.
My mother blew a gasket. She marched up to the lectern and grabbed the microphone. She said, "I would just like to tell everyone about my children. They did absolutely nothing spectacular this week. They were completely normal. They haven’t won any awards and haven’t done exceptionally well in school. But I’m still proud of them. Thank you." She dropped the microphone and walked out.
Like I said, that was our last Sunday in church.
But I learned something from her behavior that day. Sometimes, you need to take a few breaths, count to 10 and NOT say the first thing that comes to your mind. Into a microphone. In front of a large audience.
But sometimes you do.
Bottom line . . . sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t.
The question is, do I feel nutty today? Well? Do I?
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Nope. I still don’t know. But I'll tell you one thing. I don’t like being classified as a Mommy Blogger. I may be a mommy and a blogger. However, calling me a Mommy Blogger is like making cake using only flour and eggs. And it takes a whole lot more to make a cake. Particularly a Pointlessly Hypertechnical cake. Those are some damn complicated pastries.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Early Voting
I voted last night. I guess it was to take advantage of the early voting that is now available. I waited in line (for almost half an hour), was told for the fourth time my last name is misspelled in the system (and, yes, I am absolutely sure there is an R in my last name. Pretty sure it came over on the boat from Denmark that way. Thanks for asking again, though), and then cast my ballot. Actually, to be precise, my daughter cast my ballot because she loves pushing the buttons. We all got our "I Voted" stickers and were home for dinner.
It was a fine experience but I do not think I will vote early again. Sure, I only waited for half an hour and on voting day during the last presidential election, I waited for an hour and a half, but early voting left me feeling empty inside.
Part of the thrill of voting (and yes, I still think it is thrilling to vote - just to have a small part in the running of our country is amazing) is going home after voting to watch the television coverage. The direct link between my vote and the election results is right there, right away for me to experience. Last night was just a let down. I went home and wanted to see where my vote was in the rankings. Would my candidates win? Would it be close? How many stupid things will the commentators say? Will the clusterfuck happen in Florida again? Or any other state?
Without being able to watch the end of the voting process - the election results - it feels as if I was just pretend voting. I know they assured me every vote will be counted, but I feel as if I was just a half-assed participant. I wanted the immediate gratification of either knowing that, finally, our country is going to make a turn-around from the train wreck of the last eight years or that, it will continue on this track of destruction. I wanted to yell at the TV. I wanted to call all my friends and scream, "What is WRONG with people? Who could possibly vote for that idiot?"
Most of all, I want this election to be over. It has been a long campaign season filled with ups and downs. I am tired of the attack ads. I am tired of daily flyers in the mail maligning one candidate or another. I am tired of hearing from strategists and commentators and talking heads and people who apparently do not have jobs other than to appear on news talk shows during a presidential campaign. I am tired of looking at John McCain's face and hearing Sarah Palin's whiny-ass voice.
It is probably crystal clear who I voted for in this election. But, I will say there were two races where it was a difficult decision. The Gordan/Krupa race is a tough one because, frankly, I think one is a shell of a person puppet for her party and the other is totally under-qualified. I literally did not make a decision about the state's attorney's race until I was standing at the polling booth reading their names. I know both of the men running personally. They both have their good points and they both have really, really negative aspects. And, no . . . I won't tell you which one I picked.
It was a fine experience but I do not think I will vote early again. Sure, I only waited for half an hour and on voting day during the last presidential election, I waited for an hour and a half, but early voting left me feeling empty inside.
Part of the thrill of voting (and yes, I still think it is thrilling to vote - just to have a small part in the running of our country is amazing) is going home after voting to watch the television coverage. The direct link between my vote and the election results is right there, right away for me to experience. Last night was just a let down. I went home and wanted to see where my vote was in the rankings. Would my candidates win? Would it be close? How many stupid things will the commentators say? Will the clusterfuck happen in Florida again? Or any other state?
Without being able to watch the end of the voting process - the election results - it feels as if I was just pretend voting. I know they assured me every vote will be counted, but I feel as if I was just a half-assed participant. I wanted the immediate gratification of either knowing that, finally, our country is going to make a turn-around from the train wreck of the last eight years or that, it will continue on this track of destruction. I wanted to yell at the TV. I wanted to call all my friends and scream, "What is WRONG with people? Who could possibly vote for that idiot?"
Most of all, I want this election to be over. It has been a long campaign season filled with ups and downs. I am tired of the attack ads. I am tired of daily flyers in the mail maligning one candidate or another. I am tired of hearing from strategists and commentators and talking heads and people who apparently do not have jobs other than to appear on news talk shows during a presidential campaign. I am tired of looking at John McCain's face and hearing Sarah Palin's whiny-ass voice.
It is probably crystal clear who I voted for in this election. But, I will say there were two races where it was a difficult decision. The Gordan/Krupa race is a tough one because, frankly, I think one is a shell of a person puppet for her party and the other is totally under-qualified. I literally did not make a decision about the state's attorney's race until I was standing at the polling booth reading their names. I know both of the men running personally. They both have their good points and they both have really, really negative aspects. And, no . . . I won't tell you which one I picked.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
So . . . That's Her Excuse
My daughter loves Notes from the Trailerhood Katie. I mean, everyone loves Katie, but my daughter really, really loves her. Katie's like Santa Claus in our house - the threat and the bribe to get my daughter to do things she doesn't want to do. Such as: "If you don't take a nap, we can't go over to Katie's house." It really, really works, every time.
As you may know, Katie and Dazoo (who is also in my daughter's top 10 people list) are renovating a house. Because I am indebted to Katie for her caretaking of me during the sprained ankle incident, I have gladly offered to help in any way I can. Well, also . . . they promised me I could take part in knocking down a wall and that's really, really exciting to me. I love destroying shit.
I digress.
Anyway, yesterday Katie and I had made tentative plans for me to help her and Dazoo at the house. I told my daughter about these plans (forgetting a three-year old probably didn't know the meaning of tentative) before her nap. Then she heard me call Katie after nap and leave a message. Only then did it dawn on her that we may not be seeing Katie that day.
As we were in the car running errands, my daughter and I talked about this:
Daughter: I want to go to Katie's HOUSE!
Me: I know, babe, but Katie's not there right now. I left her a message and we have to wait until she calls back.
Daughter: But I want to see KATIE! I want to see Katie, RIGHT NOW! (repeat 5 times)
Me: Listen, babe. I left a message for Katie. I can't make her call me back and I can't make her be at her house. She's a grown-up. She makes her own decisions.
Daughter: NO! She's NOT a grown-up!! She's SHORT!
I love Katie dearly, but . . . alas, this is true. She is short. I mean, if my almost three-foot tall three year old calls you short, I think you have to accept it as the ultimate truth.
As you may know, Katie and Dazoo (who is also in my daughter's top 10 people list) are renovating a house. Because I am indebted to Katie for her caretaking of me during the sprained ankle incident, I have gladly offered to help in any way I can. Well, also . . . they promised me I could take part in knocking down a wall and that's really, really exciting to me. I love destroying shit.
I digress.
Anyway, yesterday Katie and I had made tentative plans for me to help her and Dazoo at the house. I told my daughter about these plans (forgetting a three-year old probably didn't know the meaning of tentative) before her nap. Then she heard me call Katie after nap and leave a message. Only then did it dawn on her that we may not be seeing Katie that day.
As we were in the car running errands, my daughter and I talked about this:
Daughter: I want to go to Katie's HOUSE!
Me: I know, babe, but Katie's not there right now. I left her a message and we have to wait until she calls back.
Daughter: But I want to see KATIE! I want to see Katie, RIGHT NOW! (repeat 5 times)
Me: Listen, babe. I left a message for Katie. I can't make her call me back and I can't make her be at her house. She's a grown-up. She makes her own decisions.
Daughter: NO! She's NOT a grown-up!! She's SHORT!
I love Katie dearly, but . . . alas, this is true. She is short. I mean, if my almost three-foot tall three year old calls you short, I think you have to accept it as the ultimate truth.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Mommy Fail, Tattletale
Okay, so . . . I have not been reaching my goal of being the perfect mother lately. I've been hanging by a thread in the perfect mommy competition. Which is fine by me, really, because I don't really want to be the perfect mommy. However, I think I need to step up my game a little bit because my daughter called me out this morning.
It all started last night. The daycare had a "Parents Night Out" thing where you could bring your kids from 6:30 to 10:30 and they would entertain them, give them a snack, and watch a movie. This was the first time I have taken my daughter because this is really the first time I have felt that she is old enough to handle an occasional later bedtime. And when they said it was from 6:30 to 10:30, I thought, cool - I can pick her up at 10:30 like all the other normal parents. In fact, I heard one parent say to his kid as we were leaving, "I'll see you are 10:15 or so!" I felt completely justified going out and staying out until 10:15 or so, assuming I would not be the last parent there.
Well, I was wrong. Not only was I the last parent there and they were standing in the front hall holding my very tired daughter, I showed up smelling like cigarettes and beer. (Now in case any of you perfect parents are reading this, I suggest first, go to someone else's blog and second, yes, I was at a bar and had a drink or two and people around me were smoking. Get over it. Damn perfect parent police.) Anyway, I am sure the teachers had a little laugh at the bad mommy and I felt really bad that she was the last one there, but . . . everyone needs a night out. And it's not like I showed up at one in the morning drunk off my ass with someone else's clothes on. Jeez.
Anyway, this morning I was still feeling a little guilty and spending some real quality time with the kid. As is her usual line of questioning in the morning, she asked, "Are we going to school today?" Nope, it's Saturday. "Are we going to dance class today?" Yep, we are going to dan . . . SHIT.
Bad mommy forgot to wash her dance clothes. I looked at the clock. One hour before we had to leave for class. I rushed to her room and began throwing clothes out of her hamper. Now, ordinarily, I would have evaluated the clothing in question and determined whether we could squeak by with wearing a dirty leotard and tights. (Come on now . . . everyone has done it.) As I got down to the dance clothes in the hamper, it all came back to me.
Milk. Milk down the front of her leotard and tights. Not only was there a faint stain, it didn't smell that good either. No problem - I can wash and dry a load of laundry in an hour. I ran downstairs and started the laundry.
As I came back into the living room, I heard her open up her fake princess cell phone. She said, "I'm calling my teachers, Mama." OK, whatever . . . . Then I hear, "Hello? Yeah, hi . . . my mommy forgot to wash my dance clothes . . . um-hum . . . they really dirty . . . um-hum . . . we be little late. Bye-bye."
Tattletale.
I said to her, "Did you just call your dance teachers and rat me out?"
"Yep."
"Gee, thanks."
"That's OK Mama, you try harder next time."
It all started last night. The daycare had a "Parents Night Out" thing where you could bring your kids from 6:30 to 10:30 and they would entertain them, give them a snack, and watch a movie. This was the first time I have taken my daughter because this is really the first time I have felt that she is old enough to handle an occasional later bedtime. And when they said it was from 6:30 to 10:30, I thought, cool - I can pick her up at 10:30 like all the other normal parents. In fact, I heard one parent say to his kid as we were leaving, "I'll see you are 10:15 or so!" I felt completely justified going out and staying out until 10:15 or so, assuming I would not be the last parent there.
Well, I was wrong. Not only was I the last parent there and they were standing in the front hall holding my very tired daughter, I showed up smelling like cigarettes and beer. (Now in case any of you perfect parents are reading this, I suggest first, go to someone else's blog and second, yes, I was at a bar and had a drink or two and people around me were smoking. Get over it. Damn perfect parent police.) Anyway, I am sure the teachers had a little laugh at the bad mommy and I felt really bad that she was the last one there, but . . . everyone needs a night out. And it's not like I showed up at one in the morning drunk off my ass with someone else's clothes on. Jeez.
Anyway, this morning I was still feeling a little guilty and spending some real quality time with the kid. As is her usual line of questioning in the morning, she asked, "Are we going to school today?" Nope, it's Saturday. "Are we going to dance class today?" Yep, we are going to dan . . . SHIT.
Bad mommy forgot to wash her dance clothes. I looked at the clock. One hour before we had to leave for class. I rushed to her room and began throwing clothes out of her hamper. Now, ordinarily, I would have evaluated the clothing in question and determined whether we could squeak by with wearing a dirty leotard and tights. (Come on now . . . everyone has done it.) As I got down to the dance clothes in the hamper, it all came back to me.
Milk. Milk down the front of her leotard and tights. Not only was there a faint stain, it didn't smell that good either. No problem - I can wash and dry a load of laundry in an hour. I ran downstairs and started the laundry.
As I came back into the living room, I heard her open up her fake princess cell phone. She said, "I'm calling my teachers, Mama." OK, whatever . . . . Then I hear, "Hello? Yeah, hi . . . my mommy forgot to wash my dance clothes . . . um-hum . . . they really dirty . . . um-hum . . . we be little late. Bye-bye."
Tattletale.
I said to her, "Did you just call your dance teachers and rat me out?"
"Yep."
"Gee, thanks."
"That's OK Mama, you try harder next time."
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Fortune Conundrum
So, let's say you eat dinner and after dinner you receive a fortune cookie. Let's say that happens on Tuesday. However, instead of eating the cookie and reading your fortune immediately, you throw the cookie into your briefcase for later.
Of course, then you forget about it.
Then let's say on Thursday at around 3:45 pm, you are starving because you forgot to eat lunch. Then you remember Tuesday night's fortune cookie is still in your briefcase. Granted, it is pretty much reduced to crumbs, but . . . hey, it's still a cookie, right?
So, then you eat the fortune cookie and read the enclosed fortune. The enclosed fortune says:
A pleasant surprise is in store for you tonight.
Which night is the cookie referring to - Tuesday or Thursday? Because, if it was Tuesday, I missed the pleasant surprise and, frankly, it must not have been that pleasant since I don't remember any surprises from Tuesday night aside from the dog pee puddle on the dining room rug.
BUT, if it applies to Thursday, I may just have something to look forward to tonight when I go home, which would make my day infinitely brighter . . . even if for just a few moments.
On the other hand, I should be careful what I wish for . . . the dog could leave an even bigger present for me tonight.
Of course, then you forget about it.
Then let's say on Thursday at around 3:45 pm, you are starving because you forgot to eat lunch. Then you remember Tuesday night's fortune cookie is still in your briefcase. Granted, it is pretty much reduced to crumbs, but . . . hey, it's still a cookie, right?
So, then you eat the fortune cookie and read the enclosed fortune. The enclosed fortune says:
A pleasant surprise is in store for you tonight.
Which night is the cookie referring to - Tuesday or Thursday? Because, if it was Tuesday, I missed the pleasant surprise and, frankly, it must not have been that pleasant since I don't remember any surprises from Tuesday night aside from the dog pee puddle on the dining room rug.
BUT, if it applies to Thursday, I may just have something to look forward to tonight when I go home, which would make my day infinitely brighter . . . even if for just a few moments.
On the other hand, I should be careful what I wish for . . . the dog could leave an even bigger present for me tonight.
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