Lately, I've been fascinated by generational differences...probably because I'm starting to notice them in the generation that follows mine. Courtesy of Wikipedia, here's a breakout of the names and time spans of the latest and greatest generations:
1961–1981: Generation X
1975–1985: MTV Generation
1981–1986: Boomerang Generation
1977–2003: Generation Y
1986–1999: Internet Generation
2001–????: New Silent Generation
Born in 1975, I fall squarely into Generation X. Click on the links above to check out the traits and characteristics are for each generation; it makes for pretty fun reading.
Anyway, I just kind of figured that generational differences are all about the cultural context in which we self-actualize (i.e., grow up). Since the only constant in life is change, then the cultural context, one of the chief intangibles that molds our identity, also changes. Ipso facto, people growing up in different cultural contexts will be different. Congratulating myself on a pretty tight, if inconsequential, axiom, I didn't think about it much beyond that.
Then I became a campus bureaucrat, and I started working with students who fell into that venn diagram of Boomerang Generation/Generation Y. And the functional differences became more obvious. Some students assumed that there were no uncharted waters with regard to activities they wanted to conduct, so they wanted to talk it over ad nauseum. Others would spend hundreds of dollars out-of-pocket to fund these activities, and then not understand why I couldn't pay them back out of petty cash. Still others thought that the practicalities of planning an event thoroughly didn't matter, provided the purpose of the event was a good one. There was nothing negative in my perception of this -- I just figured they were learning the ropes of operating within an organizational structure.
But then I visited a website that I frequent, and saw this conversation thread on a message board. The gist of the article is that the kiddos that fall into the Boomerang Generation end up living at home through their mid-20's, oftentimes after living away from home for a couple of years, primarily because they came of age in a pretty crappy era. They started graduating from high school in 1999 (hello, dot-com bubble burst), and, if they went to college, started graduating in 2003 (hello, 9/11, war in Afghanistan, war in Iraq, global nosedive of sentiments toward Americans, faltering economy, etc.).
So, yep, I'll grant that it's hard out there for Boomeranger. BUT, I noted in the thread that there were some accountabilities that are not being owned. So I present to you, in all of my cranky Generation X apathy, my wildly speculative and generalized open letter on what this generation is not admitting to itself:
1) Your parents made you the central focus of family life -- multiple after-school, weekend, and summer activities, and countless hours spent in minivans schlepping kids around. So its only natural that you think that you are, in fact, the center of the universe. Understand that world events are not conspiring to keep you from achieving the modern American dream of gainful employment, no credit card debt, and home ownership.
2) Jumping off from #1, your mediocre accomplishments were lauded as metoric accomplishments. If a kid does well on a test, well, sure, pat him on the back and slap that 'A' paper on the refrigerator. But that kid shouldn't get a bike as a reward for doing that which he should do. This probably led you to believe that as long as you do what's asked of you and don't mess it up too badly, then you deserve praise and rewards.
3) And while we're bashing parents, lets go for another one: parents of the Boomerangs can probably be accused of doing too much for their children. This all comes out of love, and wanting your children to have a cozy life at home, because the world will deal them some harsh realities soon enough. I get that. But if you give your kids whatever clothes and gadgets they want, and you don't teach them how to balance a checkbook, or how to save and earn interest, what does that teach them? That luxuries are de rigeur, and that money is something that you don't have to worry about.
All of these things lead into my thoughts on the Boomerangers expectations about education...
4) You expect that a college degree will net you an awesome job (awesome = way more moolah than the US median income). Get real. A college degree is the new high school diploma. Sure, the crest on that diploma can make a slight difference in how highly your application is rated, but not much. Wanna know what the real important thing is? Experience accrued while getting a degree. If you have a graphic arts degree coupled with an internship, paid or unpaid, working for a local newspaper, well, that's a helluva lot more compelling than a kid who churned out a fake menu for a school project and had weeks to complete it.
This is especially true for anyone who earns a liberal arts degree. Nobody, including employers, know exactly what a liberal arts degree prepares a student to do. Well, that's because it doesn't prepare you for anything practical. A liberal arts degree ideally teaches you a little about a lot, and teaches you how to think critically, and how to write passably. But it does not tell an employer, "Hire Mary. She'd be really great a technical writing since she was an English major." Nope. You need to draw that connection for them by having invested some labor into that field through internships.
I respect those that seek a degree in a field that is renowned for low-paying or high-risk jobs. It's not that some low-paying jobs shouldn't have gobs more money thrown at them (hello, educators!). But how can you be bitter when your History degree from Prestigious University doesn't get you a $50K per year starting salary? Didn't you know that this was going to happen?
Along these lines...it's kind of understandable how the Boomerangs might think that a college degree is the end-all/be-all since the operations higher education morphed from a non-profit model into a business model. Translation? Colleges will provide you with the opportunity to get pretty much any kind of degree, so long as you can fork over tuition. Check out this table of degrees conferred by degree-granting institutions. A Bachelor's in Turf Grass Management? A Master's in Interior Design? A Doctorate in Dance? These are fields (no pun intended with respect to that turf degree) are ones that you learn through DOING, not through books. Seek out apprenticeships, or internships. If these things don't exist in your field of choice, it's a FANTASTIC indicator of how easily you will find a decent-paying job in the field, even if you have an advanced degree.
5) Be aware that you will not have the same lifestyle as your parents when you graduate from college. Ask them what their lifestyle was like when they were in their early twenties. They probably got the occasional utility shut-off notice, had to live in a dive apartment with four other people, ate cereal for dinner a couple of nights a week, and only went to the movies when they cashed in the change jar coins. It took them years of work, of savings, of paying down debt, to get to a place where they live comfortably. Why should your experience be any different? By the way, the longer you allow your parents to subsidize your lifestyle, the longer you need to abide by their codes of ethics, their opinions on how you live your life, and how you spend whatever money you do have. You can't take money or shelter (or both) from people and ask them to hold the side dish of commentary -- it just doesn't work that way.
Now, I know that the laundry list above does not apply to every Boomeranger and his parents. And I know that there are reasons that, even though some of them do apply, you can't help needing to live in your parents' basement. I lived at home for a year after I graduated college, because I was getting married and saving money to pay for the wedding, so I get that there are definitely some circumstances beyond your control.
Just don't ride the gravy train forever, is all I'm sayin'. Figure out which of your choices got you to where you are. You don't need to feel remorseful about 'em, especially if you were following your passions. Just, if you want to improve things for yourself, make a plan to do it and don't harbor bitterness that the world doesn't work a little differently. Figure out what you've got to do to make it work for you, or make your peace with the fact that it doesn't.
This is Crotchety GenX Fogey, signing off.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Monday, July 10, 2006
A Really Nasty Case of Strep, or, How I Found Out I Was Pregnant
Back around the holidays, Hubby and I had a conversation about the amount of sleep we were getting. Ultimately, we decided that 8 hours a night is just too much, and that the only way we could ensure that peaceful stretch of slumber would be shattered thoroughly was to have another baby. So, we threw caution to the wind.
In February, I thought I might be pregnant. Now, I had often laughed at the commercials for the early home pregnancy tests. It's not that I think a woman's being a little hyper if she wants to know if she's pregnant 5 days in. It's that the commercials feature smiley, happy-go-lucky women. Now, if you want to know if you're pregnant that soon, chances are you're going to be really, really anxious because you either (a) desperately want to be pregnant, or (b) desperately want NOT to be pregnant. Either way, I think the women in this commercial should probably look a little drawn, a little tense, pace the room, whatever.
Having said that, I think I fell into the former category. I'm a scheduler by nature, and a whole host of conversations, doctor's appointments, plans, etc., need to happen depending on how many lines show up on a piece of plastic. So I took the home pregnancy test. And it came up negative.
Oh well, I thought. It could be a false negative. Guess I'll find out for sure in two weeks when nature takes her, um, courses.
Well, I was right that I would find out, but not the way that I thought I would.
About three days after I took the pregnancy test, the Boy came down with roseola. And then I came down with a ridiculous case of strep throat. You can read all about it here. (How narcissistic is it to reference one's own work?) A couple of days into my strepitude, I went to the doctor, 'cause that's how I roll. The in-house throat swab came back negative, so they did a souped up throat culture that needed to be sent out, but the results would take a couple of days to come back. So I loaded up on antibiotics, and took to my bed. Or couch, as the case may be.
When the throat culture came back, it was ALSO negative for strep. So the doctor made me come back to be tested for MONO. So there I was, on a Friday night, in one of those prompt-care-but-not-an-emergency-room joints, waiting to have my blood drawn. The doctor I saw that night asked me if there was a chance that I could be pregnant. That's when I realized I was a day or so late. I guess I'd just figured my body was giving me a break because it was riddled with the pox, so why chuck menstruation on top of that?
My answer to the doctor? "Um, a slim chance." I explained that we'd just started, uh, not preventing conception, but that a home pregnancy test had come back negative. Since a slim chance is still a chance, and they were going to draw blood anyway for the mono test, I decided they might as well do a pregnancy test as well.
It took FOREVER to get the results back. I was hanging out on an exam table, feeling woozy from whatever was lurking in my system. The only reading material available in the exam room was a brochure on the chain of physician's blah-de-blah, one of which I was patronizing. I read it about three times. Despite my anticipation, I seriously debated taking a nap. I was seconds away from laying my head down on the papered table when I saw a shadow, and then sneakered feet, under the curtain. When the doctor drew the curtain back, I sat up straight.
"Well," she said, "your mono test came back negative."
I let that piece of good news wash over me. It was like the opening act for the band you're really interested in.
"But," she continued, bursting into a smile, "your pregnancy test is positive!"
She immediately thrust a sheaf of printouts at me -- the positive pregnancy test results, a, uh, helpful three paragraphs on what I should do now that I knew I was pregnant, and a prescription for a safer antibiotic for what had to be strep throat, despite all of the negative tests.
The whole drive home I was smiling. When we found out about the Boy's imminent arrival, the Hubby and I were hunkered over one of those pregnancy tests, waiting for the hands on the clock to scissor off the proper amount of time before we checked for the telltale lines. But this time, with this baby, I got to know first. There's something delicious, and appropriate, about being the one to tell your husband that he's going to be a daddy again.
Minutes after telling him, we told the Boy. I still don't think he quite understands, but that'll come in time. I'm sure it'll only happen once there's a squalling infant stealing his parents' attention, but hey, that's OK.
And that, my friends, is how I found about about my second baby.
In February, I thought I might be pregnant. Now, I had often laughed at the commercials for the early home pregnancy tests. It's not that I think a woman's being a little hyper if she wants to know if she's pregnant 5 days in. It's that the commercials feature smiley, happy-go-lucky women. Now, if you want to know if you're pregnant that soon, chances are you're going to be really, really anxious because you either (a) desperately want to be pregnant, or (b) desperately want NOT to be pregnant. Either way, I think the women in this commercial should probably look a little drawn, a little tense, pace the room, whatever.
Having said that, I think I fell into the former category. I'm a scheduler by nature, and a whole host of conversations, doctor's appointments, plans, etc., need to happen depending on how many lines show up on a piece of plastic. So I took the home pregnancy test. And it came up negative.
Oh well, I thought. It could be a false negative. Guess I'll find out for sure in two weeks when nature takes her, um, courses.
Well, I was right that I would find out, but not the way that I thought I would.
About three days after I took the pregnancy test, the Boy came down with roseola. And then I came down with a ridiculous case of strep throat. You can read all about it here. (How narcissistic is it to reference one's own work?) A couple of days into my strepitude, I went to the doctor, 'cause that's how I roll. The in-house throat swab came back negative, so they did a souped up throat culture that needed to be sent out, but the results would take a couple of days to come back. So I loaded up on antibiotics, and took to my bed. Or couch, as the case may be.
When the throat culture came back, it was ALSO negative for strep. So the doctor made me come back to be tested for MONO. So there I was, on a Friday night, in one of those prompt-care-but-not-an-emergency-room joints, waiting to have my blood drawn. The doctor I saw that night asked me if there was a chance that I could be pregnant. That's when I realized I was a day or so late. I guess I'd just figured my body was giving me a break because it was riddled with the pox, so why chuck menstruation on top of that?
My answer to the doctor? "Um, a slim chance." I explained that we'd just started, uh, not preventing conception, but that a home pregnancy test had come back negative. Since a slim chance is still a chance, and they were going to draw blood anyway for the mono test, I decided they might as well do a pregnancy test as well.
It took FOREVER to get the results back. I was hanging out on an exam table, feeling woozy from whatever was lurking in my system. The only reading material available in the exam room was a brochure on the chain of physician's blah-de-blah, one of which I was patronizing. I read it about three times. Despite my anticipation, I seriously debated taking a nap. I was seconds away from laying my head down on the papered table when I saw a shadow, and then sneakered feet, under the curtain. When the doctor drew the curtain back, I sat up straight.
"Well," she said, "your mono test came back negative."
I let that piece of good news wash over me. It was like the opening act for the band you're really interested in.
"But," she continued, bursting into a smile, "your pregnancy test is positive!"
She immediately thrust a sheaf of printouts at me -- the positive pregnancy test results, a, uh, helpful three paragraphs on what I should do now that I knew I was pregnant, and a prescription for a safer antibiotic for what had to be strep throat, despite all of the negative tests.
The whole drive home I was smiling. When we found out about the Boy's imminent arrival, the Hubby and I were hunkered over one of those pregnancy tests, waiting for the hands on the clock to scissor off the proper amount of time before we checked for the telltale lines. But this time, with this baby, I got to know first. There's something delicious, and appropriate, about being the one to tell your husband that he's going to be a daddy again.
Minutes after telling him, we told the Boy. I still don't think he quite understands, but that'll come in time. I'm sure it'll only happen once there's a squalling infant stealing his parents' attention, but hey, that's OK.
And that, my friends, is how I found about about my second baby.
She'll Be a Girl!
My posting has been spotty and pretty blah of late. Well, I think it has been, and that's what counts, right? There's a reason that my little scribbles have been less than entertaining. The truth is, I've been holding back. Since the beginning of March, I've been carrying around (both literally and figuratively) a wonderful, big, wonderfully big secret. Baby #2 is on her way!
It's silly how much I've wanted to write about it, but I censored myself because we were keeping everything under wraps 'til I got past the first trimester. Honestly, when you prevent yourself from writing about the stuff you REALLY want to write about, well, everything else just seems forced by comparison.
Then there was the small matter of telling the folks at work, the friends, the family, etc., prior to sharing the news here. Nothing personal, but I didn't want the folks who pull up my blog because I happened to have hosted a Monica Lewinsky photo here a couple of months ago to find out before, say, my mother.
Wow, the Catholic guilt that would ensue...
Anyhoo, now I'm going to post a few little blurbs about various experiences along the way...like how we found out about Pinky (that's what my mother-in-law and sister-in-law have decided to call the baby 'til she's here and we've slapped her with a name).
It's silly how much I've wanted to write about it, but I censored myself because we were keeping everything under wraps 'til I got past the first trimester. Honestly, when you prevent yourself from writing about the stuff you REALLY want to write about, well, everything else just seems forced by comparison.
Then there was the small matter of telling the folks at work, the friends, the family, etc., prior to sharing the news here. Nothing personal, but I didn't want the folks who pull up my blog because I happened to have hosted a Monica Lewinsky photo here a couple of months ago to find out before, say, my mother.
Wow, the Catholic guilt that would ensue...
Anyhoo, now I'm going to post a few little blurbs about various experiences along the way...like how we found out about Pinky (that's what my mother-in-law and sister-in-law have decided to call the baby 'til she's here and we've slapped her with a name).
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Caution: Show Dogs
On the exit ramp from 695 onto Dulaney Valley Road, I spied something like this on the back of a minivan:
The one I saw also featured a silohuette of some frou frou pup. Here's the thing, though: shouldn't we exercise caution because we don't want to injure the people inside the car? It makes sense to slap a caution sticker like this on something that doesn't typically carry precious cargo, like a cardboard box or a suitcase or something. But on a car? And for dogs?
Rain, Rain, Go Away
You know your day isn't going to be particularly good when you get a call at 1:30 a.m. from your local municipal government, and when you answer the phone, a robotic recorded voice informs you that voluntary evacuation procedures are underway.
Aren't we always able to evacuate voluntarily?
Anyway, most of the flooding is south and east of where we live, so I don't think we'll need to find another place to sleep tonight. But I've got to keep frantically searching various newschannels for any updates because Laurel, MD, is apparently a Brigadoon-ish kind of town as far as the newspapers are concerned. Even the local paper hasn't uploaded any alerts on their website. I know the Laurel Leader is a weekly, but come on! Isn't this kind of stuff supposed to get the blood of a cub reporter pumping?
For what it's worth, as of 1:04 p.m., the city is still recommending evacuations of low-lying areas, but they are not mandating it.
Look at me, serving the good people of my 'burg with news they can use.
Aren't we always able to evacuate voluntarily?
Anyway, most of the flooding is south and east of where we live, so I don't think we'll need to find another place to sleep tonight. But I've got to keep frantically searching various newschannels for any updates because Laurel, MD, is apparently a Brigadoon-ish kind of town as far as the newspapers are concerned. Even the local paper hasn't uploaded any alerts on their website. I know the Laurel Leader is a weekly, but come on! Isn't this kind of stuff supposed to get the blood of a cub reporter pumping?
For what it's worth, as of 1:04 p.m., the city is still recommending evacuations of low-lying areas, but they are not mandating it.
Look at me, serving the good people of my 'burg with news they can use.
Friday, June 16, 2006
How Not to Look Like a Hillbilly
So, I was watching this interview yesterday, and I was inspired to scribe a few simple rules for how not to look like a hillbilly. I'm not gonna reveal my muse, but I feel for her. She's (a) young, (b) in the public eye, and (c) still in that stage of her life where she feels like if she admits having made a mistake, she'll irrevocably lose some of her pride. Of course, what she ends up losing is the appearance of integrity and an understanding of personal accountability, but hey, see (a). Someone needs to share with her that it's OK to make mistakes since you learn a lot from mistakes too, but we have to acknowledge when we make mistakes or we never improve ourselves.
Sorry about getting all Dr. Phil on you there for a minute. Especially considering that this is just a shallow piece on physical appearance.
Full disclosure: I'm about two generations removed from hillbillies (white trash, trailer trash, whatever epithet you want to sling), so I'm familiar with this particular type of woman.
Ready? Here we go:
1) DON'T walk around guzzling a beverage. Doesn't matter what kind. A smoothie, a Coke, a beer, a venti mocha latte: these are not accessories. Food should be consumed in relative privacy, at a table, in a car, on a picnic basket, wherever. Just not when you're cruising the mall or running errands. I mean, can you really not go for an half an hour without liquid sustenance?
2) DO maintain your roots if you color your hair. I don't care what color with which you rinse your crowning glory. Go for platinum blonde if you so desire. Just don't let it get to a point where your strands resemble Jell-o 1-2-3.
3) DON'T chomp on gum when you are serving in a professional capacity. In a meeting, when cutting hair, when being interviewed: ditch the chew. You want minty fresh breath? Go for a Tic Tac.
4) Speaking of gum, DON'T use a shade of lipstick that looks like it belongs in a candy aisle. Other make-up choices to avoid during daylight hours: blue or frosted eyeshadows, radically unnatural shades of nail polish (only if you bite your nails to the quick and we can see the jagged nubs in chiaroscuro with the fakey color), and body glitter.
5) DO acknowledge your body size, regardless of the reason. You might be pregnant, or have a disability that keeps you from exercising, or have an allergic reaction that causes you to swell. Doesn't matter. Even if they make mini-skirts in a size 18, that doesn't mean you should wear them. Same goes for bikinis, camis, thongs, hot pants, and tube tops. Now I know that some people will take offense and say we should be proud of your bodies. To them I say: you can be proud of something without displaying it to the universe. I would say that dressing in the most flattering clothes possible is how you show pride in yourself.
6) On topic of clothes...DO wear at least one thing that fits properly. If you really want to wear a hobo-chic baggy shirt, go for the jeans that fit like they are supposed to, not an excessively big pair of dungarees. If you really want to sport a too-tight skirt, skip the second-skin top and slap on something flowy. This shows that you might actually be trying to accentuate an asset instead of delude yourself.
7) And again on the topic of clothes...DO understand that bra straps are not an accessory. If you can see 'em, you need to rethink your outfit.
8) If you happen to also be a Mommy...DO attempt to ensure your child is wearing the following while out in public: shirt, pants, socks. It doesn't seem tough, I know, but some people are under the impression that all babies are adorable, and all people will coo over them even if they are just wearing a diaper. Anyway, under the age of 1, shoes are optional. And when inside, hats are optional. One more baby-related item: when in public, DON'T change your baby's diaper anywhere other than a changing station. Exceptions may be made, of course, but only if you've looked for a changing station and there are none to be found.
That last one got a little more behavioral, I guess, but it tangentially deals with what a kid wears, which is a reflection on the Mom, right?
Anyway, I'm not saying this stuff to be mean, necessarily. In art class, they called it constructive criticism. There's this tendency among girls today to happily proclaim that they are liberated, that they know their own minds, and that they don't care what other people think. That's laudable, it really is. But I think you still have to have a firm grasp of how certain actions and personal choices are perceived, and how that might impact your standing in a community. Ultimately, it really isn't anyone's business or right to judge another person. That's between them and their Higher Power (if they have one), or, in some cases, the judge sitting on the bench.
Man, I went all Dr. Phil again. I've gotta stop that.
Sorry about getting all Dr. Phil on you there for a minute. Especially considering that this is just a shallow piece on physical appearance.
Full disclosure: I'm about two generations removed from hillbillies (white trash, trailer trash, whatever epithet you want to sling), so I'm familiar with this particular type of woman.
Ready? Here we go:
1) DON'T walk around guzzling a beverage. Doesn't matter what kind. A smoothie, a Coke, a beer, a venti mocha latte: these are not accessories. Food should be consumed in relative privacy, at a table, in a car, on a picnic basket, wherever. Just not when you're cruising the mall or running errands. I mean, can you really not go for an half an hour without liquid sustenance?
2) DO maintain your roots if you color your hair. I don't care what color with which you rinse your crowning glory. Go for platinum blonde if you so desire. Just don't let it get to a point where your strands resemble Jell-o 1-2-3.
3) DON'T chomp on gum when you are serving in a professional capacity. In a meeting, when cutting hair, when being interviewed: ditch the chew. You want minty fresh breath? Go for a Tic Tac.
4) Speaking of gum, DON'T use a shade of lipstick that looks like it belongs in a candy aisle. Other make-up choices to avoid during daylight hours: blue or frosted eyeshadows, radically unnatural shades of nail polish (only if you bite your nails to the quick and we can see the jagged nubs in chiaroscuro with the fakey color), and body glitter.
5) DO acknowledge your body size, regardless of the reason. You might be pregnant, or have a disability that keeps you from exercising, or have an allergic reaction that causes you to swell. Doesn't matter. Even if they make mini-skirts in a size 18, that doesn't mean you should wear them. Same goes for bikinis, camis, thongs, hot pants, and tube tops. Now I know that some people will take offense and say we should be proud of your bodies. To them I say: you can be proud of something without displaying it to the universe. I would say that dressing in the most flattering clothes possible is how you show pride in yourself.
6) On topic of clothes...DO wear at least one thing that fits properly. If you really want to wear a hobo-chic baggy shirt, go for the jeans that fit like they are supposed to, not an excessively big pair of dungarees. If you really want to sport a too-tight skirt, skip the second-skin top and slap on something flowy. This shows that you might actually be trying to accentuate an asset instead of delude yourself.
7) And again on the topic of clothes...DO understand that bra straps are not an accessory. If you can see 'em, you need to rethink your outfit.
8) If you happen to also be a Mommy...DO attempt to ensure your child is wearing the following while out in public: shirt, pants, socks. It doesn't seem tough, I know, but some people are under the impression that all babies are adorable, and all people will coo over them even if they are just wearing a diaper. Anyway, under the age of 1, shoes are optional. And when inside, hats are optional. One more baby-related item: when in public, DON'T change your baby's diaper anywhere other than a changing station. Exceptions may be made, of course, but only if you've looked for a changing station and there are none to be found.
That last one got a little more behavioral, I guess, but it tangentially deals with what a kid wears, which is a reflection on the Mom, right?
Anyway, I'm not saying this stuff to be mean, necessarily. In art class, they called it constructive criticism. There's this tendency among girls today to happily proclaim that they are liberated, that they know their own minds, and that they don't care what other people think. That's laudable, it really is. But I think you still have to have a firm grasp of how certain actions and personal choices are perceived, and how that might impact your standing in a community. Ultimately, it really isn't anyone's business or right to judge another person. That's between them and their Higher Power (if they have one), or, in some cases, the judge sitting on the bench.
Man, I went all Dr. Phil again. I've gotta stop that.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
You Need to Be a Geek if You're Going to Make Pop Culture References
In the post-Howard Stern era, I've been zipping around the radio dial in search of a go-to talk radio show for my commute. I wasn't one of the goober Howard automatons who listened to all four hours every day, nor did I want to jump on the Sirius bandwagon. As DC loyalists, we subscribe to XM in one of our cars, home of Ron and Fez. I can't stomach the notion of paying another $10 a month just for Howard.
I'm sure lots of citizens who belong to the iPod nation will think this is nutty. Why would you rely on radio to deliver a program when you can orchestrate what comes through your car speakers?
'Cause I don't want to create four-wheeled incubator and inoculate myself from the outside world. I'm a little paranoid that something big will be happening in the world, and I won't know about it 'til I get to work because I was ignorantly grooving to Erasure's "Chains of Love" or laughing at a Ricky Gervais podcast. So I'll listen to a little NPR, a little Washington Post radio, and, in the mornings, I'll flip between Elliot in the Morning and the Junkies.
I like these two shows because, unlike other local radio morning "talent," they don't:
1) Use all kinds of bass and echo on their voices;
2) Download "jokes" or interesting lists from what has to be a DJ filler website that no one outside of the biz knows about;
3) Sound like they hate what they do;
4) Talk about how funny the "Blue Collar Comedy Tour" is;
5) Sound like they smoked 400 packs of cigarettes that morning.
Don't get me wrong, I know that Elliot smokes like a chimney, but he doesn't have that "my throat has been scraped raw" voice...yet.
But here is a minor something that has GOT to stop on both shows: if you are going to make pop culture references to TV, movies, music, or celubutards, I am BEGGING you to get the names, titles, circumstances, etc. right. I can't take it anymore. I know I'm a fanatic about that stuff, but Elliott, what if I said I really liked that hockey player Alexander Ovechsky? And Junkies, what if I insisted that LeBron plays for the Pistons? Wouldn't you tear your hair out?
Elliot's a little better about this 'cause Diane's apparently a gossip hound (what's up, home subscription to US Weekly?). But when y'all start talking about how you want to see a movie, but you can't get the title right, you kind of sound like my Dad. Oof, and then you start arguing about it, and no one comes up with the right answer, which is wildly interesting to listen to. Can someone please become the perma-Google-er, IMDB-er, or Wikipedia-er?
In the grand scheme of things, I know this is no biggie. But the subjects of my rant understand that we geeks each have to guard our tiny corners of the intellectual (or trivial, if you like) universe.
Phew, I feel better now.
I'm sure lots of citizens who belong to the iPod nation will think this is nutty. Why would you rely on radio to deliver a program when you can orchestrate what comes through your car speakers?
'Cause I don't want to create four-wheeled incubator and inoculate myself from the outside world. I'm a little paranoid that something big will be happening in the world, and I won't know about it 'til I get to work because I was ignorantly grooving to Erasure's "Chains of Love" or laughing at a Ricky Gervais podcast. So I'll listen to a little NPR, a little Washington Post radio, and, in the mornings, I'll flip between Elliot in the Morning and the Junkies.
I like these two shows because, unlike other local radio morning "talent," they don't:
1) Use all kinds of bass and echo on their voices;
2) Download "jokes" or interesting lists from what has to be a DJ filler website that no one outside of the biz knows about;
3) Sound like they hate what they do;
4) Talk about how funny the "Blue Collar Comedy Tour" is;
5) Sound like they smoked 400 packs of cigarettes that morning.
Don't get me wrong, I know that Elliot smokes like a chimney, but he doesn't have that "my throat has been scraped raw" voice...yet.
But here is a minor something that has GOT to stop on both shows: if you are going to make pop culture references to TV, movies, music, or celubutards, I am BEGGING you to get the names, titles, circumstances, etc. right. I can't take it anymore. I know I'm a fanatic about that stuff, but Elliott, what if I said I really liked that hockey player Alexander Ovechsky? And Junkies, what if I insisted that LeBron plays for the Pistons? Wouldn't you tear your hair out?
Elliot's a little better about this 'cause Diane's apparently a gossip hound (what's up, home subscription to US Weekly?). But when y'all start talking about how you want to see a movie, but you can't get the title right, you kind of sound like my Dad. Oof, and then you start arguing about it, and no one comes up with the right answer, which is wildly interesting to listen to. Can someone please become the perma-Google-er, IMDB-er, or Wikipedia-er?
In the grand scheme of things, I know this is no biggie. But the subjects of my rant understand that we geeks each have to guard our tiny corners of the intellectual (or trivial, if you like) universe.
Phew, I feel better now.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
MyEyes Hurt Courtesy of MySpace: PSA on Design
Ye gods, some of the kids who use MySpace.com need basic design lessons. Since a bunch of my aging hipster friends are setting up MySpace accounts, I trolled around the site for awhile looking for their profiles. (And, by the way, I felt like a big ol' stalker.)
Anyway, here's a coupla tips for the would-be graphic designers who have set up their very own, cool, unique, hip, aneurysm-inducing spots on MySpace:
1) Background images work ONLY if you (a) lighten them images up A LOT so that you can see text over it, or (b) have a solid block of color layered on top of the background images so that text is visible.
2) Black background + neon font = eyeball explosion. Same goes for a neon background + any color font.
3) Fonts should between 8 points and 12 points.
4) Pictures work best if they are small or medium 'cause the big ones bleed off-screen.
5) This isn't so much a visual thing, but putting music on your MySpace profile is lame UNLESS you change it with some regularity. Otherwise, I will start to associate you with indie goth rock, and you will forever be the chick/dude with a fetish for The Veils. Plus, it becomes fairly obvious when the casual office drone is surfing MySpace when "Lavinia" whooshes from the 'puter's speakers.
6) Don't list everything you've ever liked, ever, under "Interests." When your "Interests" column is longer than your "Friends' Comments" column, it makes you seem less, um, interesting.
7) Don't let Tom chill in the #1 friend spot (um, unless he's actually a really good friend of yours).
8) Tagging other people's comments sections is like slapping a bumper sticker on someone's dream car. They've got everything just the way they want it, and then you come along and smear it with something that sparkles, doesn't match anything, and, horror of horrors, MOVES. You can't look at anything else when one of these things is dancing around in the comments.
9) The use of lots of graphics, pictures, animations, etc. translates into a page that loads about as quickly as, um, the evolution of a species.
10) And finally...I know that this started out as a design critique, but this one's for da kids: remember when you were little and your parents didn't get you any t-shirts or jackets with your name emblazoned across the front? Wanna know why? 'Cause they didn't want strangers to have any opportunity to walk up to you and fake like they knew you 'cause they knew your name. Use the same principle when it comes to MySpace. DON'T post the following information about yourself:
Anyway, here's a coupla tips for the would-be graphic designers who have set up their very own, cool, unique, hip, aneurysm-inducing spots on MySpace:
1) Background images work ONLY if you (a) lighten them images up A LOT so that you can see text over it, or (b) have a solid block of color layered on top of the background images so that text is visible.
2) Black background + neon font = eyeball explosion. Same goes for a neon background + any color font.
3) Fonts should between 8 points and 12 points.
4) Pictures work best if they are small or medium 'cause the big ones bleed off-screen.
5) This isn't so much a visual thing, but putting music on your MySpace profile is lame UNLESS you change it with some regularity. Otherwise, I will start to associate you with indie goth rock, and you will forever be the chick/dude with a fetish for The Veils. Plus, it becomes fairly obvious when the casual office drone is surfing MySpace when "Lavinia" whooshes from the 'puter's speakers.
6) Don't list everything you've ever liked, ever, under "Interests." When your "Interests" column is longer than your "Friends' Comments" column, it makes you seem less, um, interesting.
7) Don't let Tom chill in the #1 friend spot (um, unless he's actually a really good friend of yours).
8) Tagging other people's comments sections is like slapping a bumper sticker on someone's dream car. They've got everything just the way they want it, and then you come along and smear it with something that sparkles, doesn't match anything, and, horror of horrors, MOVES. You can't look at anything else when one of these things is dancing around in the comments.
9) The use of lots of graphics, pictures, animations, etc. translates into a page that loads about as quickly as, um, the evolution of a species.
10) And finally...I know that this started out as a design critique, but this one's for da kids: remember when you were little and your parents didn't get you any t-shirts or jackets with your name emblazoned across the front? Wanna know why? 'Cause they didn't want strangers to have any opportunity to walk up to you and fake like they knew you 'cause they knew your name. Use the same principle when it comes to MySpace. DON'T post the following information about yourself:
- Your real, full name
- Home or cell phone number
- Address
- School
- Work place
- Schedule (i.e. "Omigod, I can't believe I'm starting in the softball game we're playing against Perry Hall High tomorrow!")
- ...and anything else that a stranger could use to identify you.
If I have inspired just one person to clean up their MySpace page, then the visual agony will have been worth it.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
The Da Vinci Code Can Be Found in the 'Fiction' Section of the Bookstore
I don't understand all of the hullabaloo over "The Da Vinci Code." I'm not talking about it's juggernaut residence on the NY Times Bestseller list for 163 freakin' weeks. Or the fact that it pulled in a ridiculous $77.1 million in its opening weekend. These numbers are mind-boggling, but I can wrap my pea-sized brain around 'em. And I can envy Dan Brown at the same time, 'cause I'm a multi-tasker like that.
The hullabaloo of which I speak is the need for some Christian groups to obsessively enumerate the factual errors in this particular tale. As my 8-year-old nephew would say, "No duh." I mean, this book rests in the fiction section of bookstores and libraries nationwide. And I'm pretty sure that I didn't see the word 'documentary' in any of the articles about the film. In fact, Sony is running this disclaimer at the beginning of the movie, "the characters and incidents portrayed and the names herein are fictitious, and any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional."
Could it be any clearer?
I guess some people think it could be. As I was strolling around Towson last week (on the prowl for a crab cake sandwich) a dude on the corner of York and Pennsylvania streets handed me a flyer advertising a rally against "The Da Vinci Code." And Catholic.org posted this article about the story's claims about Christ. I'm sure there are other protests, articles, lectures, etc., about this very same topic, but I haven't exactly gone seeking them out. The examples here landed on my doorstep, so to speak.
So WHY do people waste energy on this stuff? My theory is that the big problems, like poverty, hunger, homelessness, drugs, poor education, war, disease, and a whole lotta other things that escaped from Pandora's box millenia ago are too scary, too big, and seemingly impossible to deal with. But this here is something that can be solved, checked off a list, DONE, so people dive into the cause head first. You see it all the time with issues like flag-burning, building a, uh, practical version of Christo's "Running Fence" along the border with Mexico, and the FBI Porn Squad.
But, you know, as long as people are clear that "The Da Vinci Code" isn't gospel (har har) then society has accomplished something. Right?
The hullabaloo of which I speak is the need for some Christian groups to obsessively enumerate the factual errors in this particular tale. As my 8-year-old nephew would say, "No duh." I mean, this book rests in the fiction section of bookstores and libraries nationwide. And I'm pretty sure that I didn't see the word 'documentary' in any of the articles about the film. In fact, Sony is running this disclaimer at the beginning of the movie, "the characters and incidents portrayed and the names herein are fictitious, and any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional."
Could it be any clearer?
I guess some people think it could be. As I was strolling around Towson last week (on the prowl for a crab cake sandwich) a dude on the corner of York and Pennsylvania streets handed me a flyer advertising a rally against "The Da Vinci Code." And Catholic.org posted this article about the story's claims about Christ. I'm sure there are other protests, articles, lectures, etc., about this very same topic, but I haven't exactly gone seeking them out. The examples here landed on my doorstep, so to speak.
So WHY do people waste energy on this stuff? My theory is that the big problems, like poverty, hunger, homelessness, drugs, poor education, war, disease, and a whole lotta other things that escaped from Pandora's box millenia ago are too scary, too big, and seemingly impossible to deal with. But this here is something that can be solved, checked off a list, DONE, so people dive into the cause head first. You see it all the time with issues like flag-burning, building a, uh, practical version of Christo's "Running Fence" along the border with Mexico, and the FBI Porn Squad.
But, you know, as long as people are clear that "The Da Vinci Code" isn't gospel (har har) then society has accomplished something. Right?
One Year Later
Okay, so it's actually been a year and a week since my inaugural post. I have never, ever been accused of being punctual. I'm better than I used to be through much cajoling and hearty sighing by Hubby. But arriving someplace five minutes late still seems worlds better than getting there fifteen minutes early. I mean, have you ever been the loser who shows up for a party before anyone else, and the host scurries off to get dressed for the party and leaves you to greet the other early birds? I have. This is OK if you are fast friends with the host. But not when it's your boss, and it's a work party. Shudder.
Anyhoo, May 18, 2005 was the date, and my post was all about how being a new mother requires the same feats of strength and determination as making it through boot camp (I had a 10-month old at the time, and I was still nursing and dealing with all of the peripheral equipment and nutritional sacrifices that go along with that). Entirely appropriate, I think, for the happenings in my life right now, but more on that in a later post. How's that for a teaser?
Instead of trying to bait you with future posts, though, let's recap for a sec. Since this blog started, I've moved on to a new job (twice), gotten 65% of the way through revisions on a little somethin' somethin' I've been scribing (which will likely sit in a drawer or on a flash drive for eternity), flew to San Diego with the family to attend the International Comic-Con, seen a show on Broadway (huzzah for Spamalot!), organized a 30th birthday party for a pal o'mine, helped a future sister-in-law with minor details in planning her wedding to my Little Bro, contemplated moving (and subsequently postponed the idea for about a year), road tripped to Pittsburgh for a wedding (yep, Pittsburgh), and attended more baptisms, first communions, anniversary parties, and dance recitals than I thought were possible. That and many other things are dissected in this little piece of web-estate.
I'm not sure that I would've had a record of all of this livin' had it not been for the old blog. Journalling, romantic as it is, doesn't quite work for me since my hand cramps up into a crone's claw if I'm writing longhand for more than five minutes. Grocery lists can be torture. So typing is the way to go, but it somehow seems boring if I'm just whipping it up Doogie Howser, M.D.-style and dumping it into a word processing document.
Hmph. There's nothing especially revelatory (or, dare I say it, interesting?) about this post. But I wanted to acknowledge the anniversary, and maybe use it as an excuse to buy some sparkling apple cider and a cake. Mmmm...cake.
Anyhoo, May 18, 2005 was the date, and my post was all about how being a new mother requires the same feats of strength and determination as making it through boot camp (I had a 10-month old at the time, and I was still nursing and dealing with all of the peripheral equipment and nutritional sacrifices that go along with that). Entirely appropriate, I think, for the happenings in my life right now, but more on that in a later post. How's that for a teaser?
Instead of trying to bait you with future posts, though, let's recap for a sec. Since this blog started, I've moved on to a new job (twice), gotten 65% of the way through revisions on a little somethin' somethin' I've been scribing (which will likely sit in a drawer or on a flash drive for eternity), flew to San Diego with the family to attend the International Comic-Con, seen a show on Broadway (huzzah for Spamalot!), organized a 30th birthday party for a pal o'mine, helped a future sister-in-law with minor details in planning her wedding to my Little Bro, contemplated moving (and subsequently postponed the idea for about a year), road tripped to Pittsburgh for a wedding (yep, Pittsburgh), and attended more baptisms, first communions, anniversary parties, and dance recitals than I thought were possible. That and many other things are dissected in this little piece of web-estate.
I'm not sure that I would've had a record of all of this livin' had it not been for the old blog. Journalling, romantic as it is, doesn't quite work for me since my hand cramps up into a crone's claw if I'm writing longhand for more than five minutes. Grocery lists can be torture. So typing is the way to go, but it somehow seems boring if I'm just whipping it up Doogie Howser, M.D.-style and dumping it into a word processing document.
Hmph. There's nothing especially revelatory (or, dare I say it, interesting?) about this post. But I wanted to acknowledge the anniversary, and maybe use it as an excuse to buy some sparkling apple cider and a cake. Mmmm...cake.
Friday, May 19, 2006
I'll Bet Those Moms are Giggling at Me Now...
I'm having a minor identity crisis. In the grand scheme of things, it's not so huge. But in the personal scheme of things, it's bigger than my hair on a humid day. And that, people, is saying something. On a humid day (or, as we call them in the Baltimore-Washington Metro region, "a day that ends in 'y'"), my shadow looks like a dandelion that's gone to seed. Okay, fine, if you want to get technical, my body isn't exacly stem-shaped. So, it'd be more like a potato that happens to have been genetically spliced with a dandelion head. A Dande-tato, if you will.
But I digress.
Today, after I dropped the Boy off at daycare, I glanced in the rearview mirror to check for oncoming traffic before pealing away from the curb. I am a careful driver, after all (quiet, Hubby). Okay, fine, I didn't look in the rearview for saftey reasons alone. Each morning I give the eight inches of myself that I can see in that sliver of a mirror -- the space between my eyebrows and my collar bones -- the once-over. Usually, I'm looking for out-of-control eyebrow hairs or errant streaks of mascara. Little things I can fix en route to the office. But what did I see this morning?
Magenta crayon. Streaks and scribbles all over the collar of my very white denim jacket. The accidental Jackson Pollack homage isn't a fashion statement on my part. Oh no. THESE marks are the artistic expression of a stubborn almost-two-year-old who insisted on clutching his collection of "crays" during the five-minute drive to daycare. Somehow, between buckling and unbuckling his eleventy-seven car seat safety straps, he tagged me.
Why is this causing an identity crisis? Because I DIDN'T NOTICE IT UNTIL I LOOKED IN A MIRROR. I have always prided myself in being aware of things happening in my periphery. But I didn't even catch it when I became graffiti canvas for a toddler. What is happening to my powers of perception? What if I hadn't looked in the mirror? I don't care about the jacket. It was a T.J. Maxx special and El Boyo used washable crayons anyway, so it's not like a precious piece of Prada was sacrified here. But criminy, what's next? Socks hanging out of my pocket? Buttery handprints on my skirt? Milky kiss prints on my cheek?
The mature earth mother in me recognizes these things as badges of parenting honor.
But the teenager from my past, the one who earned her pocket change through babysitting, and who wondered how some of the mothers could walk out of the house with that loose barrette or those jeans with the mustard stain, the one who resolved to always look put together nicely, and, barring that, clean... Well, she's having an interesting time recognizing that she's tumbling over to the other side of the fence. Oof. Well, at least my fall was cushioned by some very cute plush animals.
Okay, I feel a little better. Now, where's that stain stick?
But I digress.
Today, after I dropped the Boy off at daycare, I glanced in the rearview mirror to check for oncoming traffic before pealing away from the curb. I am a careful driver, after all (quiet, Hubby). Okay, fine, I didn't look in the rearview for saftey reasons alone. Each morning I give the eight inches of myself that I can see in that sliver of a mirror -- the space between my eyebrows and my collar bones -- the once-over. Usually, I'm looking for out-of-control eyebrow hairs or errant streaks of mascara. Little things I can fix en route to the office. But what did I see this morning?
Magenta crayon. Streaks and scribbles all over the collar of my very white denim jacket. The accidental Jackson Pollack homage isn't a fashion statement on my part. Oh no. THESE marks are the artistic expression of a stubborn almost-two-year-old who insisted on clutching his collection of "crays" during the five-minute drive to daycare. Somehow, between buckling and unbuckling his eleventy-seven car seat safety straps, he tagged me.
Why is this causing an identity crisis? Because I DIDN'T NOTICE IT UNTIL I LOOKED IN A MIRROR. I have always prided myself in being aware of things happening in my periphery. But I didn't even catch it when I became graffiti canvas for a toddler. What is happening to my powers of perception? What if I hadn't looked in the mirror? I don't care about the jacket. It was a T.J. Maxx special and El Boyo used washable crayons anyway, so it's not like a precious piece of Prada was sacrified here. But criminy, what's next? Socks hanging out of my pocket? Buttery handprints on my skirt? Milky kiss prints on my cheek?
The mature earth mother in me recognizes these things as badges of parenting honor.
But the teenager from my past, the one who earned her pocket change through babysitting, and who wondered how some of the mothers could walk out of the house with that loose barrette or those jeans with the mustard stain, the one who resolved to always look put together nicely, and, barring that, clean... Well, she's having an interesting time recognizing that she's tumbling over to the other side of the fence. Oof. Well, at least my fall was cushioned by some very cute plush animals.
Okay, I feel a little better. Now, where's that stain stick?
Friday, May 12, 2006
They Don't Put Phone Booths in Bathroom Stalls for a Reason
A friend of mine sent me an irate e-mail. Not about anything I'd done, but about one of her co-workers. To keep the peace in the office, she opted to viciously type her frustration instead of speak them over the phone. Why was she irate?
Because there was a woman having a conversation on her cell phone in the ladies room.
Yick.
The only time this is OK is when the call threatens to get weepy and you can't get away from the office. Otherwise, that call can happen later, or it can happen outside, or it can happen in your car. It doesn't need to happen in a place that might disrupt someone's, er, business. Public, multi-stall bathrooms are tolerable only because of a blessed veil of ignorance about whomever else might be in there with you. But that's all ruined when someone's casually chatting on a cell phone and sees you enter a stall.
It's not hard to draw the line on where it's improper to chat on your celly. My own personal belief about cell phone etiquette is that they are only acceptable when you are (a) in your home, (b) in your car (only if your local driving laws permit), (c) on a sidewalk or other such promenade, or (d) in public places where you would reasonably find a phone booth. The last one is clutch. Here's a list, though it's not comprehensive, of many places where you can't find a phone booth. Therefore, this is a list of places where you shouldn't be yapping ad infinitum on a cell phone:
1) Tables in resteraunts;
2) Public bathrooms (phone booths are typically located just outside of these places, ladies and gents);
3) Public transportation (trains, busses, subways);
4) Retail checkout lines;
5) Theaters (movie, live performance, etc.);
6) Houses of worship;
7) Libraries;
8) Medical offices;
9) Bleachers at little kids' sporting events;
Darn. I was really aiming for a top 10 list. Alas, I only have nine. Probably because these are the only ones I've personally, er, enjoyed. Do NOT make a call if you are in one of these places or situations. If you receive one, answer it if it's an emergency. And if it's an emergency, excuse yourself and take the call outside.
Phew, I feel better now. Rant over.
Now I get to go to the dentist. Again. Though hopefully this will be the last visit for at least 3 months.
Because there was a woman having a conversation on her cell phone in the ladies room.
Yick.
The only time this is OK is when the call threatens to get weepy and you can't get away from the office. Otherwise, that call can happen later, or it can happen outside, or it can happen in your car. It doesn't need to happen in a place that might disrupt someone's, er, business. Public, multi-stall bathrooms are tolerable only because of a blessed veil of ignorance about whomever else might be in there with you. But that's all ruined when someone's casually chatting on a cell phone and sees you enter a stall.
It's not hard to draw the line on where it's improper to chat on your celly. My own personal belief about cell phone etiquette is that they are only acceptable when you are (a) in your home, (b) in your car (only if your local driving laws permit), (c) on a sidewalk or other such promenade, or (d) in public places where you would reasonably find a phone booth. The last one is clutch. Here's a list, though it's not comprehensive, of many places where you can't find a phone booth. Therefore, this is a list of places where you shouldn't be yapping ad infinitum on a cell phone:
1) Tables in resteraunts;
2) Public bathrooms (phone booths are typically located just outside of these places, ladies and gents);
3) Public transportation (trains, busses, subways);
4) Retail checkout lines;
5) Theaters (movie, live performance, etc.);
6) Houses of worship;
7) Libraries;
8) Medical offices;
9) Bleachers at little kids' sporting events;
Darn. I was really aiming for a top 10 list. Alas, I only have nine. Probably because these are the only ones I've personally, er, enjoyed. Do NOT make a call if you are in one of these places or situations. If you receive one, answer it if it's an emergency. And if it's an emergency, excuse yourself and take the call outside.
Phew, I feel better now. Rant over.
Now I get to go to the dentist. Again. Though hopefully this will be the last visit for at least 3 months.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
AllergyPhiles
For the past few days, the Boy and I have been contending with a change-of-season cold. Two weeks ago, Maryland was a sunny spring wonderland, full of blooming flora and temperatures in the seventies. This past week, it's been mostly chilly and gloomy. Regardless of the daytime temps, though, the temperature plummets about thirty degrees at night, and our poor heating system can't always keep up. Think I'm kidding? Both Hubby and I have recently had dreams about being cold. For me, it was walking around in a snowy city looking for a coat, and for him it was being stationed on the moon. His vision of the moon, though, wasn't any kind of Isaac Asimov fantasy. He was basically in a warehouse plunked in the Sea of Tranquility and the heating system was wonky. Space is cold, yo.
Nice little recipe for minor head colds, right? Then, in my case, let's mix in the fact that my side of the office building hovers at sixty-five degrees (you know, to balance out the other side of the office building that hovers at eighty-five degrees). Truthfully, I'm surprised more people don't have colds right now.
Know what's getting a lot of people down lately, though? Allergies. Yep, all of those azaelas and dandelions and oaks are gettin' their pollen on, which means that there's a thick greenish coat of powder slumbering on our cars in the morning. Yummy. Those with allergies are all red-eyed and sneezy. When I worked at Georgetown, this is about the time of year that you'd see students and some faculty bustling across campus wearing surgical masks.
On that note, Hubby has dreadful allergies, but he's manned up under them nicely. However, he, and a couple of other folks I know, have been insisting that I probably have allergies too. WHY do people who have allergies want those of us who are blessedly unafflicted to join the club?
People hear my scratchy throat, ask me if I feel well, and proceed to contradict me when I tell them it's just a little bug. "Are you sure it isn't allergies?" they ask? Yep, pretty sure. Know why? 'Cause I'm not plagued by the Nyquil roster of ailments from March through October. I've only got 'em for a couple of days at a time. My sore throat's already going away. My sniffles are going away. My headache is going away. Does that happen if you have allergies but you're not popping Claritin or Allegra or whatever else is out there? My guess is no...
Ah well, maybe they are just trying to open me up to the possibility because ye olde allergy diagnosis and subsequent treatment caused a big ol' paradigm shift in their qualities of life. Yikes, though, howzabout you believe me when I tell you it's just a cold?
Nice little recipe for minor head colds, right? Then, in my case, let's mix in the fact that my side of the office building hovers at sixty-five degrees (you know, to balance out the other side of the office building that hovers at eighty-five degrees). Truthfully, I'm surprised more people don't have colds right now.
Know what's getting a lot of people down lately, though? Allergies. Yep, all of those azaelas and dandelions and oaks are gettin' their pollen on, which means that there's a thick greenish coat of powder slumbering on our cars in the morning. Yummy. Those with allergies are all red-eyed and sneezy. When I worked at Georgetown, this is about the time of year that you'd see students and some faculty bustling across campus wearing surgical masks.
On that note, Hubby has dreadful allergies, but he's manned up under them nicely. However, he, and a couple of other folks I know, have been insisting that I probably have allergies too. WHY do people who have allergies want those of us who are blessedly unafflicted to join the club?
People hear my scratchy throat, ask me if I feel well, and proceed to contradict me when I tell them it's just a little bug. "Are you sure it isn't allergies?" they ask? Yep, pretty sure. Know why? 'Cause I'm not plagued by the Nyquil roster of ailments from March through October. I've only got 'em for a couple of days at a time. My sore throat's already going away. My sniffles are going away. My headache is going away. Does that happen if you have allergies but you're not popping Claritin or Allegra or whatever else is out there? My guess is no...
Ah well, maybe they are just trying to open me up to the possibility because ye olde allergy diagnosis and subsequent treatment caused a big ol' paradigm shift in their qualities of life. Yikes, though, howzabout you believe me when I tell you it's just a cold?
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Dandelion Appreciation Day
Dandelions never really held much appeal for me. Sure, when I was a kid, I'd pop off their punky heads. Who didn't? And a little later in the Spring, when they'd gone to seed, I'd blow its gray parachuted seeds to kingdom come in the pursuit of a wish. But that's about all the use I had for them. I didn't like to pick them because the sticky sap would trickle all over my hands, and then I either had to run to the house to wash or wipe the goo off on my shorts. Yick. So, mostly, I just left the scrubby little weeds alone.
Now, though, I smile every time I see them. I hunt down patches of them, and mentally file away their locale for a rendez-vous at a later date. Why?
One of the Boy's favorite things to do is to punt the fluffy gray seeds clear off of their stems. He has just learned to kick, and these little puff balls are perfect for his practice. He can square off against them and deliver the death knell with all of the expertise he has developed in his 22 months on the planet. The best part is, he's helping ensure his entertainment for the summer by spreading the seeds around.
Now, if we could just keep him from doing this in our neighbors' yards...
Monday, May 01, 2006
Guess I Just Have One of Those Faces
A few days ago, I was in a department store picking up some gifties for Hubby's birthday. I was dressed fairly casually -- khakis, black t-shirt, zippy sweatshirt -- and meandering among the finely stitched articles that make up the menswear department. As I'm walking along, I cross paths with an older gentleman and flash a smile at him. He smiles in return and asks, "Do you work here?" I'm not wearing a nametag, a smock, or any other telltale signs of someone whose paychecks are issued by Hecht's. Politely, I answer "No," and we continue down our respective walkways.
This happens to me ALL THE TIME. I don't mind, but I can't figure it out. At least this guy asked me if I worked in the store before peppering me with merchandise questions. I've been in stores where people just stand next to me and ask (without so much as an "excuse me" or a "please") where the shopping carts are, where the dairy aisle is, how to sign up for a discount membership, etc. If I know the answer, I'll share it. On the occasions when I reply that I don't know, folks take a second glance (probably to get my name and report me to my supervisor) and realize that, whoops, I'm just another customer.
So, what is it? Is it that I make unflinching yet deferential eye contact? Is that I smile in a world of frownies? I could cut out all of the friendliness, I guess, but that just wouldn't be me.
I kinda think it's all of the above, plus one very critical characteristic on the part of the other folks: they don't pay attention to whom they are speaking and make assumptions. The alternative is to take a minute and use their five senses (okay, maybe just two, 'cause I don't think that smell, taste and touch should really be used in the marketplace) to suss out employment status of the other person in the aisle.
Or maybe I really do have just one of those faces?
This happens to me ALL THE TIME. I don't mind, but I can't figure it out. At least this guy asked me if I worked in the store before peppering me with merchandise questions. I've been in stores where people just stand next to me and ask (without so much as an "excuse me" or a "please") where the shopping carts are, where the dairy aisle is, how to sign up for a discount membership, etc. If I know the answer, I'll share it. On the occasions when I reply that I don't know, folks take a second glance (probably to get my name and report me to my supervisor) and realize that, whoops, I'm just another customer.
So, what is it? Is it that I make unflinching yet deferential eye contact? Is that I smile in a world of frownies? I could cut out all of the friendliness, I guess, but that just wouldn't be me.
I kinda think it's all of the above, plus one very critical characteristic on the part of the other folks: they don't pay attention to whom they are speaking and make assumptions. The alternative is to take a minute and use their five senses (okay, maybe just two, 'cause I don't think that smell, taste and touch should really be used in the marketplace) to suss out employment status of the other person in the aisle.
Or maybe I really do have just one of those faces?
Friday, April 21, 2006
Score One for the 'Burbs
One of the nice things about working in BaCo (my affectionate term for Baltimore County) is that a bus will stop at a crosswalk in the middle of a busy road to allow pedestrians to scoot across the lanes. And I'm talkin' about intersections with no crossing signal, no light, no nothin' except the diagonally striped safety zone.
In DC, I think a bus will actually aim for pedestrians, daring the fragile meatbags to enter into a ten-stone versus six-ton game of chicken. Guess who begs off first?
Like I said, it's nice for a public service vehicle to follow the rules of the road.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Cleanin' Out My Closet...Sorta
A few weeks ago, one of my friends gifted me with loads of clothes that she didn't want to move to her new place. The collection comprised her "maybe I'll fit into this again someday" wardrobe. As she says, reality checked in: if she does return to this particular size, she's going to want to go on a spree and reward her reduced dimensions. Since I'm the sixth of seven children, I'm no stranger to hand-me-downs, and I eagerly accepted the goodies.
But oh, the jumbled clutter that my bedroom became. The overstuffed shopping bags tipped over and spilled their contents all over the floor. Honestly, I nearly wiped out a couple of times trying to hurdle past the piles to pick out a pair of shoes.
On Monday, I couldn't take it anymore, and decided to clean out my closet. Not Eminem-style, mind you. I literally cleaned out my closet. Flinging the windows open so the lush scent of Spring would inspire me, the closet carnage began. My rules were simple:
- If I didn't were an item for a full season, it goes in the Good Will box;
- If the item looks better on the hanger than it does on me, it goes in the Good Will box;
- If the item looks like it should belong ot my sister and not me, it goes in a shopping bag that will then go to her.
What could be easier, right? For the most part, it was. I mean, I can't imagine why I've held onto that mock turtleneck for so long. Or that cami; I mean, I cannot walk around without a certain degree of support, and camis aren't so good at keeping Victoria's secret. One of my favorite wha-huh? articles was a paisley print button down. Paisley? Paisley hasn't been in style since about 1989. It's not comin' back (dear God, at least I hope it isn't). That stuff all got pitched without any hesitation.
Then it got hard.
There's that henley that I bought for my husband (then boyfriend) for our first Christmas together in 1997 (and then stole back from him). And the Aran sweater that my parents picked up for me when they went on their anniversary trip to the Emerald Isle. And the tattered concert t-shirts that aren't really fit for wearing anymore: Depeche Mode, U2, Nitzer Ebb, Rush (one of these things is not like the other one....).
These items aren't just things. This stuff is autobiographical. It's tangible evidence of who I was at 14, at 17, at 20, at 30. So, they are neatly folded and resting comfortably in a dark, difficult-to-reach corner of my closet. Sure sure, I've heard that the things we own begin to own us. But I'm not sweatin' the three cubic feet that owns me. Well, not yet anyway. We'll see where I'm at when I'm 60. For now, though, I'm just satisfied that I can see my floor again and that wire hangers aren't sticking out from between my clothes at every angle.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Blood Is Thicker than Etiquette
It's a glorious spring day here in the 'burbs of DC. How did I spend the morning? Strolling along the Mall? Sailing the Potomac? Dining al fresco at a waterfront bistro?
Nah. I went to one of those franchise medical services joint to have blood drawn. Nothing serious, just routine bloodwork. Seeing as how high cholesterol is as prevalent in my family as blue eyes, I like to keep up with it.
Anyhoo, the joint opens at 8:00 a.m. Silly me, I thought I was being an early bird by arriving at 8:20. Boy oh boy, was I wrong. When I got there, you would've thought they were handing out $20 bills to the first 100 customers. Seriously, the line stretched out the door. For medical services. On a Saturday morning on Easter weekend.
Come to think of it, that's kind of an ironic link-up.
So, there were about 30 people in front of me on the sign-in sheet. And there were about 20 seats in the waiting room. Know what that means? Yep, time to stand. Not that I minded the standing; I figure it burns more calories than sitting, so I might as well roll with the opportunity. Besides, I had my trusty Entertainment Weekly with me, so the time would pass quickly. Right?
Um, wrong. Hugely, unequivocally wrong. I was standing and waiting for an hour before the receptionist called me to the front desk to hand in my insurance information. And EW, much as I love it, is kind of a cotton candy magazine, so I'd finished with it at about minute 35. This left me with oodles of time to observe other folks in the waiting room. Know what I figured out? Common courtesy is not exactly alive and well.
At least six people got cell phone calls in that hour. They all tried to answer them, and the receptionist had to bark that no cell phone calls were allowed in the waiting room. Yeesh. Could you imagine that many people having conversations at once? And since I live in a pretty diverse area, these conversations would've been conducted in at least four different languages. One woman actually just went to hang out near the door to the place, like it was not as big a deal for us all to hear her conversation since she was almost outside.
There were no fewer than 10 children there. I think one of these kids was a patient. The rest of them were chillin' with their parents. Now, I totally get that some of these folks might not have childcare on a Saturday morning. But I can't think that lurking in a medical office was exactly fun for them, especially since there weren't any magazines, or kids books, or televisions. Seriously, if your ten-year-old son is entertaining himself by locking the front door of the office, maybe you need to re-think bringing him to places like this.
And finally...I wasn't the only one standing. Not by a long shot. Admittedly, I can't know what the seated folks were there for, and maybe they really needed to hunker down in those chairs. I passed up the opportunity to grab a chair when one opened up, causing my standing compatriots looked like they might need the chair more than I. But no one even offered to give up a seat, and there were more than a few hale and hearty teenagers, men, and women clutching their chairs like they were life preservers.
Maybe people just don't do that kind of stuff anymore...
Nah. I went to one of those franchise medical services joint to have blood drawn. Nothing serious, just routine bloodwork. Seeing as how high cholesterol is as prevalent in my family as blue eyes, I like to keep up with it.
Anyhoo, the joint opens at 8:00 a.m. Silly me, I thought I was being an early bird by arriving at 8:20. Boy oh boy, was I wrong. When I got there, you would've thought they were handing out $20 bills to the first 100 customers. Seriously, the line stretched out the door. For medical services. On a Saturday morning on Easter weekend.
Come to think of it, that's kind of an ironic link-up.
So, there were about 30 people in front of me on the sign-in sheet. And there were about 20 seats in the waiting room. Know what that means? Yep, time to stand. Not that I minded the standing; I figure it burns more calories than sitting, so I might as well roll with the opportunity. Besides, I had my trusty Entertainment Weekly with me, so the time would pass quickly. Right?
Um, wrong. Hugely, unequivocally wrong. I was standing and waiting for an hour before the receptionist called me to the front desk to hand in my insurance information. And EW, much as I love it, is kind of a cotton candy magazine, so I'd finished with it at about minute 35. This left me with oodles of time to observe other folks in the waiting room. Know what I figured out? Common courtesy is not exactly alive and well.
At least six people got cell phone calls in that hour. They all tried to answer them, and the receptionist had to bark that no cell phone calls were allowed in the waiting room. Yeesh. Could you imagine that many people having conversations at once? And since I live in a pretty diverse area, these conversations would've been conducted in at least four different languages. One woman actually just went to hang out near the door to the place, like it was not as big a deal for us all to hear her conversation since she was almost outside.
There were no fewer than 10 children there. I think one of these kids was a patient. The rest of them were chillin' with their parents. Now, I totally get that some of these folks might not have childcare on a Saturday morning. But I can't think that lurking in a medical office was exactly fun for them, especially since there weren't any magazines, or kids books, or televisions. Seriously, if your ten-year-old son is entertaining himself by locking the front door of the office, maybe you need to re-think bringing him to places like this.
And finally...I wasn't the only one standing. Not by a long shot. Admittedly, I can't know what the seated folks were there for, and maybe they really needed to hunker down in those chairs. I passed up the opportunity to grab a chair when one opened up, causing my standing compatriots looked like they might need the chair more than I. But no one even offered to give up a seat, and there were more than a few hale and hearty teenagers, men, and women clutching their chairs like they were life preservers.
Maybe people just don't do that kind of stuff anymore...
Friday, April 14, 2006
Family Ties
This has nothing to do with anything, but I have a theory that 90% of Americans have an Aunt Nancy and an Uncle Bill, either by birth or by marriage. I started out with an Uncle Bill, and married a fella who has an Aunt Nancy. My sister did the same. A friend of mine had neither, but when she got married -- WHAM. An Aunt Nancy and an Uncle Bill.
I guess it's not all that shocking, considering that "Nancy" was one of the top 10 girls' names from 1935 to 1955, and "William" has never really left the the top 20 since the time that the Social Security Administration's been collecting this info.
Can you tell it's the Friday before a holiday and that things in the office are S-L-O-W?
I guess it's not all that shocking, considering that "Nancy" was one of the top 10 girls' names from 1935 to 1955, and "William" has never really left the the top 20 since the time that the Social Security Administration's been collecting this info.
Can you tell it's the Friday before a holiday and that things in the office are S-L-O-W?
Christian Passover?
For awhile now, I've thought that Christians could legitimately celebrate events associated with the Old Testament. I mean, it's the first half of the Bible, right? Christ, through Joseph, is a direct descendent of some of the major playas in Judaism, correct? And Jesus was a Jew, yes? So it seemed logical to me that Christians could participate in Hanukkah, Passover, etc.
Here's the thing, though. Folks need to celebrate these miracles, these deliverences, with a deep and abiding understanding of their meaning. I mean, these are not secularized traditions in the Jewish culture, like Christmas trees are in Christian culture. Sure, I could whip up a Seder (hey, I was always in charge of the matzo ball soup at Jess'), invite some pals over, and imbibe some Manischewitz. But after having attended a coupla Seders in college, I know that there's more to it than that. It'd be like non-Christians grabbing an Advent calendar and gobbling up the goodies without paying attention to the messages.
And making Christ the central focus of predominantly Jewish traditions, as described in the WaPo article, seems wrong. My limited exposure to Passover celebrations left me with the feeling that the gathering is supposed to be a remembrance of shared miseries and the wholesale deliverence from them by God. But to spin it into a metaphor for what Christ endured pulls the focus away from the people who endured centuries of slavery and abuse.
Clearly, I need to ponder this some more. And I swear, I'm not looking to add eight days of gifts or a rich meal to my calendar.
Here's the thing, though. Folks need to celebrate these miracles, these deliverences, with a deep and abiding understanding of their meaning. I mean, these are not secularized traditions in the Jewish culture, like Christmas trees are in Christian culture. Sure, I could whip up a Seder (hey, I was always in charge of the matzo ball soup at Jess'), invite some pals over, and imbibe some Manischewitz. But after having attended a coupla Seders in college, I know that there's more to it than that. It'd be like non-Christians grabbing an Advent calendar and gobbling up the goodies without paying attention to the messages.
And making Christ the central focus of predominantly Jewish traditions, as described in the WaPo article, seems wrong. My limited exposure to Passover celebrations left me with the feeling that the gathering is supposed to be a remembrance of shared miseries and the wholesale deliverence from them by God. But to spin it into a metaphor for what Christ endured pulls the focus away from the people who endured centuries of slavery and abuse.
Clearly, I need to ponder this some more. And I swear, I'm not looking to add eight days of gifts or a rich meal to my calendar.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Scrabbled Memories
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Commenting on Comments
Hello, tens of readers. A humble request: if you comment, please don't do so anonymously. Apparently my rant about the silliness of fans (or former fans, I guess) filing an FTC complaint against Clay Aiken sparked a couple of comments. Hmph. I really need to evaluate my topics if a post about that dude gets more comments than most of my other posts.
Anyway...
I'm annoyed that I can't respond to these people. It's not that I would respond and point out where they might've misinterpreted what I wrote. But it's kind of a pain that I don't have the option. Eh, oh well. In the end, it's hard to take a comment seriously when the author isn't willing to own it.
Anyway...
I'm annoyed that I can't respond to these people. It's not that I would respond and point out where they might've misinterpreted what I wrote. But it's kind of a pain that I don't have the option. Eh, oh well. In the end, it's hard to take a comment seriously when the author isn't willing to own it.
New Rule #3
No one is allowed to say "She looks good for her age" any more. It is hereby stricken from the English lexicon. Well, it's stricken from mine, anyway.
My white-hot dislike of this phrase peaked while I was watching The Surreal Life 6 over the weekend (go ahead, cast your stones and raise your eyebrows). There's a moment when Florence Henderson steps over the transom of the kooky household, and many of the castmates stare in awe and shock. During their one-on-one snippets with the camera, pretty much every female (or on-the-way-to-becoming-female) castmate said something akin to, "Wow, she looks really good for her age."
What a backhanded compliment! It's like saying, "Wow, she looks good, but if she looked like that at thirty, then she'd be a total troll and we would all heap pity and plastic surgery coupons upon her."
I get the feeling that people tack on the "for her age" so that no one is confused about their ability to evaluate beauty. 'Cause if they just say she looks good, then the whole 'verse will think their physical ideals are outta whack.
Ooh, and this goes for, "She looks good for just having had a baby" too. People who say that need to be poked in the eye.
That is all.
My white-hot dislike of this phrase peaked while I was watching The Surreal Life 6 over the weekend (go ahead, cast your stones and raise your eyebrows). There's a moment when Florence Henderson steps over the transom of the kooky household, and many of the castmates stare in awe and shock. During their one-on-one snippets with the camera, pretty much every female (or on-the-way-to-becoming-female) castmate said something akin to, "Wow, she looks really good for her age."
What a backhanded compliment! It's like saying, "Wow, she looks good, but if she looked like that at thirty, then she'd be a total troll and we would all heap pity and plastic surgery coupons upon her."
I get the feeling that people tack on the "for her age" so that no one is confused about their ability to evaluate beauty. 'Cause if they just say she looks good, then the whole 'verse will think their physical ideals are outta whack.
Ooh, and this goes for, "She looks good for just having had a baby" too. People who say that need to be poked in the eye.
That is all.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
I'll Show You! Well, Maybe Not.
Oh for pity's sake!, as mon père would say. The Claymates are filing a complaint with the FTC against Clay Aiken's label, manager, et. al. for misrepresenting his personality. They feel duped? Criminy. You should buy music because you like the MUSIC, not because you think the singer is a delightful, virginal young man. I mean, I guess that can be a bonus, sure, but it shouldn't be the sole rationale behind picking up a disc.
What's next? Are we going to complain about other people who "duped" us? Let's go tack a frowny face on Rock Hudson's tombstone. And let's not forget Ashlee Simpson; I mean, I totally thought she could sing before the Saturday Night Live debacle. Ooh, maybe Britney Spears isn't a sparklingly straightlaced young woman; jot her name down on the list. You know, come to think of it, I'm not sure that the Hollywood glitterati are as beautiful and handsome as they appear to be on the silver and small screens. You know what? Let's place ALL of the entertainers the world over on the FTC list, just to be safe. That'll teach ENTERTAINERS, people who get PAID to help us SUSPEND DISBELIEF, to lie through omission. Yep, they'll sure change their ways.
Puh-leeze. I just think that the 9 folks who signed the complaint are big dummies because (a) they didn't realize that Clay isn't the asexual dude he was "marketed" to be, (b) it matters to them that he might (horrors!) be a non-celibate gay man, and (c) they compare this brouhaha to Enron. ENRON! The company that caused rolling blackouts in California which resulted in who knows how many deaths! The company that ripped off investors! The company that blew up the pensions of thousands of employees!
Think maybe these folks are being a wee dramatic?
What's next? Are we going to complain about other people who "duped" us? Let's go tack a frowny face on Rock Hudson's tombstone. And let's not forget Ashlee Simpson; I mean, I totally thought she could sing before the Saturday Night Live debacle. Ooh, maybe Britney Spears isn't a sparklingly straightlaced young woman; jot her name down on the list. You know, come to think of it, I'm not sure that the Hollywood glitterati are as beautiful and handsome as they appear to be on the silver and small screens. You know what? Let's place ALL of the entertainers the world over on the FTC list, just to be safe. That'll teach ENTERTAINERS, people who get PAID to help us SUSPEND DISBELIEF, to lie through omission. Yep, they'll sure change their ways.
Puh-leeze. I just think that the 9 folks who signed the complaint are big dummies because (a) they didn't realize that Clay isn't the asexual dude he was "marketed" to be, (b) it matters to them that he might (horrors!) be a non-celibate gay man, and (c) they compare this brouhaha to Enron. ENRON! The company that caused rolling blackouts in California which resulted in who knows how many deaths! The company that ripped off investors! The company that blew up the pensions of thousands of employees!
Think maybe these folks are being a wee dramatic?
Monday, March 20, 2006
It Was Really Pretty When They Followed the Drinking Gourd
This past weekend, Hubby, my Friend and I went to Ocean City, MD for our annual St. Patty's Day weekend. We don't go because Ocean City is any kind of Irish epicenter for the big green holiday. But we've dubbed it a tradition so that we have a pre-planned getaway weekend. With little 'uns around, you need to draw a line in the sand somewhere (har har) so that you can actually get away.
Anyway, as you cruise to and from the beach via Route 50, you'll notice "Scenic Byway" signs dotting the road. One of them caught my eye this year that I hadn't noticed...it read, "Scenic Byway: The Underground Railroad." Wha-huh? When I hear the words, "Scenic Byway," I think, "Ah, this'll be a pretty drive for a lazy Sunday." When I hear the words, "Underground Railroad," I think, "What a tragic part of our national history that people of color had to risk life and limb under cover of night to escape to the northern states and gain their freedom." These are two notions that don't easily marry. Couldn't the state call it an "Historic Byway," or something like that? I'm just sayin', is all.
Anyway, as you cruise to and from the beach via Route 50, you'll notice "Scenic Byway" signs dotting the road. One of them caught my eye this year that I hadn't noticed...it read, "Scenic Byway: The Underground Railroad." Wha-huh? When I hear the words, "Scenic Byway," I think, "Ah, this'll be a pretty drive for a lazy Sunday." When I hear the words, "Underground Railroad," I think, "What a tragic part of our national history that people of color had to risk life and limb under cover of night to escape to the northern states and gain their freedom." These are two notions that don't easily marry. Couldn't the state call it an "Historic Byway," or something like that? I'm just sayin', is all.
Friday, March 17, 2006
You Can Call Me Hon
"Hon" is a ubiquitous endearment in the greater Baltimore Metro area, so I take no offense if a perfect stranger, or perfectly strange acquaintance, dubs me such. Well, OK, I raise an eyebrow if the person doling out the "Hon" is a 16-year-old Denny's waitress. Still, though, it doesn't prickle.
But "Honey" and it's ilk ("Sweetie," "Sugar," "Pumpkin") are a different matter entirely. These nicknames are strictly limited to family and friends. Which means that the next time the guy behind the counter at the bakery calls me Sweetie, I may have to go all Julia Sugarbaker on him.
I refuse to appreciate the coincidence that the Sweetie-man is the cash register jockey at a bakery. Where I buy brownies. So there.
But "Honey" and it's ilk ("Sweetie," "Sugar," "Pumpkin") are a different matter entirely. These nicknames are strictly limited to family and friends. Which means that the next time the guy behind the counter at the bakery calls me Sweetie, I may have to go all Julia Sugarbaker on him.
I refuse to appreciate the coincidence that the Sweetie-man is the cash register jockey at a bakery. Where I buy brownies. So there.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Ms. Washingtonienne Goes to Hollywood
Oh, for the love of all that's holy, Jessica Cutler's got a TV deal now too? Why, why, why is our nation celebrating and generously compensating a chick who proudly spilled the beans about her political booty calls? It used to be that we as a nation would fork over some cash to peruse the steamy memoirs of someone who was famous for SOMETHING ELSE AS WELL.
Honestly, are we so strapped for gossip that we'll make TV shows and movies about any celebutard who snags 15 minutes o'fame? If this were, say, ten years ago, I can't help but feel like this story would've been one of those sobering four-page "It happened to me, names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved" features in Cosmo. But alas, no. Now, these kinds of life experiences generate multimedia empires.
Yay for progress!
One tiny bit of consolation...her pseudo-eponymous book has plunged in Amazon.com's rankings to #33,281, whereas Moby Dick (the book to which I originally compared rankings back in June, 2005) is at #3,191. Cold comfort, eh?
Honestly, are we so strapped for gossip that we'll make TV shows and movies about any celebutard who snags 15 minutes o'fame? If this were, say, ten years ago, I can't help but feel like this story would've been one of those sobering four-page "It happened to me, names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved" features in Cosmo. But alas, no. Now, these kinds of life experiences generate multimedia empires.
Yay for progress!
One tiny bit of consolation...her pseudo-eponymous book has plunged in Amazon.com's rankings to #33,281, whereas Moby Dick (the book to which I originally compared rankings back in June, 2005) is at #3,191. Cold comfort, eh?
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Blog Numbers
I'm suffering through some blog blockage, so you get to suffer through some numeric goodness. Aren't you excited?
1: Number of people I've told about my blog
1: Sites that link to mine according to Google (which I think is wrong, since I know of 3)
1.31: Revenue (in dollars) earned since I installed Google AdSense (YESSSSSS! That dream house will soon be MINE!)
3: Times LtW has been featured on DC Blogs
3: Blogs that I check every day (DC Blogs, Harshing My Mellow, Miss Snark)
4: Friends of mine who blog (Matter-Eater Blog, A One Girl Revolution, All the Rage, She Who Must Be Obeyed), not including MySpace folks. Only 1 of them knows that I know that she blogs....kind of sounds like that Friends episode, eh?
10: Months that I've been blogging
17: Links that precede mine when you Google "Louder than Words"
24: % of visitors who stick around for more than 5 seconds
34: % of visitors from other countries
103: Posts (not including this one)
1,253: Value (in dollars) of my blog according to BlogShares
1,436: Visits to my site since I installed a counter
Hmph. Dunno if those numbers are good or bad. It's kind of like when you proudly blurt out your annual income, then realize that you're in the company of tycoons.
I figure if I actually told people about my blog, I'd have more hits. Since I use my real name, I'm not exactly in the blog closet. And I'm not tapping out any particularly salacious tales, so I'm not embarassed by what I'm sharing. Sheesh, if I weren't actually somewhat pleased with what I write, I'd use a pseudonym like "Danger Kitten" or something. I s'pose I opted to post under my real name to give my friends, family and co-workers the opportunity to stumble upon my ouevre.
But viewership is not the reason I started this, really. I'm not a megalomaniac who believes my particular take on the world must be read the world over. Well, not yet anyway.
Mostly, I'm an undisciplined writer who was looking for a way to open the floodgates of creativity while producing a visible result, some means of measuring my efforts. 'Cause lemme tell ya, when you fiddle around with writing novels, you don't have a really clear idea of how much progress you're making. As the metrics above indicate, I get numbers with this blog.
There are a couple of other nice benefits to the blog thing...
I've always wanted to journal to capture me in all my glory for all of posterity, but man alive, my hand cramps easily. Typing gets around the claw hand nicely.
My writing voice has improved, 'cause if other people are reading what I'm writing (even if it's only 10 of 'em), well, I feel the need to refine and proof like never before. Also, I permit myself to use unfiltered vocabulary and slang, rather than tailor my language to the audience. Little Bro once shared that he knows that I'm probably funny, but that my jokes (and lingo) are a little above his head. But when my readers are online, I can assume they are savvy enough to look up whatever they don't understand. And if my references are particularly obscure, I can link to source material that'll clarify my posts. Ever think that Dennis Miller should present his rants in blog form only? But I digress...
Last, but not least, my blogging efforts make me feel like a part of a writer's community, loosely bound as it is in the ether. Maybe I'll hie myself to one of those DC Blogger get-togethers in the near future...
So, yeah, I'll be keeping up with da blog, despite what the paucity of my posting indicates. If you've got any topic requests, lemme know, 'cause that'll help me avoid going down the numbers path again...
1: Number of people I've told about my blog
1: Sites that link to mine according to Google (which I think is wrong, since I know of 3)
1.31: Revenue (in dollars) earned since I installed Google AdSense (YESSSSSS! That dream house will soon be MINE!)
3: Times LtW has been featured on DC Blogs
3: Blogs that I check every day (DC Blogs, Harshing My Mellow, Miss Snark)
4: Friends of mine who blog (Matter-Eater Blog, A One Girl Revolution, All the Rage, She Who Must Be Obeyed), not including MySpace folks. Only 1 of them knows that I know that she blogs....kind of sounds like that Friends episode, eh?
10: Months that I've been blogging
17: Links that precede mine when you Google "Louder than Words"
24: % of visitors who stick around for more than 5 seconds
34: % of visitors from other countries
103: Posts (not including this one)
1,253: Value (in dollars) of my blog according to BlogShares
1,436: Visits to my site since I installed a counter
Hmph. Dunno if those numbers are good or bad. It's kind of like when you proudly blurt out your annual income, then realize that you're in the company of tycoons.
I figure if I actually told people about my blog, I'd have more hits. Since I use my real name, I'm not exactly in the blog closet. And I'm not tapping out any particularly salacious tales, so I'm not embarassed by what I'm sharing. Sheesh, if I weren't actually somewhat pleased with what I write, I'd use a pseudonym like "Danger Kitten" or something. I s'pose I opted to post under my real name to give my friends, family and co-workers the opportunity to stumble upon my ouevre.
But viewership is not the reason I started this, really. I'm not a megalomaniac who believes my particular take on the world must be read the world over. Well, not yet anyway.
Mostly, I'm an undisciplined writer who was looking for a way to open the floodgates of creativity while producing a visible result, some means of measuring my efforts. 'Cause lemme tell ya, when you fiddle around with writing novels, you don't have a really clear idea of how much progress you're making. As the metrics above indicate, I get numbers with this blog.
There are a couple of other nice benefits to the blog thing...
I've always wanted to journal to capture me in all my glory for all of posterity, but man alive, my hand cramps easily. Typing gets around the claw hand nicely.
My writing voice has improved, 'cause if other people are reading what I'm writing (even if it's only 10 of 'em), well, I feel the need to refine and proof like never before. Also, I permit myself to use unfiltered vocabulary and slang, rather than tailor my language to the audience. Little Bro once shared that he knows that I'm probably funny, but that my jokes (and lingo) are a little above his head. But when my readers are online, I can assume they are savvy enough to look up whatever they don't understand. And if my references are particularly obscure, I can link to source material that'll clarify my posts. Ever think that Dennis Miller should present his rants in blog form only? But I digress...
Last, but not least, my blogging efforts make me feel like a part of a writer's community, loosely bound as it is in the ether. Maybe I'll hie myself to one of those DC Blogger get-togethers in the near future...
So, yeah, I'll be keeping up with da blog, despite what the paucity of my posting indicates. If you've got any topic requests, lemme know, 'cause that'll help me avoid going down the numbers path again...
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Strep Poker
Now that I have the ability to swallow without wincing, let's do a brief re-cap of the whole strep throat experience, shall we? (Gimme a break; since I was incapacitated for most of last week, I've precious few recent experiences to blog about).
My six readers know that the Boy went ten rounds with roseola and an ear infection two weeks ago, and his parents and grandparents spent the better part of those sicky days tending to a very unhappy toddler. As he felt better, though, I started feeling worse. And on Oscar Sunday I woke up in pain. Eh, whaddya gonna do? I self-diagnosed a change-of-season cold, went to work on Monday, and tried to convince myself that I was fine.
I kinda knew something was up when all I wanted to do was nap under my desk and my eyes were leaking like a broken water main.
Tuesday morning, I went to the doctor's around the corner from me. My master plan was to get there about 10 minutes before they opened 'cause it's one of those places that doesn't take appointments. But I was clearly delirious, because I went to the wrong shopping center. By the time I figured that little factoid out and hustled over to the correct shopping center, five other people had signed in before me. Those five people translated into a 45-minute wait to be seen by any medical professionals.
The only available magazine in the waiting room was an issue of Time that I'd already read cover to cover.
When my name was called, I followed the tiny Physician's Assistant to the cube where she took my vitals. My weight was down two pounds due to my inability to swallow anything thicker than broth. Then she led me to curtained exam room where she swabbed my nose and throat. Awesome. That's exactly what I wanted: to be jabbed in tender spots. During this swabbing frenzy, she chit-chatted about how she washes her hands like crazy. Maybe I'm sensitive, but I got the distinct impression she was hinting that the acres of white pus spots in my throat are a result of lax hand washing. Listen, my hands are STILL chapped from the umpteen times a day I scrubbed during the Boy's illness.
Then she shared that she will occasionally sniff water and spit it out to clear her nasal cavity of any bacteria that are thinking about setting up house. At that point, I decided I could stop listening to her advice. If I wanted to snort water, I'd plunk down some coin for a Neti pot.
She left to run the tests and see what they tell her about my ailments. Fifteen minutes later, the flu swab came back negative, and the strep swab came back inconclusive. So, Physician's Assistant-ette swabbed my throat a second time. Joy. Another fifteen minutes, and another negative result. Uh oh, what does that mean?
That means that mustachioed Mr. Dr. Man decided to send a throat culture out, because those tests are more reliable. I am then swabbed a third time. Mr. Dr. Man then says that if the throat culture also comes back negative (by Thursday or Friday), then I should come in to have a mononucleosis test done. Yipes! MONO? I'm THIRTY. And I'm not smooching anyone by Hubby, so mono seems very unlikely. To battle the unconfirmed strep, though, Mr. Dr. Man prescribed me some antibiotics and sent me home.
On the way, I drifted through the supermarket to pick up some sicky sore throat essentials: soup, pudding, throat lozenges, Thera-Flu. Unfortunately, the supermarket is remodeling and the ONE aisle that they hadn't totally restocked yet was the cold medicine aisle. Pickings were slim, and I had to knock a couple of clip boards and carboard boxes out of the way, but I managed to get everything and get home.
Cut to three days later. My throat is almost back to normal (hooray for antibiotics!), but my test results for strep still hadn't come in. During the Friday afternoon commute, I punched the doctor's office number into my cell phone so I could confirm that the test results were positive for strep. I mean, what else could it be? The symptoms fit, and the antibiotics were helping, which wouldn't be the case with a virus. But the nurse on the other line told me that the culture was negative too. Confound it!
So...my weekend kicked off with sitting in the doctor's office AGAIN, thumbing throught the dogeared copy of Time, and having blood drawn for a mono test which...drums please...came back NEGATIVE. A different doctor saw me this time and decided that my throat must have been crammed so full of pus that the strep test was negative because none of the strep bacteria had a chance of getting caught on the cotton swab.
Appetizing, eh? But I'm on my eighth day of antibiotics, and I am hale and hearty once again. 'Til the Boy dances with another childhood ailment, I guess.
My six readers know that the Boy went ten rounds with roseola and an ear infection two weeks ago, and his parents and grandparents spent the better part of those sicky days tending to a very unhappy toddler. As he felt better, though, I started feeling worse. And on Oscar Sunday I woke up in pain. Eh, whaddya gonna do? I self-diagnosed a change-of-season cold, went to work on Monday, and tried to convince myself that I was fine.
I kinda knew something was up when all I wanted to do was nap under my desk and my eyes were leaking like a broken water main.
Tuesday morning, I went to the doctor's around the corner from me. My master plan was to get there about 10 minutes before they opened 'cause it's one of those places that doesn't take appointments. But I was clearly delirious, because I went to the wrong shopping center. By the time I figured that little factoid out and hustled over to the correct shopping center, five other people had signed in before me. Those five people translated into a 45-minute wait to be seen by any medical professionals.
The only available magazine in the waiting room was an issue of Time that I'd already read cover to cover.
When my name was called, I followed the tiny Physician's Assistant to the cube where she took my vitals. My weight was down two pounds due to my inability to swallow anything thicker than broth. Then she led me to curtained exam room where she swabbed my nose and throat. Awesome. That's exactly what I wanted: to be jabbed in tender spots. During this swabbing frenzy, she chit-chatted about how she washes her hands like crazy. Maybe I'm sensitive, but I got the distinct impression she was hinting that the acres of white pus spots in my throat are a result of lax hand washing. Listen, my hands are STILL chapped from the umpteen times a day I scrubbed during the Boy's illness.
Then she shared that she will occasionally sniff water and spit it out to clear her nasal cavity of any bacteria that are thinking about setting up house. At that point, I decided I could stop listening to her advice. If I wanted to snort water, I'd plunk down some coin for a Neti pot.
She left to run the tests and see what they tell her about my ailments. Fifteen minutes later, the flu swab came back negative, and the strep swab came back inconclusive. So, Physician's Assistant-ette swabbed my throat a second time. Joy. Another fifteen minutes, and another negative result. Uh oh, what does that mean?
That means that mustachioed Mr. Dr. Man decided to send a throat culture out, because those tests are more reliable. I am then swabbed a third time. Mr. Dr. Man then says that if the throat culture also comes back negative (by Thursday or Friday), then I should come in to have a mononucleosis test done. Yipes! MONO? I'm THIRTY. And I'm not smooching anyone by Hubby, so mono seems very unlikely. To battle the unconfirmed strep, though, Mr. Dr. Man prescribed me some antibiotics and sent me home.
On the way, I drifted through the supermarket to pick up some sicky sore throat essentials: soup, pudding, throat lozenges, Thera-Flu. Unfortunately, the supermarket is remodeling and the ONE aisle that they hadn't totally restocked yet was the cold medicine aisle. Pickings were slim, and I had to knock a couple of clip boards and carboard boxes out of the way, but I managed to get everything and get home.
Cut to three days later. My throat is almost back to normal (hooray for antibiotics!), but my test results for strep still hadn't come in. During the Friday afternoon commute, I punched the doctor's office number into my cell phone so I could confirm that the test results were positive for strep. I mean, what else could it be? The symptoms fit, and the antibiotics were helping, which wouldn't be the case with a virus. But the nurse on the other line told me that the culture was negative too. Confound it!
So...my weekend kicked off with sitting in the doctor's office AGAIN, thumbing throught the dogeared copy of Time, and having blood drawn for a mono test which...drums please...came back NEGATIVE. A different doctor saw me this time and decided that my throat must have been crammed so full of pus that the strep test was negative because none of the strep bacteria had a chance of getting caught on the cotton swab.
Appetizing, eh? But I'm on my eighth day of antibiotics, and I am hale and hearty once again. 'Til the Boy dances with another childhood ailment, I guess.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Operator, Could You Please Connect This Call
Now that the Boy feels better, I've gotten smacked with strep throat. Poor Hubby. He traded one sick family member for another. Anyway, I've been riding the couch at home for the past two days. When you're home for a stretch of time, you start to notice things, like...
For the love of all that's holy, we get a lot of telemarketer calls! I guess I'm normally in and out of the house when I'm well, so I didn't notice it before. Here's a list of the phone numbers of companies trying to shill their services:
8:40 PM: XXX.715.0737
7:01 PM: XXX.585.6996
6:24 PM: XXX.952.3140
5:01 PM: XXX.688.1146
4:59 PM: XXX.342.4066
4:43 PM: XXX.910.3503
3:32 PM: XXX.204.1128
2:32 PM: XXX.821.0077
2:28 PM: XXX.585.6996
2:13 PM: XXX.324.4066
1:40 PM: XXX.715.0737
12:36 PM: XXX.213.0687
12:29 PM: XXX.458.3014
11:23 AM: XXX.588.4430
Ye gods! That's fourteen calls in nine hours! If I didn't have caller ID, I'd probably pick up the call and waste a couple of minutes each time saying thanks, but no thanks.
Right around call number ten, I decided to re-register on the National Do Not Call Registry. Charities, political hoo-ha, polling agents, and companies from which we've purchased services (ironically named "courtesy calls") will still get through.
But I can hang with (or hang *up* on) that.
For the love of all that's holy, we get a lot of telemarketer calls! I guess I'm normally in and out of the house when I'm well, so I didn't notice it before. Here's a list of the phone numbers of companies trying to shill their services:
8:40 PM: XXX.715.0737
7:01 PM: XXX.585.6996
6:24 PM: XXX.952.3140
5:01 PM: XXX.688.1146
4:59 PM: XXX.342.4066
4:43 PM: XXX.910.3503
3:32 PM: XXX.204.1128
2:32 PM: XXX.821.0077
2:28 PM: XXX.585.6996
2:13 PM: XXX.324.4066
1:40 PM: XXX.715.0737
12:36 PM: XXX.213.0687
12:29 PM: XXX.458.3014
11:23 AM: XXX.588.4430
Ye gods! That's fourteen calls in nine hours! If I didn't have caller ID, I'd probably pick up the call and waste a couple of minutes each time saying thanks, but no thanks.
Right around call number ten, I decided to re-register on the National Do Not Call Registry. Charities, political hoo-ha, polling agents, and companies from which we've purchased services (ironically named "courtesy calls") will still get through.
But I can hang with (or hang *up* on) that.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Put on Your Mask, My Roseola
Let me just say that I think it's valid if you want to deduct quality points from this post since I'm taking poetic license with a Better than Ezra tune from about a million years ago.
A pox has descended on our house. Its a minor pox, but a pox nonetheless. That's right, the Boy has roseola. It's a lovely little virus whose hallmarks are:
1) Crazy high fever that spikes up to 104 degrees outta nowhere and lasts for 3 to 7 days, reducing pretty much only with the assistance of miracle drugs like baby Tylenol or Motrin;
2) Much anger and irritability in the toddler afflicted with the ailment (can you blame them?);
3) Mild diarrhea;
4) Swollen eyelids;
5) Lethargy/listlessness;
6) To cap it all off, when the fever breaks, he'll most likely develop a splotchy rash on his trunk, arms and legs. The saving grace of this last one is that it is apparently not itchy.
Know what the doctor's say to do? Dope him up with the Tylenol or Motrin as often as needed (while staying within the limits of the dosage directions), give him plenty of fluids, plenty of rest, and lukewarm sponge baths and/or cool compresses.
That's it.
Now, I know viruses need to run their course. But couldn't they just pretend and give me a placebo so that I felt like I was actually doing something for him? Thank goodness his grandparents drove the many, many miles to stay with us during the quarantine. I'm sure we'd be a sight if they hadn't -- Hubby and I are also fighting colds, but neither of us can really take time off of work right now, so I'm sure we make for a fabulously grumpy trio right now. The patience my in-laws have is unrivalled.
Oh, and did I mention that the Boy also has an ear infection?
Let the good times roll...
A pox has descended on our house. Its a minor pox, but a pox nonetheless. That's right, the Boy has roseola. It's a lovely little virus whose hallmarks are:
1) Crazy high fever that spikes up to 104 degrees outta nowhere and lasts for 3 to 7 days, reducing pretty much only with the assistance of miracle drugs like baby Tylenol or Motrin;
2) Much anger and irritability in the toddler afflicted with the ailment (can you blame them?);
3) Mild diarrhea;
4) Swollen eyelids;
5) Lethargy/listlessness;
6) To cap it all off, when the fever breaks, he'll most likely develop a splotchy rash on his trunk, arms and legs. The saving grace of this last one is that it is apparently not itchy.
Know what the doctor's say to do? Dope him up with the Tylenol or Motrin as often as needed (while staying within the limits of the dosage directions), give him plenty of fluids, plenty of rest, and lukewarm sponge baths and/or cool compresses.
That's it.
Now, I know viruses need to run their course. But couldn't they just pretend and give me a placebo so that I felt like I was actually doing something for him? Thank goodness his grandparents drove the many, many miles to stay with us during the quarantine. I'm sure we'd be a sight if they hadn't -- Hubby and I are also fighting colds, but neither of us can really take time off of work right now, so I'm sure we make for a fabulously grumpy trio right now. The patience my in-laws have is unrivalled.
Oh, and did I mention that the Boy also has an ear infection?
Let the good times roll...
Monday, February 27, 2006
Sometimes You Kick, Sometimes You Get Kicked
INXS' music has served as the soundtrack of my life. Long before I was able to discern what was cool and what wasn't, they were a part of my collection because I liked the music for what it was. It didn't matter to me that a hottie sang their tunes. It didn't matter that critics and cheerleaders alike lauded their music, that they were a great equalizer of a band, much like the way U2 is today. It didn't matter that they oozed cool. I just liked the music.
"What You Need" was on my first mix tape, carefully crafted when I was 10. "Need You Tonight" was the only song that could get my painfully shy, 12-year-old self out on the floor. "Mediate" taught me who Bob Dylan was. "Never Tear Us Apart" was my first slow dance with a boy at age 13. Kick was the first album I copped from my older sister. "Live Baby Live" was the first concert album given to me at age 16, and was also the tape that I listened to when I drove to my first (brief) stint as an events intern at WBAL TV in Baltimore. In 1993, during the summer between high school and college, I caught the boys from Down Under at the HFStival at RFK Stadium in Washington, DC. When their Greatest Hits CD came out in 1994, I picked it up and played it at college parties 'til I almost wore a hole through it.
Then, in 1997, the year I graduated college, INXS' frontman, Michael Hutchence, died. Since then, I've been spinning the albums with regularity and not a little nostalgia, but I haven't really dwelled on the loss. Chapters of my life were closing all over the place, and his death, and what I thought was the death of INXS, dovetailed with that.
Cut to two weeks ago: I went to an INXS concert at the Tower Theater in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. If you're looking for a local comparison, the venue was akin to the Uptown Theater, except retro-fitted to host live musical acts. Not a stadium, sure, but not just a club show either.
See, my older brother called me up and said that he had two tickets to spare, so he invited me and the Hubby to come along. Problem is, we'd have to outsource the Boy to friends or family for an overnighter if we were going to zip on up to the outskirts of Philly for a concert. And since the Hubby is lukewarm about late eighties/early nineties pop music...well, we decided that I'd go it alone. The last concert I'd caught was the Erasure show at the 9:30 Club in June, so I was itching to see some live music.
As much as I was looking forward to mixing with the general pop fan population, though, I was a little apprehensive. For me, Michael Hutchence was INXS. His mug enjoyed the most screen time in their videos, his hair inspired many a young lad to grow luscious wavy locks, his voice was the telltale sign that the music piping through your car radio was part of the INXS discography. I don't mean to play down the fact that the band, musically, really belongs to Kirk Pengilly, the Farris Brothers (Andrew, Tim, and Jon), and Garry Beers. But all of my teen and tween friends plunked down their babysitting earnings for INXS tapes 'cause of Michael Hutchence.
So why, then, did I nearly cry during the opening salvo of "Suicide Blonde," their first ditty of the evening? Why didn't I cheer at the rebirth of this band that had surreptitiously, inextricably entwined itself with my wonder years?
I can only offer an analogy to explain. For me, it was like seeing a widower whom I love dearly remarried to a very nice woman after a really respectable amount of time had passed since the death of his first wife, whom I also loved dearly. I'd be deliriously happy that he gets to partake of the sweetness of love and partnership once again, but I'd mourn the first wife all over again.
I looked around at the crowd to see if I could glimpse anyone else going through the same Tilt-A-Whirl of emotions. But in a darkened concert hall, you can't exactly read feelings easily, so I let it go and sat back to try to enjoy the concert without overthinking it.
INXS 2.0 is now fronted by Canadian singer J.D. Fortune. For what it's worth, he was adopted into the band via Rock Star: INXS, a reality TV show that aired last summer on CBS and VH1. It doesn't matter how he came to be a part of INXS, though. He's good, and clearly deserves to be there. I didn't watch the TV show, so I didn't know what to expect of him. Older Brother, who was addicted to the show, shared that J.D. has always been a superfan of the group. That's an interesting factoid 'cause alot of times it seems like J.D. channeled Michael Hutchence. I can't tell if J.D. performs like that because he thinks that's what the fans want, or if it's because he idolized Michael Hutchence so much that he can't help but sing and prance like him. Despite that niggling thought, I really enjoyed his performance. Dunno if that's 'cause I want to be aurally fooled or what, but I liked it.
I know I'll listen to their new tunes on the radio. I may even pick up a CD. But will I let this new incarnation into my life again? Eh, probably.
"What You Need" was on my first mix tape, carefully crafted when I was 10. "Need You Tonight" was the only song that could get my painfully shy, 12-year-old self out on the floor. "Mediate" taught me who Bob Dylan was. "Never Tear Us Apart" was my first slow dance with a boy at age 13. Kick was the first album I copped from my older sister. "Live Baby Live" was the first concert album given to me at age 16, and was also the tape that I listened to when I drove to my first (brief) stint as an events intern at WBAL TV in Baltimore. In 1993, during the summer between high school and college, I caught the boys from Down Under at the HFStival at RFK Stadium in Washington, DC. When their Greatest Hits CD came out in 1994, I picked it up and played it at college parties 'til I almost wore a hole through it.
Then, in 1997, the year I graduated college, INXS' frontman, Michael Hutchence, died. Since then, I've been spinning the albums with regularity and not a little nostalgia, but I haven't really dwelled on the loss. Chapters of my life were closing all over the place, and his death, and what I thought was the death of INXS, dovetailed with that.
Cut to two weeks ago: I went to an INXS concert at the Tower Theater in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. If you're looking for a local comparison, the venue was akin to the Uptown Theater, except retro-fitted to host live musical acts. Not a stadium, sure, but not just a club show either.
See, my older brother called me up and said that he had two tickets to spare, so he invited me and the Hubby to come along. Problem is, we'd have to outsource the Boy to friends or family for an overnighter if we were going to zip on up to the outskirts of Philly for a concert. And since the Hubby is lukewarm about late eighties/early nineties pop music...well, we decided that I'd go it alone. The last concert I'd caught was the Erasure show at the 9:30 Club in June, so I was itching to see some live music.
As much as I was looking forward to mixing with the general pop fan population, though, I was a little apprehensive. For me, Michael Hutchence was INXS. His mug enjoyed the most screen time in their videos, his hair inspired many a young lad to grow luscious wavy locks, his voice was the telltale sign that the music piping through your car radio was part of the INXS discography. I don't mean to play down the fact that the band, musically, really belongs to Kirk Pengilly, the Farris Brothers (Andrew, Tim, and Jon), and Garry Beers. But all of my teen and tween friends plunked down their babysitting earnings for INXS tapes 'cause of Michael Hutchence.
So why, then, did I nearly cry during the opening salvo of "Suicide Blonde," their first ditty of the evening? Why didn't I cheer at the rebirth of this band that had surreptitiously, inextricably entwined itself with my wonder years?
I can only offer an analogy to explain. For me, it was like seeing a widower whom I love dearly remarried to a very nice woman after a really respectable amount of time had passed since the death of his first wife, whom I also loved dearly. I'd be deliriously happy that he gets to partake of the sweetness of love and partnership once again, but I'd mourn the first wife all over again.
I looked around at the crowd to see if I could glimpse anyone else going through the same Tilt-A-Whirl of emotions. But in a darkened concert hall, you can't exactly read feelings easily, so I let it go and sat back to try to enjoy the concert without overthinking it.
INXS 2.0 is now fronted by Canadian singer J.D. Fortune. For what it's worth, he was adopted into the band via Rock Star: INXS, a reality TV show that aired last summer on CBS and VH1. It doesn't matter how he came to be a part of INXS, though. He's good, and clearly deserves to be there. I didn't watch the TV show, so I didn't know what to expect of him. Older Brother, who was addicted to the show, shared that J.D. has always been a superfan of the group. That's an interesting factoid 'cause alot of times it seems like J.D. channeled Michael Hutchence. I can't tell if J.D. performs like that because he thinks that's what the fans want, or if it's because he idolized Michael Hutchence so much that he can't help but sing and prance like him. Despite that niggling thought, I really enjoyed his performance. Dunno if that's 'cause I want to be aurally fooled or what, but I liked it.
I know I'll listen to their new tunes on the radio. I may even pick up a CD. But will I let this new incarnation into my life again? Eh, probably.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Dental Damn
You know that your dental visit was not a good one when your dentist schedules your next four appointments before you leave. And those four appointments all take place within the next three months.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Looking for Lloyd in All the Wrong Places
This WaPo article sums up the feelings of virtually every chica I know. Cameron Crowe and John Cusack, with one simple little movie, forever altered women's perceptions of attainable love. We got all the gooey feelings of a bodice ripper without the gothic setting. Romance, not lust, for the teen generation. Some (like Chuck Klosterman) would insist that Say Anything actually ruined the romantic expectations of women born between 1968 and 1977. I disagree, 'cause I found my Lloyd. And you know what? It's everything it's cracked up to be.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Valentine's Gift Ideas
It's my experience that there's almost as much value in knowing what not to do as there is in knowing what one ought to do. So...I present to the world (and by world I mean the U.S., Canada, Mexico, the U.K., France, and Australia, where the holiday is celebrated) the top four gifts men should not to buy for their sweeties on Valentine's Day. These gifts have actually been given to friends of mine to celebrate the day...
There are two caveats to this list:
1) If the object of your affection has explicitly requested one of the items below, by all means, fulfill her wishes. But if she didn't...well, she can't be held responsible for her reaction.
2) This un-guide is for significant others only. If you're a parent, or a friend, or a sibling, some of the items below are just ducky.
Here we go...
1) Exercise equipment and/or a gym membership.
This is tantamount ot saying, "You're looking a little plump, so here's a tool that can help you out with that." She may have expressed her generic desire to join a gym, or go leaping like a Gazelle. However, that doesn't mean she wants you to passively agree with her on this topic during the highest of romantic holy days.
2) Domestic appliances/aprons/cookbooks.
She may love to cook, and to try out new new recipes. But anything with the KitchenAid logo stamped on it should not be given on Valentine's Day. "Here honey," says the man proffering an appliance, "let me help you feed me better." Nice.
3) Gift cards.
I know, I know, it seems like it's a good way to go. But it's so impersonal! Gift cards are an awesome thing for Christmas, or birthdays. Know why? 'Cause these are occasions when an individual is probably receiving multiple gifts, from multiple people, and the gift card allows her to pick up that one special something that she'd had her eye on, but didn't receive. And she gets to shop, which is always a bonus. But a Valentine's Day gift is supposed to reflect how you feel about her. And if you go the gift card route, you're saying, "I know you like this store, but it would've taken me a really long time to pick out something you liked, so I'll just let you go ahead and buy yourself somethin' nice instead." Think about it. Gift cards = money (sure, money you can only spend in one place, but money all the same). Would you give your girlfriend/fiancée/wife cold hard cash to show her that you appreciate her love? Probably not...
4) Nothing.
Listen, even if you both agreed that money is tight, and that you won't get each other anything, you should still give her a card. It doesn't matter if it's crafted out of construction paper and crayons. Tangibility is what counts here, folks.
The truth is, there is no silver bullet for this Valentine's Day gift-giving hoo-ha. (And no, that doesn't mean you should run out and buy a silver bullet.) You just need to know your partner, and the gift needs to show that you were thinking about her when you weren't actually sitting next to her. That you know stuff about her. Does she like theater? Get her tickets to a show. Does she like lazy Sunday mornings? Comfy pajamas and breakfast in bed. Has she been singing a song over and over and over again? Buy the CD. Has her car been acting up? Take it in to have it serviced. Does she despise laundry? Wash it for her. Does she want to go out to dinner? Book the babysitter yourself.
And I'm all about equal opportunity, ladies. Valentine's Day should not be a one-way street. You gotta show him the love, too. Don't visit the Snap-On truck unless he said that's what he wanted. Get the video game he wanted, even if you think it's silly. Go see the movie he wants, even if it's Jerry Bruckheimer explode-o-rama. You could even (and I'm just spitballin' here) watch a sporting event with him, without asking questions.
You don't need to be extravagant...just thoughtful. Think O. Henry, not Donald Trump.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Silver Linings
Since I can be a wee vain with regard to my scripted wit, I like to poke around in previous posts and fawn all over my handiwork. Thing is, though, I've noticed a pattern in the things I choose to write about. Mostly, my entries stink of negativity. I gripe and vent about neighbors, advice, friends...you name it, I've written about it with a decidedly snarkalicious slant.
Why? I don't consider myself a glass-half-empty kind of person. In fact, I consider myself a cup-runneth-over kind of person: great husband, happy son, solid friends, good job, supportive family (both in blood and in marriage). Trumpeting my joy in those facets of my life seems a bit bragadocious, though, so I don't do it. But why go the extreme other way and focus on quotidien irritations? It's cathartic, sure. But that's not the sum total of why I lean that way on this blog...
The answer, I think, lies in the craft of writing. At the heart of every story, comedic or dramatic, is conflict. Without conflict, there's no story. Let's face it: without conflict you've basically got a greeting card. And those are designed to be interesting for about the thirty seconds it takes to read one. Me, I'd like a little more staying power than that.
That doesn't mean that each story, though, needs to be punctuated with a "Wah-wah-wah, doesn't that stink?" sentiment. That's my challenge to myself: to attempt to document things that are interesting, are rife with conflict, but are not simply outlines of my personal annoyances.
Oof. This could be rough.
Why? I don't consider myself a glass-half-empty kind of person. In fact, I consider myself a cup-runneth-over kind of person: great husband, happy son, solid friends, good job, supportive family (both in blood and in marriage). Trumpeting my joy in those facets of my life seems a bit bragadocious, though, so I don't do it. But why go the extreme other way and focus on quotidien irritations? It's cathartic, sure. But that's not the sum total of why I lean that way on this blog...
The answer, I think, lies in the craft of writing. At the heart of every story, comedic or dramatic, is conflict. Without conflict, there's no story. Let's face it: without conflict you've basically got a greeting card. And those are designed to be interesting for about the thirty seconds it takes to read one. Me, I'd like a little more staying power than that.
That doesn't mean that each story, though, needs to be punctuated with a "Wah-wah-wah, doesn't that stink?" sentiment. That's my challenge to myself: to attempt to document things that are interesting, are rife with conflict, but are not simply outlines of my personal annoyances.
Oof. This could be rough.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Who ARE You?
A coupla days ago, a friend and I were lamenting the recent dissolution of Z104. Not that I listened to the pop music mecca all that often, but I like the idea of a little variety in the airwaves. And blech, not variety stations. There's just something wrong about following up Gorillaz with Phil Collins. If I want to hear what the tweens are groovin' on these days, dadgumit, I don't want to have to log onto the internet or subscribe to satellite radio to find it.
Where was I? Oh, yeah, we were lamenting. Because of phenomenally bad reception within the District, my friend pointed out that she only gets about three stations clearly, and only two of them play music during the morning commute. No stranger to the travails of the morning drive in the Metro area, I empathized in a big way. We were feeding off of the commiseration, so I decided to one-up my friend, and complain that of the two stations that actually spin some tunes, one of 'em is Mix 107.3, home of The Jack Diamond Morning Show. I think I may have punctuated that sentence with "Yuck" or a gagging noise of some ilk.
My friend blinks at me, slowly, and says, "I like Jack Diamond. He and his crew seem like they are pretty warm, caring people."
It's like I'd been hit with a stun gun. I guess you could say I was stunned. She likes Jack Diamond? JACK DIAMOND? I'm a big believer in chacun à son goût and everything, but only if I have a glimmer of an insight as to why an entertainer might be to your goût. Jack Diamond uses the goopy, ululating radio voice. Jack Diamond is fakey sweet to the show's guests. He discusses topics that I don't think anyone really cares about ("Do you say hello to your boss out of the office when you've got some out-of-control kids in tow?"). Nothing about the guy's style has ever appealed to me (I'm sure he's really worried about it, too).
But I'm not here to exclaim just how deeply unimpressed I'm colored by Mix 107.3's morning crew. The fact that someone with whom I think I share all kinds of taste actively likes the, um, entertainment he's broadcasting into the ether has knocked me for a loop. How can our interests be so divergent? Yes, yes, variety's the spice of life, but I believe my distaste for the guy is a measurable part of my hipster quotient.
Will more differences of opinion surface, cicada-style, to surprise me decades into a friendship? Will I suddenly find out that another friend thinks that Barbie is a good role model for girls? Or that the Monkees rock harder than the Beatles? Or that Gus van Sant's Psycho improved upon the original?
Don't get me wrong; it's not like I'm going to start divesting myself of relationships based on these trivialities. I'm not that shallow (wink).
Where was I? Oh, yeah, we were lamenting. Because of phenomenally bad reception within the District, my friend pointed out that she only gets about three stations clearly, and only two of them play music during the morning commute. No stranger to the travails of the morning drive in the Metro area, I empathized in a big way. We were feeding off of the commiseration, so I decided to one-up my friend, and complain that of the two stations that actually spin some tunes, one of 'em is Mix 107.3, home of The Jack Diamond Morning Show. I think I may have punctuated that sentence with "Yuck" or a gagging noise of some ilk.
My friend blinks at me, slowly, and says, "I like Jack Diamond. He and his crew seem like they are pretty warm, caring people."
It's like I'd been hit with a stun gun. I guess you could say I was stunned. She likes Jack Diamond? JACK DIAMOND? I'm a big believer in chacun à son goût and everything, but only if I have a glimmer of an insight as to why an entertainer might be to your goût. Jack Diamond uses the goopy, ululating radio voice. Jack Diamond is fakey sweet to the show's guests. He discusses topics that I don't think anyone really cares about ("Do you say hello to your boss out of the office when you've got some out-of-control kids in tow?"). Nothing about the guy's style has ever appealed to me (I'm sure he's really worried about it, too).
But I'm not here to exclaim just how deeply unimpressed I'm colored by Mix 107.3's morning crew. The fact that someone with whom I think I share all kinds of taste actively likes the, um, entertainment he's broadcasting into the ether has knocked me for a loop. How can our interests be so divergent? Yes, yes, variety's the spice of life, but I believe my distaste for the guy is a measurable part of my hipster quotient.
Will more differences of opinion surface, cicada-style, to surprise me decades into a friendship? Will I suddenly find out that another friend thinks that Barbie is a good role model for girls? Or that the Monkees rock harder than the Beatles? Or that Gus van Sant's Psycho improved upon the original?
Don't get me wrong; it's not like I'm going to start divesting myself of relationships based on these trivialities. I'm not that shallow (wink).
Friday, February 03, 2006
The Toy Chest Is Closed
I hadn't outted Palisades Toys specifically as the company that laid me off in December because I didn't want to impact the future sale, merger, rebranding, or sundry other directions the company might have taken. For those kids out there who are bitter that they weren't kept in the loop during the troubles, please know that informing you of every step would've potentially messed up any deals in the works. So everything had to be played close to the vest, and that meant keeping ya'll in the dark. To quote Michael Corleone, "It's not personal, Sonny. It's strictly business."
But now that the owners have sent out this statement and it's all over the Palisades Toys message board, there's no harm in naming names now.
Not that I have anything bad to say, actually. The folks that I worked with there were the best, and I miss the goofiness that was part and parcel of the workday. Honestly, I was only there about four months, so I'm not a part of the core group that will be sorely missed by the rabid (in a good way) fans. Should any of them happen upon this missive of mine, you should know that while Palisades didn't openly communicate everything that was going on to the fan base, the Horns handled the dissolution of their life's work with grace, and honesty, and integrity. Did it stink looking for a new job in January? Yep. But it's nothing compared to having to close the doors on your own company. So if you want to dissect the way everything went down, and play Monday morning quarterback, feel free. I have my doubts that you could have done any better with the hand they were dealt.
As I sit in a cube at my new job site, one that's equally interesting but not nearly as glamourous (I mean, I'm not walkin' around with swords or anything), I have nothing but good thoughts about the Palisades Experience, and I wish those that I met during that time the best.
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