Laurel Ink

I'm all tatted up. A tiny Incredible Hulk decorates my left bicep. Look how hip I am!

Okay, okay, he's a temporary tattoo. The Boy got it in some birthday party favor cornucopia a few weeks ago, and I thought it would be somewhat hilarious to paste it on my own mudflap of an arm. I didn't slap it on the Boy because there was an excellent chance that he would freak out about it, and I have NO idea what "temporary" means in this instance. It would be more appealing to burn off my eyelashes than watch the Boy scratch at the tat until it came off.

Since I became the Illustrated Woman, though, the weather in the Mid-Atlantic has been delightful. Which means that one could (and should) wear sleeveless shirts under cardigans or some such. Here's the pickle: my office gets magma-hot sometimes (the HVAC system can't keep up with the weather). And in those moments I would like to shed my sweater. BUT I CAN'T BECAUSE THEN EVERYONE WILL KNOW MY INCREDIBLE HULK SHAME.

Ugh. I just want the thing gone, but several showers and steel wool sponge baths later, it's still there. I always knew that I wasn't that tattoo sort. Not because I favor a Pottery Barn-ish style of living, but because there isn't much that has been such a constant in my life that I can see permanently decorating myself with it. I mean, sheesh, if I went with what I loved at 14, I'd probably have a big fat Depeche Mode logo on my ankle. At 24, something John Cusack-y, like the outline of Lloyd Dobbler holding up the boom box in 'Say Anything.'

Cringing. I would be cringing if I had to stare at those images on my vessel.

Buy My Junk!

So, I'm hawking stuff on eBay. The amount of time this can take up is outrageous, because I have to do Very Important Things like weigh a MEGA Meatwad "action" figure so that I can accurately calculate its shipping cost and not be accused of being a robber baron by the anonymous denizens of eBay land. Friggin' ratings system.

Selling this stuff is Part the Second of my spring cleaning, about which I posted a particularly scintillating entry. I got the idea from cable TV shows with a mission to teach you how not to be a complete and utter slob/packrat. They make participating clutterbugs create three piles: keep, trash, sell. Into each of these categories ALL of your junk must fall. Over the years, there's a random assortment of stuff we either (a) have but don't use, (b) received as gifts but never used, and (c) were part of the wages of the toy company for which we worked. I'm using the Royal We for Part C.

The thing is, the stuff the sells the best is the stuff that I earned while working for the toy company. But when theres's some interest in "my" stuff -- clothes that I never wore, or shoes that I only wore once or twice -- I find it strangely validating. Weird, eh?

Spectacle!

Back in the day, when I was bleeding Hoya blue, I took a playwrighting class taught by the legendary Donn B. Murphy*.

Anyhoo, he taught me many things about writing, and three of them really resonated:

1) Anything -- a play, a novel, a short story, a screenplay, a comic book -- should be able to be summarized in one sentence. That's not to say that plots can't be complicated, but if you can't express the gist of it in one sentence, then the plot is probably too complicated (or the way you are thinking about it is too complicated).

2) An audience automatically feels warmly toward a character who gives a gift. Well, okay, if the gift is a head in a box or something like that, the character might not get a lotta love. But you get the idea.

3) SPECTACLE. Donn B. seem to be all kinds of tired of talkity-talk-talk with no spectacle in the theater. He said that you don't need a July 4th's worth of fireworks or anything like that, but you do need a moment that's bigger than the normal humdrum of life. His emphasis of this point could have been a result of his having taught college students for decades, whom I have to imagine wrote incessantly about "unique" experiences, like being dumped or being away from home for the first time. Ugh. These wunderkinds probably set all of their plays in waiting rooms or dorms, too.

But anyway, that last one is all kinds of true, and BOY HOWDY did Teller (of Penn & Teller fame) deliver on the spectacle in the Folger's (now closed) run of "MacBeth**." Floating knives, streaks of blood manifesting on Lady MacBeth, people disappearing and reappearing in (seemingly) plain view, blood gushing from neck wounds, well, YOWZA. Call me a rube for not appreciating the lyrical stylings of Shakespeare by itself, but all of these sleights-of-hand and redirections really amped up the performance. The actors were stellar, and not overshadowed by the trickery. So now, I want to see a bunch of other plays in the Shakespeare catalog get Tellerfied...The Tempest, A Midsummer Night's Dream, Hamlet...all are ripe for the glamours, I think.

*If you do not know Donn B., trust, he is legendary. In his late seventies, he would careen around the streets of Georgetown on a Hog. His partner is always -- and only -- referred to as "The Colonel." Another is that he threatened to castrate Super Ninja if Super Ninja did not return the gong (that's right -- gong) that he was borrowing for his theater troupe's production of Camino Real.

**Since I didn't refer to it as the Scottish play, I need spin around in a counter-clockwise circle or something, right?

Four of You Will Understand this Post

Best misspelling to date:

Vongham

Rise of the Dead

I'm an incredible snoop. Blame my childhood, wherein I had zero personal space. Seriously. I shared a bed until I was nine. Which, when you think about it, was probably worse for my older sister.

But anyway...

In this age of interwebs, my snoopishness has really only gotten worse. I really shouldn't have the opportunity to investigate what's happening with friends or acquaintances. If they wanted me to know, they would've told me, right? I suppose I could just not snoop, but if shelved a favorite pasttime, then I probably wouldn't have found the greatest exchange of comments on IMDB ever.

I'm not going to tell you who my acquaintance is, but some of my tens of readers will know the person. Besides, I think we can all enjoy the comments on Rise of the Dead just the same.

Emerging from the Wreckage

Wow, that sounds dramatic, doesn't it? Super Ninja and I moved into our manse* four years ago. That was pre-Boy and Girl, whose accouterments made the storage areas in my basement look like the Death Star's trash compactor. For all of you who are not familiar with the Star Wars oeuvre, let's just say it was a wee cluttered. Actually, it looked like a maniac had been in charge of organization and storage chez moi. And, this is true.

For the past four years (i.e., while I was pregnant, post partum, nursing, repeat) Super Ninja has been in charge of finding places to store stuff. The only problem with this? He likes things to be done, and likes them to be done NOW. And little things like being able to retrieve things that have been chucked willy nilly into a closet? PAH! Those concerns get in the way of immediate completion of a task. It matters not that hurling a baby walker atop a teetering stack of Christmas decorations is a recipe for a concussion.

But I am not in one of my childbearing cycles, and I'm feelin' pretty energetic. And dismayed, chagrined, and all out annoyed by the junked up "style" of parts of my home. Couple those things with the fact that Tetris is my all-time fave video game, and I was just itching to commence a royal de-clutter.

I can't say that the two days I dedicated to this endeavor have been quite enough. Nay, the are not nearly enough. But I'm almost there. I've got two shopping bags and a box going to the Salvation Army, another box going to Friends of Libraries, a huge bag o'goodies going to my infant nephew, and two 60-gallon trash cans filled to the brim. Oh, and did I mention the eBay piles? That last bit will probably just confirm that my junk is only special to me, but you never know.

So, anyway, just wanted to let you know why my posting's been a bit sparse lately. If you are good boys and girls, p'raps I will soon bore you with tales of home renovation! Ooh! Aah!

*By "manse," I mean a 3-bedroom, 2.5 bath townhome. With 1700 livable square feet. Boo-yah!

Dear Kathi,

I might take your critique of my spelling error more seriously if you didn't spell your name that way.

Love,

Me

Do You Watch the Wire? Huh? Huh? Do Ya?

Many, many, many people ask me if I watch "The Wire." Seriously. Everyone who knows or suspects that I'm indigenous to Charm City asks if I watch. And I keep telling them that I don't. They groan, physically pained by the fact that a native, with whom they could have Very Important Conversations about the fictional and not-so-fictional aspects of the city, has just chat-blocked them with viewer ignorance.

Well, that's going to change because Super-Ninja's brother and sister-in-law sent us the series on DVD. I know that I will enjoy it, be fascinated and maddened by it. It's a little strange for me, though, because my standard response to "Do you watch 'The Wire?'" was: I've lived and worked here for decades, and I know the reality. I see it on the nightly news, in the daily newspaper. Not to mention that I watched this, this, this, and this*. So, I haven't really felt the burning desire to see another shadowy B'more on the small screen. But I'll give it a shot, because I love me a compelling story, and this show more than any other I've heard about promises a heaping huge delivery of Compelling Story.

Why am I telling you all of this? Well, in a rare synesthetic moment, today, I happened upon this article in the Baltimore Sun. All ye watchers of 'The Wire,' read and discuss.

*Okay, not really of the same ilk. But it's about murders in Baltimore, yeah?

I Love Coffee, But...

I don't love it on my pants. And I really don't love it on my pants when I have two meetings today, one of which I am running.

And, I don't know how this happened, but the coffee/pants combo is emitting an aroma akin to one of those awful coffee-flavored hard candies. I would probably dig eau de café if it smelled like a gingerbread latte. But this? Yick.

The Joy of Synonyms

Last night was my night to put the Boy to bed. Super Ninja and I take turns because we would bleed from the ears if one of us were charged with putting the Boy to bed every night. At bedtime, the Boy has an attention span of a puppy. Getting him to focus on ONE book and succumbing to his sleepiness...well it can be a challenge.

Super Ninja often accuses me of actually winding the Boy up though, and in this, he is probably correct. Case in point? I did NOT help the Boy toward Dreamland when I guffawed at his interpretation of a word that was new to him.

We were reading "George Upside Down." At one point, George is sent to a tutor. The Boy pointed at the tutor and said, "He toots, because he's a tooter!"*

Tears. There were tears streaming out of my eyes. I know it's not that funny, but we are rapidly advancing toward the scatological conversations that were oft had at my own childhood dinner table. And oh, the hilarity that will ensue...

*'Toot' is how we refer to the inevitable act of passing gas. I just didn't want to be the parent of the kid who, in a crowded shopping mall, yells something like, "Mom! I just RIPPED ONE!"

What Do You Think of People...

who use anglicized spellings of words (publicise, colour, recognise), but are American? It's an affectation, no?

The Fruits of Construction

There are six dead bugs in the lighting panels in my office. I'm not really sure what kind of bugs they are, or how they came to their final resting place. But I suspect that the high-rise that is being erected next door to my building has something to do with it. I will keep you posted on the carnage as these earth dweller scramble for a new home, and choose poorly.

Did I mention that I'm desperately avoiding e-mail today? You say you guessed that already? Hmph. A woman doesn't like to be too easy to read.

Going Green?

Yesterday, I saw a woman flicking ashes out of her car window as she smoked. And she was driving a Prius. Just seemed contradictory, that's all.

A Phrase Explained

"He wants to have his cake and eat it, too."

That phrase NEVER made sense to me. We all know what it's supposed to be about -- having everything your way even though all of the things you want are contradictory -- but at face value, well, why can't you have cake and eat it? Who has cake, and leaves it sitting in front of him untouched?

But then, Super Ninja and I watched "Micki + Maude" recently, and one of the supporting characters used this expression to describe the main character's spiral into bigamy. Appropriate choice of idiom, yes? An irritated Rob Salinger, the main character, explained to his friend that he'd used the phrase incorrectly. The original saying is this:

"He wants to eat his cake and have it, too."

ONE little transposition of a clause, and suddenly the phrase paints a clear picture of a personality type instead of confusing me. I can only assume that the bastardized version of this expression annoyed Jonathan Reynolds beyond all measure, and he had to dedicated three minutes of a feature film to setting the public straight.

A Gripe with 'Juno'

It's not, "Thundercats are go!" It's "Thunder, thunder, thunder, Thundercats HO!" or "Thunderbirds are go!"

Jeez, waste hours Googling nostalgic shows sometime. Or, you know, write an Academy Award winning screenplay. Your choice.

P.S.: If I'm wrong about this, blame Super Ninja.

Maybe Observational Humor Is Not My Forte

Every once in awhile I check out airfare specials between BWI and cities where Super Ninja's family members live. Never really noticed it before, but check out the fee disclaimers:



Listen, I think the airlines can just call this "a federal excise tax per flight." I'm pretty sure that any successful flight will involve both a takeoff and a landing, and I have no desire to experience one that doesn't. So I'm really okay with lumping all three under one umbrella term.

I Have a Theory about Weight Revelation

Howard Stern will often ask his female guests how much they weigh. Actually, he asks many of his guests, male and female, how much they weigh. And then he will weigh them. Dude is preoccupied with weight.

Anyway, the women usually crack me up. If they answer him, it's because they want to demonstrate how not a big deal it is to them, right? But then they almost always shave a pound or two off of whatever they initially said. When a woman says, "Oh, I don't know. One-fifteen, One-twelve," we all KNOW that she weighs 112 pounds, and even though she wants to appear nonchalant, she really, really doesn't want anyone thinking she weighs a cataclysmic 115 pounds. Because then she'd be a cow, right?

Man, He Probably Thinks I'm a Subtle Racist

We're having Verizon FiOS installed today, because I am young and hip and want all of my communications to be delivered at the speed of light. Actually, it's just cheaper to bundle my services through FiOS. But anyway, a stranger has open access to my home, so I've been alternately playing the radio and DVDs to conjure up a little background noise.

Well, Mr. Verizon came upstairs a few minutes ago to mess around with the TV. I'd been watching an episode of "Slings and Arrows" on my laptop while I plowed through my lunch. Mr. Verizon was futzing around in back of the entertainment center, and my laptop starting screaming things like "penetration" and "ejaculate." This is not high-brow porn -- it's a show about a theater and the character was using a metaphor to dissect another character's psyche. Yeah, so I decided this was not the most appropriate white noise for a fiber optic installation tech, and shut it down. But then the awkward silence resumed, which inspired me to hop up and turn on 94.7, the Globe.

I've blogged about this radio station before. It's the one that will only play critically respected music -- U2, Bruce Springsteen, Talking Heads, Jimi Hendrix, etc. I figured I'd be safe, right? I mean, this kind of music might not inspire impromptu dancing, but whatevs. I just wanted something pleasing to the ear. Yeah, except as soon as I turned it on, the mid-day DJ starts yapping about how they are celebrating Black History Month, and that they are exclusively playing black artists today.

Oh, GOD. Mr. Verizon probably thinks that I chose a radio station that plays music by black artists so that I could demonstrate how down I am. Aargh.

Call Me Dagny Taggart

Because nothing says Powerful Business Woman like an aggressive waxing job that leaves part of your face a molty blotched mess.

Oscars 2008

This year saw a very special Academy Awards ceremony. Not because of the end of the writer's strike, or that I saw more nominated films than I've seen in the past four years, or that Vanessa Paradis didn't wear an a Bob Mackie-ish dress. Nah, this year was special because we let the Boy watch the first half hour of the program with us. Below is a transcript of his commentary:

Opening Sequence:
Boy: Hey! Spider-man! Hey! The Hulk!

Opening monologue:
Boy: That guy is funny. Where’s Spider-man? I want that Spider-man show.

Best Costume:
Jennifer Garner takes the stage.
Boy: I like her dress. But I don’t like her necklace.

80 Years of Oscar Montage:
Boy: I think that girl was dressed up as Snow White! [In reference to an old clip where Snow White is excited to meet Rob Lowe.]

Best Animated Feature:
Boy: I like that girl’s [Anne Hathaway’s] beautiful red dress.
MCV: Oh, Boy! We’re going to get to see some cartoons.
Boy: About Spider-man!

…a few minutes later…

Boy: I want to see that cartoon again about the girl with the black hair [Persepolis]. (Ed. Note: I knew he had sophisticated tastes.)

During Amy Adams’ performance of “Happy Working”:

Boy: Her hair is beautiful.

***this is where the Boy went to bed***