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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

One Third of My Lovely Lady Lumps

Disclaimer: Dudes will probably not want to read this as this post leans a little yonic. If you are of the male persuasion, I can't guarantee this'll resonate. It may even make you feel a little icky afterward. Consider yourself forewarned.

Yesterday was D-Day: the annual trip to the OB/GYN to make sure everything south of the border is working properly. You'd think that I'd be a wee less apprehensive about the exam after 10 years of annual visits. Not to mention that I was a little, um, exposed to about 15 strangers during the whole childbirth experience. Basically, I've made peace with the fact that it's just one of those things I have to do as a responsible adult woman, like paying bills on time and popping calcium supplements.

My doctor is a tiny woman. A teeny tiny woman. Every time I go to visit her, she tells me that I need to lose weight. One time she said, "You should not try to gain any more weight." Um, I wasn't exactly trying to gain the poundage that I have. It's just that living a sedentary lifestyle has resulted in my hourglass figure transforming into a different kind of glass figure...say, a beer stein.

Like a ninny, I scheduled this appointment three weeks after the holidays. So I know I'm packing an extra pound or five in addition to the extras I've already been lugging around. To compensate, I dressed "light." I actually held my clothes before getting dressed to determine which outfit weighed less. Obviously I was gonna kick off my shoes before climbing onto the scale, but they don't request you to strip. And since the scale's in the hallway leading to the exam rooms, it wouldn't exactly be appropriate.

The breezy outfit didn't help, though. I stepped onto the scale, and the physician's assistant moved the blocky metal weights up the bar. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Ka-thunk. Oh, yuck. Not a good number. I am hovering at a pregancy weight number. This is not what I am supposed to weigh when all I'm carrying around is me.

After the weigh-in, I stripped off the appropriate articles of clothing, draped myself with a gigantic purple paper towel thingamajig, and climbed on the table. The doctor entered, we exchanged some pleasantries, she performed the exam, and told me to meet her in her office after I've dressed. Gulp. As I zipped, buckled, and buttoned up, I thought I might be off the hook vis-a-vis a weight lecture. Why? Well, part of my exam chit-chat was telling Dr. Tiny that I've begun an exercise regime (which is true), and she applauded me.

I go into her office, and she asked me how tall I am. I gave her the number, tacking on an extra half an inch for good measure. She scratched a couple of numbers onto a pad of paper, looked up at me and said, "Someone your height should weigh X. So you should really lose about 40 or 50 pounds." Good Lord, 50 POUNDS! She might as well have told me to grow another foot.

And then she sent me on my way without so much as a leaflet as to how I'm supposed to shed nearly a third of my mass. And I know I'm being coy about my actual weight, but the mathletes among you can figure out what I weigh based on all the algebraic clues I've given you.

Truth be told, I'm all good with losing weight. Post-New Year's, I've cut out a whole lotta dairy, sugar, and refined flour. And I've been movin' and shakin' a lot more. So I'm on my way. Maybe not to me minus 50 pounds, but I'm on my way.

Questions a Man Should Never Ask a Woman

One of my fellow DC bloggers, A Circle Has Too Much Symmetry, recently posted questions a woman should never ask a man. Yep, I've been guilty of many of those. Don't know what the compulsion is to seek verbal reassurance about my bee-yoo-tee, but I've capitulated a time or two. Or twenty.

Anyway...

In the spirit of equality, I thought I'd throw out a coupla questions men should never ask a woman:

1) How much do you weigh?
I don't care if you're filling out medical paperwork or are just trying to outguess the carnie at the State Fair. Unless you want to walk away from that question with a blackened eye, don't ask it.

2) How many boyfriends have you had?
Why? Am I dating them now? No? Just you? Then what does it matter?

3) What color is this?
If you can't tell what color your suit is, you shouldn't have bought a navy one and a black one. Go for crazy different colors or pin notes to the inside collar. Don't rely on me to be your personal spectrometer.

4) Does this match?
Coordinating men's clothes is not difficult. Here's a key:

- Khaki matches everything.
- Jeans match everything.
- Black matches everthing.

Pair something that falls in this category with something that falls in that "confusing" category. Don't go for broke and pair two "confusing" things together. You will be wrong, and I will need to dissociate at the party.

5) You're just like your Mom.
Okay, technically, this is not a question. But I like men, and would like to save them from involuntarily becoming a eunuch, so I thought I'd go ahead and include it. Look, women all KNOW that they will, in some ways, become their mother. Thing is, the tussle between Oedipus and his Papa was a minor misunderstanding compared to the slow burning push and pull that exists between mothers and daughters. The struggle's all based in love, sure, but for a dude to offer unrequested commentary on it will only result in pain. HIS pain.

6) Are these dirty?
Hmmm...let me whip out my chemistry set and test the dishes/clothes/whatever for ickiness. Sheesh. It's a basic human skill to be able to discern whether or not a plate is hosting a bacteria buffet.

7) Does this fit?
This is the male equivalent of "Do I look fat in this?" Per Circle, if you have to ask, you probably won't like the answer. So, no, the jeans that you wore in college that you just found in an old footlocker do NOT fit.

8) How much did that cost?
We know that when you ask this, you are actually saying, "I don't think that was a necessary purchase, and unless it was free, it was a waste." If you don't think I'm capable of making intelligent decisions as a consumer, then take away my ability to pay for stuff, 'cause that's the honest way to deal with this situation. And, for the record, clothes are not a waste. Clothes help boost self-esteem. And a woman with a decent sense of self-esteem is much more pleasant to be around.

9) Why do we need to clean?
I know that you nick-named the orange film that grew in your shower in your bachelor-pad, but I'm not interested in becoming an eyewitness to the potential evolution of a sentient being. Just trust me on this, pull on the rubber gloves, and pick up a johnny brush. It's a brave new world.

10) Why should I go to the doctor/dentist?
'Cause I don't want you to fall apart at 35. Women have it beaten into their heads that they need to have their lady parts checked out at least once a year, and since said lady parts seem to be in decent working order, it seems like it's a good practice for other parts, too. And what's good for the goose is good for the gander, mister. And can you imagine the unholy wrath I will unleash upon you if you develop a condition that was completely preventable? So ask yourself...do you feel lucky? Do ya, punk?

Residential Townhome Parking Lot Etiquette

The people who SHOULD read this post, of course, won't ever see it. But I'll feel better for having written it. Deep breath...

I live in a townhouse community that is, for the most part, quite lovely. Quiet, wooded, yet accessible to all of the modern conveniences of an urban setting. The location of my home couldn't be better for me and the boys.

Some of the neighbors' manners, however, leave a little to be desired. Today's post will focus on parking etiquette.

#1: Don't park more than 2 of your cars in the spaces close to the houses.
We have 2 parking lots -- an upper one, which is close to houses, and a lower one, which is located somewhere in the vicinity of Siberia. There are enough spaces in the upper lot for each house to park 2 or 3 cars regularly. The spaces in my development are unassigned, which I love, 'cause guests don't have to park in Siberia or run the risk of being towed when they visit chez Vaughan. But one of our neighbors mucks the whole thing up by parking no fewer than 5 cars in the upper lot. There are two commercial vehicles (he's a plumber by trade, I think), a minivan, a sporty sedan, and a junker driven by one of the teenage children. The end result is that I often need to carry my tyke from Siberia to my house so that Mr. Plumber's hulking van can rest close to his abode.

#2: Park in a space, not in back of my car!
So, I outlined how we occasionally enjoy a parking crunch. But some jokers have taken to double-parking rather than hoof it from Siberia. Even if someone's in the car with the motor running, I still think it's silly rude to block in other people when there are available spots about 40 feet away (Okay, some hyperbole was involved when I called the lower parking lot 'Siberia.')

#3: For the love of God, stop BEEPING for people.
It's winter. It's chilly. I get it. But when you blast your horn to get the attention of someone inside one of the thirty homes in my neighborhood, well, it's just rude. You might think it's no biggie. But you don't know if people work nights and sleep during the day, or if children or napping, or if there are dogs that are sensitive to noise. I can almost let the teenagers who do this slide and don't know any better. But Mr. Plumber, you're an adult! What are you teaching your children if you just keep beeping for them to come out to the car?

#4: Please teach your children to get out of the way of cars if they are playing catch, or football, or roller hockey in the parking lot.
Um, I don't think that this one needs any explanation.

Phew. I feel better. Silly complaints in the grand scheme of things, but when I'm paying a hefty homeowner's association fee, I feel like I oughta live in a gripe-free zone.

Going Commercial

Well, not so much commercial as "Ad Sense." My six fans will note that I've gone the shameful route of installing ad links to m'blog. Apparently, you can net some serious dollars doing this. Like, almost ten bucks a month. It's a cash cow, I tells ya!

Thing is, if you've been reading about my travails of late, you know that I am UNEMPLOYED, and that I am looking for creative solutions to the cash crunch. Certainly, this won't close the gap (cripes, if it did, why would I be going on another follow-up interview today?), but why not earn a little pool of cash for lattes?

New Rule #2

Mr. Mail Carrier delivered my monthly BMG envelope o'junk. I'm not totally sure why they are the "Bertelsmann Music Group" if you can order miscellanea like t-shirts, shot glasses, and calendars. Offering these items would make sense if these items were exclusively emblazoned with a pantheon of rock gods. Last time I checked, Brooke Burke had zip to do with music.

But I digress.

The offer this month is buy one CD, get three free. Since I'm a sucker for freebies, I popped open the catalog to see whether or not there were four CDs I wanted to add to my collection.

Perusing my options, I was surprised by the number of artists shilling a greatest hits/best of album. Thus New Rule #2 was born: a music artist must have at least five top 10 hits to warrant a greatest hits album, or they should be sued for false advertising. I'm lookin' at you, Ace of Base (they think they made the cut with 5 hits, but they listed "Beautiful Life" TWICE). You too, Animotion. And don't think I didn't see your ouevre purporting to be a greatest hits album, Rick Astley.

Did you notice something, Gentle Reader? The artists I've listed above are all listed under "A." Yep, I didn't have the stomach to work my way through the remaining 25 letters of the alphabet.

Good grief. I clearly need to get a job.

Don't Call Me Lloyd; Call Me Elise Keaton

(image courtesy of TV Show Central)

During my current job search, I've decided not to limit myself to a new incarnation of positions I've already had. In other words, I'd like to flex my brain muscle a bit, to stretch and to grow on the job. And I'm smart enough to know that I'm no career expert. So, when I logged into my Monster.com account yesterday, I decided to plunk down a couple of dollars to purchase the "Right Job Report" from Tickle. I answered about 20 questions about my preferences, my decision-making styles, etc. My expectation was that the report would provide me with a bare bones analysis of the kinds of environments I'd thrive in, and then provide some job titles that would fit neatly within those environments.

Well, the report did do that...sort of. Here are the jobs the report suggested:

1) Architect

2) Psychologist

3) Chemist

4) Airplane Pilot

5) Flight Engineer

6) Veterinarian

Cripes! All of those occupations look fabulous, but I'm looking for a job to commence in the next 2 weeks, people! I don't have oh, I don't know, 4 - 8 years of education to invest in my next career move. This report just left me feeling like I'm a dummy for not having done an evaluation like this when I was sixteen.

Phew. Just needed to get that off my burgeoning Flight Engineer's chest.

On the Front Page of the WashingtonPost.com?

Listen, I'm not saying that my curiosity wasn't piqued. And obviously I clicked on the link. But on the front page of WaPo.com? Where are the standards, people!?! This shouldn't be front page news. Well, maybe it should if you're the National Enquirer, or Perez Hilton. But not the Washington Post.

Ahem. That is all.

Call Me Lloyd

My 14-year-old self should have paid more attention to the ethos of the inimitable Lloyd Dobler:

"I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that."

Everyone Who Has a Job after Christmas Take One Step Forward...Not So Fast, MCV

Yep, I got the old pink slip. Not the frothy confection you see above. I just included that 'cause I thought it was funny. Nope, after four months of glorious work at a fun company, I'm now part of the proud 5% of unemployed Americans. Huzzah.

There had been rumblings since the beginning of December. But the official word finally came down on December 16th, and December 23rd was my last day. I wasn't the only one who got the boot. The company I worked for pretty much cut everyone loose. Everyone, that is, except for a skeletal operations crew. There's no ill will toward the owners of the company or anything, but I do wish there'd been some kind of severance so that I had some kind of cushion. Eating into savings and credit card limits makes me feel icky.

I think I'm doing all of the right things, though none of them are particularly pleasant. I filed for unemployment on Christmas Day (ah, the delicious irony of that), but because of some bureaucratic blah blah blah, my benefit will be delayed a little bit. It's a pittance compared to what I earned, but at least it's something.

Since we returned from a wonderful family Christmas visit in the 'burbs of Cleveland, my job has been finding a job. Through networking and other traditional means, I've applied to about six different positions and have already gone on one interview. It wasn't a particularly thrilling one, and it's firmly ensconced in the world of administration. Which brings to mind the whole question of what direction I want my career to take...creative production or administration? I'd prefer the former, but I'm really good at the latter. I don't want to make any decisions in a vacuum, but if it's between paying my utility bills and feeling creatively challenged, I'm going to have to go with whatever keeps the lights on.

The above couple of paragraphs have been a regurgitation of factoids and timelines. It's not like I have a lot of distance since I'm still mired in this whole joblessness thing, but I'm kind of surprised at the emotional impact this whole experience has had on me. I got my lay-off letter (which was not, in fact, pink) the same say that me and Hubby and the Boy flew outta Dodge for the holidays. So, my absorption of this info was placed on pause, in effect.

But after New Year's, and after Hubby wended his way to the office for the first time in 2006, I was left home to scour the 'net for job opportunities. And it's a little bit crushing. There are no immediately appealing jobs posted on Monster.com, Sunspot.net, WashingtonPost.com, CareerBuilder.com, USAjobs.gov, Craigslist.com, or any of the sundry companies' websites I've checked out. I keep telling myself that it's just the beginning of January, and that most companies don't look to hire right now because key decision-makers are still celebrating Hogmanay in some remote corner of the country. I'm trying to leverage my network of gainfully employed people, but that gets weird. I'm sure these folks would be willing to help me, but I don't want them to feel like I'm using them. And I wonder, too, if I wouldn't feel a little slimy for having gained entrance to an interview through a backdoor.

I guess I wanted to find jobs that I want to do, instead of those that I simply could do. I wanted employers, mere minutes after I sent in my resume, to call me and bend over backwards to bring me in for an interview. I have an ego, people. I'll admit it. In all of my jobs, I've been told what a wonderful addition I am, that I can handle any problem that's lobbed my way, that I am, to quote a co-worker, "the best argument for human cloning." Suffice it to say, I am pretty confident in the value I would bring to any conference table.

But I'd have to prove that all over again. It wouldn't be taken as given. Of course, I'm willing to roll up my sleeves and do that. But not for a job that doesn't stoke my passions and interest.

Not only that, but my resume does not look like a neat, logical staircase of experience. I was in marketing, veered off into admin, then jumped back to sales and marketing. These are not job fields that can be married easily in someone's imagination. Anyone who takes a look will see that I can do a little bit of everything, but may need some guidance in translating it to his job opening.

The other thing that's rankling me is the advice of friends and family. I absolutely, completely, 100% understand that it's coming from a vasty deep pocket of love. But that doesn't make it any less, ehrm, frustrating.

More than a few people have asked me, "Didn't your company know they were in trouble?" How am I supposed to answer that? If they did know they were in trouble when they hired me, then they are dishonest. If they didn't know they were in trouble, then they are stupid. And I chose to work for people who are dishonest or stupid, or possibly both. Why on EARTH would I want to participate in that conversation?

One of my sisters has worked for the same place for 20+ years. Yes, she's made hiring decisions for a lot of people. And yes, she's applied for loads of internal jobs. But when you come down to it, she hasn't had to do the kind of job search I'm currently fumbling through. Yet I get questions like, "Have you looked at Monster.com?" That's the 21st century equivalent of asking me if I've looked at the "Help Wanted Section." Of course I have!

And a friend of mine, God love her, has been sending me Admin Assistant jobs. Obviously, I know that my job experience isn't easily classified. And I'm not ungrateful, or looking down upon Admin Assistants. But I need and want something more. It's like sending an unemployed doctor a vacancy announcement for a medical records clerk. It's in the same arena, but it's not the best use of my particular skills. When I gently, kindly indicate that I'm not interested in this job or that company for fairly valid reasons, I get a very distinct, "Beggars can't be choosers" vibe.

Ooh, and the inevitable, "You could just temp for a while." Um, no I couldn't. There's no stability in temping. There's loads of travel in temping. And there's not a lot of pay in temping. The max I've seen is $15 an hour for temps who aren't in highly specialized (i.e, IT, biotech, etc.) areas. That comes to about $600 a week gross. My unemployment benefit will be a little more than half that. And will allow me to continue searching for a job that I want, instead of one that just meets our collective family financial need. Why not strive for both?

I'll admit, I'm being overly sensitive about this one. Like I said, I know it's all coming out of love and my friends and family are just looking out for me, wanting to make sure that I've examined every possibility. But having unasked for advice unloaded on me makes me feel like my job hunting efforts are being perceived as, ahem, lacking.

Sidenote: If I don't have seriously interesting job offer by the end of next week, I'm going to post my resume here. Maybe it'll turn into one of those cyberspace phenomena, like SaveKaryn.com or something?

Blah. Back to looking for a job that's close to home, pays $25+ per hour, doesn't demand night and weekends or loads of travel, and is accomodating to people with small children. Ooh, and also involves left and right brain activity. If you've got one of those in your hiring roster, lemme know.

Starbucksian Communication

Twice this past weekend, I visited Starbucks for post-Christmas-shopping infusions of caffeinated goodness. As I stood in the line snaking its way through the tiny coffeehouse, the background noise of the joint washed over me...A Charlie Brown Christmas playing on the sound system...the furious tock-tock-tock of a laptop keyboard...a child whining for a shortbread cookie. And, of course, the cashier shouting a coffee orders to the barrista, and the barrista repeating the orders back to the cashier.

I placed my order for a ridiculously unhealthy seasonal drink using no fewer than four adjectives, then stood in coffee limbo. The barrista was flipping bottles and pots and cups this way and that, fulfilling the orders, and placing the end results in the customer pick-up area. As the name of each concoction was called out, somehone happily stepped up to the counter, plucked up their coffee, and headed out the door.

Given this high degree of success...shouldn't relationships use this same method of communication? If I say to my husband, "Honey, could you wash the Boy's laundry?" and he says, "Washing the Boy's laundry!" then I KNOW he heard me. Same goes for folks at work. Too often, people absorb information without acknowledging that they heard it. So person #1 assumes she wasn't heard. At best, you're potentially duplicating efforts. At worst, you've got total inaction because one person thinks a chore is being done, and the other person doesn't realize that anything needs to be done.

Hmph. Perhaps too much coffee was consumed before I posted this.

Celebrities We Most Resemble

Yesterday I sneaked a peek at the new Curious George trailer and realized that if someone were going to draw a cartoon monkey version of my son, it'd look like this. Do you know how odd it is to see your child in cartoon monkey form?

Then, for kicks, I went here and found out that the celebrity I most resemble is...Monica Lewinsky? Really? My husband scored Yehuda Levi. Methinks he got the better bargain.

Long Live CostCo

'Cause nothing expresses eternal love and respect like discounted afterlife goods.

Toys = Terrifying Political Statement

(Photo by AP)

Can't say I've ever been a a fan of that sideburnless wonder, Governor Ehrlich. In addition to loads of social policies that stink, he put forth legislation that would allow the installation of slot machines at a race track that's a stone's throw from my house in Laurel. I'm thinking that state-sanctioned gambling wouldn't really do much for the joint. Even though the bill was squashed, I'm sure that'll it'll be reintroduced if he's re-elected.

But I digress...

Though I desperately want to believe that the man's underhanded, I admit that evidence is hinky that he and his minions actually created a "Death List" of state gubment employees to oust from service. As is my tradition, though, I'm not really interested in the political falderal. Rather, I'd like to grab onto a silly detail to dissect:

Another aide, Joseph Steffen, kept Grim Reaper and Darth Vader figurines on his desk. "People were actually terrified of him," Burgess said.

PEOPLE! When you print that people were terrified of an individual, you've gotta cite more than the toys that are on his desk. Darth Vader is the antagonist in cultish kids movies, and I'm willing to bet my left eye that the Grim Reaper figure is "Death" from Family Guy. These are not toys that should inspire fear. Busts of Pol Pot, Idi Amin, Josef Mengele...these are items that should inspire fear. Darth Vader and Death? Mock Joseph Steffen; don't fear him.

I should know. Optimus Prime, Vanity Smurf, and Master Shake adorn my workspace. I wonder if anyone's tiptoeing around me that I don't know about?

Year in Review

Another blog I peek at daily suggested an easy way to re-cap the year: clip the first sentence from the first post of each month. Let's see what we come up with, shall we?

- 05/05: Since the birth of my child ten months ago, I have come to realize that I would have made an excellent member of the U.S. Army.

- 06/05: So, the boy has six teeth now.

- 07/05: A humble request: if you're on a crowded Metro line (shout out to the red line toward Silver Spring) and you can reach the horizontal hand rail that runs along the top the car, please please please use it instead of hanging onto the vertical poles like a lazy stripper.

-08/05: About eleventy-seven million people have already dissected the silliness of vanity plates, so I'm not going to analyze why people would choose to pay the Man an extra $25 annually to maintain an inscrutable acronym/phrase/word on their cars.

-09/05: Not sure what I think about the device in this article.

-10/05: Looking around, it's a pretty common thing for bloggers to hem and haw about their lack of posting.

-11/05: Last weekend, I was visiting my in-laws in North Carolina.

-12/05: I picked up my new glasses last night.

I've clearly gotta work on kicking my opening lines up a notch.

XXX Baptism

This past weekend was jam-packed with activities (big shocker in December, eh?). The busy-ness was not exclusively tied to Christmas, though. My friend's daughter was baptized yesterday, so now she's officially clean of original sin and all that jazz. It was an appropriate day for the sacrament in the liturgical calendar, too, since the gospel was all about John the Baptist. So, the entire mass was a neat little package of thematic tie-ins. Well...until the homily.

The priest chose this mass, THIS BAPTISM MASS during ADVENT, to explain to the congregation that gadgety Christmas gifts like computers, iPods, Blackberries, and Sidekicks, are potential gateways to pornography. I swear, he must've said the word "pornography" about a dozen times during his six minutes in the pulpit.

Now, I totally understand that as a shepherd to his flock, this priest feels called to warn his parish of possible corruption of its children through seemingly innocent channels. Got it. But during a BAPTISM? Sheesh. It's not like it was a surprise that fresh little babes were going to be doused with chrism and water. It was on the schedule at least six weeks ago, possibly more. Mixing internet porn with the vision of chubby babies clad in white didn't really work for me.

Again, I say sheesh. This almost as, uh, "good" as the homily during a friend's wedding when the priest chose to impart the tale of missionary nuns who had been raped and murdered in China.

Pluralism Inaction

I'd originally written a whole huge diatribe on why this card is silliness personified...er, cardified. But I think the WaPo article does that in a very polite way, ticking off the reasons that the President can't send out foil-stamped Nativity scenes to every single one of his 1.4 million close, personal friends.

So what I'm going to list are the top 10 things I think William A. Donohue ought to worry about:

1) Wars in Iraq and Afghanistan;
2) Russia is selling surface-to-air missiles to Iran;
3) North Korea broke off nuclear non-proliferation talks;
4) The Bush Administration is claim the economy's on the rebound by quoting expansion numbers without revealing how the numbers compare to the pre-Bush Administration economy;
5) AIDS infection rates in Africa continue to soar;
6) Four people have now been diagnosed with Avian Flu;
7) Jessica Simspon appears to have cheated on Nick Lachey (repeatedly);
8) Donald Rumsfeld aparently tinks that sldiers don't have to stop torture, they just need to let someone know it's happening;
9) Over a thousand inmates have been executed since the death penalty was reinstated in 1977;
10) Michael Brown is starting a disaster-preparedness consulting firm (no, really, I'm not making that up).

Call me Little Mary Sunshine. Anyway, I'm not saying all of these problems are as solveable as HolidayGate, but come on. Tack your card up on the wall, and get some perspective.

Never Liked Chicken Soup, Never Will

I keenly know my place in the spectrum of lauded writing. It goes something like this:

1) Big Press/Hardcover
2) Big Press/Trade Paperback
3) Small Press and/or Literary Magazine
4) Self-Publishing
5) School Literary Journal
6) Fan Fiction
7) Blogging

Note that we go from "lots of people saw this and thought it was good and were excited about it before a single word was committed to press" to "this went directly from my brain to my fingers to the stratosphere without another soul's involvement." Chances are if you're publication vehicles are in the latter half of the list, you are probably your biggest fan. Or possibly your Mom.

So what I'm sayin' is, I recognize that my professional writing fu cannot compete with those folks' who are published by the organizations at the top o' the list.

But I've got to say, this has GOT to be one of the worst titles I've ever seen: Chicken Soup for the Mothers of Preschooler's Soul: Stories to Refresh the Soul and Rekindle the Spirit of Moms of Little Ones. There are just too many words happenin' here. I understand this is one of a (prolific) series of books, and that the title's just tryin' to fit a template, but sheesh! Maybe they took one of those magnetic poetry kits, chucked it against a fridge, and used whatever stuck as the title.

We're not supposed to judge books by their covers, but surely titles are fair game?

Oh, the Weather Outside is Frightful...Not Really

Since the DC Metro area was powdered with snow last night, loads of school districts are opening late. So my commute was more easy-peasy than usual. Sidebar: I'm still in the honeymoon faze with my 15-minute ride. Sure, some day I'll be jaded and the wonder of being at the office within the span of a Howard Stern commercial break will wear off like a temporary tattoo. 'Til then, I'll celebrate it.

Anyway...

The Boy has seen snow before, but he was shocked by the volume this morning. Hubby took him into the room where we get him dressed, and laid him down to strip off his PJs. Sleepyhead rubbed his eyes, nuzzled his pacifier, and turned to look out the window as is his custom. Then his eyes went wide, he spat out the pacifier, pointed, and yelled, "Whazzzat?"

Sure, he sounded like the infant version of a Budweiser "True" commercial. But I got a kick out of his wonder. Which leads me to something else...

I always knew I wanted to be a mother. Guess it's the nurturer in me. Still, though, some time ago I invested loads of mental energy into breaking down the reasons someone would want to become a parent. I never viewed having children as something I was simply s'posed to do, per Catholic doctrine and Darwin. My broody urge rests in bringing a soul into the world who is the physical manifestation of the love his father and I share, someone whose life and development I could witness firsthand, and someone whom I could teach about our crazy world.

Something as simple as a flurry reminds me of that.

Nuh-Uh!

After dropping off the Boy at daycare this morning, I tailed a car branded with this bumper sticker. When I glanced at the driver's side window so that I could file away the visage of the person making this claim, I saw a tiny smooshed face sticking out of the rear driver's side window.

Admittedly, this furry friend was a cutie. I respect people who love their pets (those who looooove their pets are a different story). But seriously...this bumper sticker is just annoying. And I don't have a school-aged child.

Actually, the whole spectrum of honor student bumper stickers have always grated my nerves. The original puts parents in an awkward position: devalue your car, or trumpet your child's single-quarter academic accomplishment? Following that one came the classy, "My child beat up your honors student." My bet is that the people who festoon their cars with this sticky placard don't actually have kids. At least I hope they don't.

Hmph. Guess I'm just a cranky pants this morning.

Sternum-licious

I'm not going to jump on the does-she-or-doesn't-she-have-an-eating disorder bandwagon. But I can't tell if Ms. Richie is rockin' some cleavage in this pic, or if it's the divot of her sternum.

Fathead

I picked up my new glasses last night. They're not all that different from the specs I've been sporting for the past six years, though I think they are slightly hipper. Same color, same size lenses, stronger prescription, and the shape of the lenses are a wee more rectangular.

Scintillating, I know.

Anyway, the only problem I'm having with them is that the bendy arms are biting into the backs of my ears. Sure, five millimeters is probably the span between a comfortable fit and feeling like my head is being juiced. But since my head goes five millimeters in the wrong direction, I'm left feeling like pumpkinhead.

Maybe next time I'll go for a pince-nez.

New Rule #1

I'll admit I'm completely copping "New Rules" from snarkmeister Bill Maher. I can't believe I'm actually ripping off this dude; I prefer the lighthearted snark of Jon Stewart. Sadly, I'm inspired to create a new rule, not thumb my nose at broadcast news, so Bill Maher it is.

But I digress...

Here's the new rule: Hitler may NOT be used to justify actions or philosophies. Hitler may ONLY be used in introductory philosophy courses as the go-to example of evil.

What's the inspiration for this new rule? When I tuned in to Elliot in the Morning today, the Class was chatting about crystal meth (I mean, who doesn't, right?). Anyway, I didn't catch the whole convo, but a chica called to share that she uses ice occasionally. People who become addicted, she says, are using it poorly. Then the caller insisted that it was possible to use it occasionally with no ill effects. To undergird her argument, she dropped the H-bomb: "I mean, Hitler used to give it to his soldiers!"

Now, I'm not saying that she had a rock solid position at any point in the call. But I'm pretty sure that as soon as you toss in Hitler to substantiate your point, you've defenestrated your proposition. No one, I repeat no one, with a rational mind is going to say, "Well, that Hitler was a successful dude. So, if he believed crystal meth was safe, then I'm going to give it a try."

Sheesh.

Newlyweds No Longer

This is silly. This is really, really silly. I am actually disappointed that Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey are splitting up after three years of marriage. Whatever the reason -- creepy Papa Joe Simpson, crazy work schedules, inequality in success -- I thought they were going to stick it out. He seems like such a nice, normal guy. And she seemed like someone who wanted the nice and the normal to balance out the crazy professional life she's had since she was a tween.

I wanted the tabloids to be wrong. I wanted to imagine that Nick and Jessica snuggled under an afghan in their McMansion in California, nibbled ice cream and giggled about how wrong the National Enquirer, Star Magazine, InTouch Weekly, OK! Magazine, People, Us Weekly, Hello! Magazine, and a kajillion other rags were.

Why did I invest time whipping up this little fantasy for two people I don't know? I wanted this to be the case because now I feel culpable and not a little dirty that the fishbowl into which the public interest put these two kids directly contributed to the dissolution of their marriage. Each week, headlines screamed that he was overly involved in the floor show at a bachelor party, and that she tumbled a skateboarding manchild while filming a Razzies bound white trash fest. And while I didn't often fork over my hard-earned coin for the weeklies, I regularly checked out their websites for the latest in celebrigossip.

Maybe they would've eventually split up, but I can't help but think maybe if the scrutiny hadn't been so intense, maybe if so many people didn't stand to make a buck on 60-point headlines trumpeting an impending Simpson/Lachey divorce, they woulda had more time to work on their relationship.

Yick. I'm all Lady MacBeth with newsprint stains. Check ya later; I gotta see if I can wash it off.

Mea Culpa

Just wanted to start out with an apology for the crock of boredom I've unleashed of late. Daycare drop-offs? Lip balm? LISTS?! The first rule of writing is to make it interesting. Well, actually, the first rule of writing is spell check. You can claim artistic license with poor grammar, but bad spelling...well, that just makes you look like a dummy who doesn't know how to push the F7 key. But the SECOND rule is to make it interesting.

We'll see if I aptly applied either of these rules to my writing. I entered a writing contest sponsored by White Lie Early Season chardonnay. The results aren't posted 'til December 16 (or shortly thereafter), so I have to bide my time (and bite my nails) while I wait it out. Even if I didn't win, place, or show, I'm glad I entered. At least my gooberish gibberish will be in the periphery of an author I respect and read.

Now, onto (hopefully) more interesting posts...

The Eye of the Storm

I can't see straight. That's partially because of my stigmatism (hooray for getting my eyes examined this Saturday). But it's also due to my nutty social calendar. Check it:

- October 28-30: Visiting sundry in-laws in North Carolina;
- November 18-20: Alumni weekend events at G'town; hosting in-laws who were gracious enough to look after the Boy while I was occupied with said events;
- November 24-27: Hosting sister-in-law for Thanksgiving;
- December 3: Hosting birthday party for college roomate;
- December 4: Attending cousin's baby shower;
- December 8: Former office holiday party;
- December 10: Something I can't remember;
- December 11: Best friend's baby's christening;
- December 23-30: Visiting in-laws in Cleveland;
- January 7: College roomate's daughter's 1st birthday in New Jersey.

Phew. I'm tired just thinking about it.

Pucker Up

I can't think of anything more distracting than a dude who liberally and frequently applies lip balm. Ooh, except a dude who liberally and frequently applies fruit flavored lip balm. I dunno...I realize that the desire to live an unchapped existence is equal opportunity, but I feel like it's not all that manly to coat one's lips with soothing ointments.

Right of Way, Right Away

After I dropped of the Boy at daycare this morning I meandered out of Daycare Lady's neighborhood, absorbing the scenery as I went. It's officially autumn in Laurel, with golds and oranges and reds dripping down from the dense trees in the area. I had a cushion of a few minutes courtesy of the Boy's speed in getting into his coat and gloves this morning, so I wasn't in any hurry. But after a few minutes idling behind Minivan at a stop sign, I wondered why it hadn't departed.

Daycare Lady doesn't live in a heavily trafficked area, so finding a window into the one semi-busy road is no big trick. Yet the Minivan rested there, righteously beeping at the four cars that happened by within about 90 seconds. Then it hit me: Minivan thought we were resting at a three-way stop.

Luckily, I was turning right so I was able to get around the left-bound Minivan. I don't know why I found this so funny. Maybe it's because someone who was able to pass the tests to procure a driver's license in the first place shoulda figured out by car #2 that s/he was at a regular old sidestreet stop sign, and that folks on the bigger street had the right of way.

Remember what I said about Minivans, kids?

Killing Me Tweakily...

Everyone knows that caffeine's not good for you, but it's not like it can kill you. Oh, wait, apparently it can. EnergyFiend.com has a death-by-caffeine calculator on its site. All of my favorite caffeinated drinks are on there (seriously, it's like a Who's Who). Here's how much I'd have to drink of my hit parade to do myself in:

- Coke: 331.21 cans
- Coffee: 104.76 cups
- Dr. Pepper: 274.66 cans
- Mountain Dew: 204.75 cans
- Rockstar: 75.08 cans
- Starbucks Grande Caffe Mocha: 160.88 cups

The site doesn't detail the span of time in which you'd need to chug all of this caffeiney goodness in order to commit liquid hari-kari, but I've gotta assume it would need to happen over a short period of time. Not that I have any designs on an exit strategy like this, but if I did, I think the caffeine headache I'd have by Mocha #10 would stop me.

I Will Rochambeau You!

Anyone familiar with the Mecha-Streisand episode of South Park won't be able to take the issues reported within this article seriously. Ah, how today's low culture appropriates the high brow inventions of yesteryear...

"My Name is Earl"...from Maryland?

"My Name is Earl" is set in Maryland! It has to be! The Executive Producer, Greg Garcia, is an alumnus of Frostburg State University which is in...Frostburg, Maryland. One of the supporting characters' names is "Crab Man," so I should have been tipped off to its existence in a fictionalized mid-Atlantic town. But the clinchers came during this past week's episode: at one point, Earl finds out that Randy ran away to Hagerstown (I won't spoil the ep by explaining why). And at the end of the episode, Earl said he caught up with the state fair's carnies (or would that be fairies?) just outside of Cumberland.

Why am I excited about this, you wonder? After all, the characters who have been featured on the show so far aren't exactly model citizens. They're the best we've gotten in recent memory, though. Let's take a look at other shows that have been based in Maryland, shall we? We've got The Wire, The Corner, and Homicide: Life on the Street. All of those shows are about drugs, poverty, and murder. Nice.

Well, there was Young Americans, but that Dawson's Creek spin-off only made nine episdes and was set in New England. So I don't count it.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to more indicators to reveal where exactly "Earl" is supposed to exist in the Old Line State. If I had to guess today, I'd put it in Frederick. Anyone care to place a wager?

Charm City Isn't Good Enough?

So, Baltimore is apparently shopping for a new moniker. Baltimore has gone down this route before. Several times. Go here to see the tawdry history of failed nicknames, and the negative ones the city's earned courtesy of its drug trade.

Unless a nickname organically develops, though, like New Orleans' "The Big Easy" or New York's "The Big Apple," or even Chicago's "The Windy City," it's just not going to stick. Remember when Seinfeld's George Costanza wanted everyone to call him T-Bone? Well, I feel like my hometown is George Costanza in this scenario. And does anyone ever want to be George Costanza?

Let people figure out what they want to call Baltimore. Anything else is just kinda desperate.

Since everyone else is doing it, here are my suggestions:

"The Big Humid"
"Crabtown"
"Sugartown"
"Birdtown"
"Not Washington, DC"
"Birthplace of the Anthem"

Vote for your favorite today! Mine's "Sugartown," 'cause it's a big part of Baltimore's commercial history. And think of the slogans you can develop around it..."Live the sweet life in Sugartown."

Where's my $500,000?

Transition Period Between Adulthood and...Older Adulthood

Sometimes I think the whole pregnancy-and-childbirth experience flipped my physical degeneration switch. Could be a coincidence, but didn't the Celestine Prophecy teach us that there's no such thing as coincidence? Alright, I'll concede that I'm twisting the philsophical hoo-ha featured in James Redfield's thin-on-plot, thick-on-lecture opus to underscore my point.

But there's some evidence that there's a weird hormonal cocktail circulatin' through my system. I mean, I shouldn't have to buy wrinkle-fighting cream and acne cream. If I've got enough oil sitting on the surface of my face to warrant a couple of Dallas style derricks, why do I ALSO need to invest in soothing elixirs designed to eliminate unflattering lines?

The City of Love?

Cheez whiz, what's happening in Paris these days? And I thought Oprah's entourage was making up that junk about North African "trouble." Don't accuse me of perpetuating racism. These are just the only two stories about North Africans in Paris to crop up in the Washington Post in recent memory. The conspiracy theorist in me wants to connect dots, even if there aren't any dots to connect.

Samhain-a-Rama

Last weekend, I was visiting my in-laws in North Carolina. Courtesy of six extra hands chasing after the Boy, I actually had time to read the paper and enjoy a really lovely cup of coffee. Let's take a moment to cherish that memory. Ahhh...hot coffee. It's delicacy I don't often have.

Anyway, the paper in question is Asheville Citizen-Times. On the front page of its Faith section (yep, that's right, Faith section), was an article all about Halloween pagan traditions. Now, I'm not going to touch on how an Appalachian newspaper is covering decidely different religious holidays than the overtly Catholic papers in my home diocese of Baltimore, or the overtly agnostic papers of my adopted DC suburb. I mean, not only was it kinda weird to see a Faith section in the first place, but it was overwhelmingly weird to see a blackrobed Wiccan priestess in full color.

I've always had an affiinity for Wiccan tradition since it ties to ancient Celtic heritage. The governing rule of Wicca, "If it harm none, do what ye will," is pretty much the Golden Rule in disguise. So the basic tenets of Wicca, like Buddhism, Hinduism, etc., never really went against my Catholic grain. And, let's face it: an awful lot of the more secular Christian traditions (Christmas trees, Easter eggs, etc.) are rooted in pagan rituals.

But I didn't start this post to dissect the interweaving of faiths.

One of the nuggets of the article is the origin of costuming oneself on Halloween. Basically, it was a pagan ritual designed to highlight ways you want to improve yourself. For example, if you want to work harder in school, you might dress up as a graduate. Or if you want to be more brave, you might dress up like a lion.

Hmph.

I'm not saying that I believe this is true. But I can't help feeling a little Pascal's Wager-ish about it. For the past two years, we've dressed the Boy up as the Incredible Hulk. Let me reiterate: we've dressed a baby, and now a toddler, as a creature that is prone to fits of uncontrollable rage. Which involves hitting (Check). And yelling (Check). And splitting his pants (Check).

Maybe this little Wiccan thingamajig has some real mojo to it, eh?

GlenMary Glen Ross

Sometimes I feel like Shelly "The Machine" Levene. Well, maybe Gil would be more appropriate, considering my industry.

Big Crime in the Small City

Each Thursday, the Laurel Leader faithfully shows up on my stoop. It's the free local paper in my little burg, and I don't think it gets the respect it deserves. Let me explain:

For years I felt disconnected from Laurel. Even though we owned a house, shop locally, and belong to St. Mary of the Mills' parish, I didn't really feel enmeshed in the community. The reason for this kind of clicked during a visit to my in-laws in Ohio. I was reading The Plain Dealer, and found loads of news about Cleveland and the surrounding suburbs. I was engaged in the news because it was about the local community! Seems obvious, I know.

But Laurel lives on the fringes of Baltimore and Washington, DC. Consequently, neither markets claim it as one of their suburbs, and we enjoy little media coverage. The bit that does make the airwaves is usually about crime (Remember the attempted theft of an ATM a few months back? Yep, that was us.) Doesn't exactly help educate a citizen about her city, ya know?

Anyway, the only outlet for local info that I could find, from construction notices to high school football stats to audition postings at the Laurel Mill Playhouse, is the Laurel Leader. And now I'm a dedicated reader. Here's what's ironic, though: one of the sections that I skim without fail is the crime log. I don't know why; maybe it's 'cause I have a young child (no crime's been logged in our neck o' the woods, for what it's worth).

And here's something to compound the irony: the crime log actually made me laugh out loud! Here's the entry that got me:

Sept. 12: 1100 block of Montrose Ave. - Entry gained through a window. Forty DVDs, jewelry, Nikon camera and bank checks were taken. Before leaving, the robber also ate a pizza that was in the victim's refrigerator.

Is it terrible that someone's sanctity was violated like this? Absolutely. Is it funny that the thief was so confident in his getaway that he ate a pizza? Positively.

If I were the victim, I'm not sure if I'd view this as adding insult to injury, or if it would make me laugh too. Either way, I'll take this kind of crime over the goings-on of Baltimore and DC any day.

The Parents' "Maybe" Conversation

The Boy has been waking up in a screaming fury the past two nights for no discernible reason. At fifteen months old, he can't tell us what the problem is, so we have to go all Sherlock Holmes and see if we can figure it out. Problem is, in the middle of the night, our keen powers of observation are, well, not so keen. We're both fairly blind (shout out to the stigmatism crowd). And we neither of us wake up in a crisp state of coherence. At least we're not alone...I get the impression that most parents of young children are like this. So, I present to you the conversation that I believe every couple has during a child's nocturnal screamfest:

Parent 1: Just ignore him. We can't go in or he'll think we'll come in every time he squeaks.

Parent 2: I am ignoring it. (Places pillow over head. Takes pillow off head after a minute.) Is he still going?

Parent 1: Yeah; I think it's worse. (Sighs.) Do you think he's hungry?

Parent 2: No...he had a six ounce bottle before bed. And he had a good dinner before that.

Parent 1: Maybe he's going through a growth spurt and he's hungry again.

Parent 2: That doesn't sound like his hungry cry. It's definitely not that. I think.

Parent 1: What about his diaper? Do you think he's wet?

Parent 2: Maybe. But he's normally OK with a wet diaper. He's only upset if it overflows. And even then he doesn't care half the time. I don't know...maybe he's overtired.

Parent 1: How could he be overtired? He was asleep. Why would he wake up, then scream because he was tired?

Parent 2: How am I supposed to know? I'm just throwing out ideas. (Rolls over.) Do you think he has a cold?

Parent 1: He has been a little sniffly. But the temperature's changed this week, so maybe it's just a seasonal thing. Could be allergies.

Parent 2: Yeah, see, I thought the sniffles were because of teething. Maybe I should go give him some Tylenol. (Sits up and pulls back comforter.)

Parent 1: But if it's a cold and he has a fever, the Tylenol's just going to mask it. So maybe we should hold off on that.

Parent 2: (Sighs. Lays back down.) He's going to have laryngitis. He can't even talk, and he's going to have laryngitis.

Parent 1: Maybe he's too hot in the fuzzy sleeper. Or maybe when the heat kicked on, it woke him up and he's confused.

Parent 2: Maybe. (Sounds doubtful.) I don't know. I wish he could tell us what the problem was.

Parent 1: Yeah, but when he can talk, he'll call us by name and that'll be harder to ignore.

Parent 2: I suppose. Hey, do you think he lost his pacifier?

Parent 1: No, I heard in sucking it in between screaming fits.

And...scene. Truth is, this conversation would truly capture parental exasperation if it repeated itself at least six more times. If you're on tenterhooks about the Boy's status, I do believe he's teething. We dosed him with Tylenol, and after about twenty minutes of righteous indignation, he drifted off to a deep slumber.

I love Tylenol.

If Language Is Living, I Think It's Ill

Many things stick in my craw, but since I'm a passivist (get it?), I don't really get to unleash my frustrations on those who deserve it. My husband's heard my complaints about inconsequential things time and again, but I recognize you should start paying someone after the hundreth reiteration of a pet peeve.

My pettiest of peeves tend to fall into two different categories: litter and aggressive verbal blunders. The first one's pretty obvious. I mean, is it that hard to pitch your chip bag into the trash can that six feet away? I'm not an eco-warrior or anything like that; I just like things to be organized.

The verbal blunders are a little more complex. Spoonerisms and Malapropisms are endearing; coining phrases is necessary in the modern era; and puns, while annoying, are products of craft, not happenstance. All of those are acceptable ways of playing with the English language.

Here's what's not: jumbling together prefixes and suffixes until you get a word that shares a root with a real word, but is itself a work of fiction. This irks me 'cause people drop these word bombs in pursuit of intelligent conversation, yet they can't be bothered to crack a book to verify their word choice. In retrospect, it's kinda like verbal litter.

To wit:

1) Irregardless. Nitwits out there have decided that tacking "Ir-" to the front of "regardless" creates an even even fancier way of dismissing preceding ideas. A cocktail of "irrespective" and "regardless," which in turn makes me "irate."

2) Commentate. This bastardization of "comment" cements the notion that news magazine shows have captured the imaginations and the IQs of Americans. I'm certain that this is supposed to be the verb form of "commentator." And since that word is so prevalent in today's steady diet of not-really-news-so-lets-jazz-it-up-with-personal-opinions news coverage, people have gravitated toward this usage. [Editor's Note: OK, so I looked this up and it turns out there are no "nonstandard" notations in the definition...which makes it a real word. But I still don't understand why it would be used when "comment" means the same thing.]

3) Orientate. Again, we find ourselves using words that don't exist, thinking they are the roots of words quotidien tasks in which we are frequently mired. Let me break it down for you: in order to "orient" you to some new experience (college, company, health insurance, etc.), I will conduct an "orientation." At no point will I "orientate" you, 'cause frankly, that's not a real thing. [Editor's Note: See Editor's Note for "commentate."]

4) Supposably. I just shake my head when I hear this one. So, I have to assume that the speaker in this case has a reading disability and really, truly thinks he reads "supposably" when he's really seeing "supposedly." 'Cause if our friend has either a speech impediment or an hearing impairment, I have to think he would've read it somewhere, seen how it was supposed to be pronounced, and steered clear of the word knowing he couldn't pronounce it.

5) Deshell. Nope, sorry. The word is "shell." "Shell" is a wonderfully economical word because it has about 12 different meanings, one of which means to REMOVE a shell. I mean, you wouldn't say that you were going to "depeel" an orange, would you? Other verbs in this vein are: "bone," "skin," and "bark."

6) Attitudinal. The connotation ('cause Lord knows we're not getting any denotation) is that someone who is "attitudinal" is exhibiting a bad, aggressive, flippant, etc., attitude. In context, "Don't get attitudinal with me because I'm pointing out your grammatical errors."

7) Pleonasms. Which is a fancy way of saying redundancy...here are some examples: empty space; bald headed; complete monopoly. There are loads of these floating about in the verbal ether.

That's all I've got for now. As language (gasp!) evolves, more of these inventions will crop up, I'm sure. Here's what's scary: people will cite these words' existence in the dictionary as validation to use them. Please, I'm beggin' you, when you flip through Webster's masterwork to prove me wrong, note the "NONSTANDARD" notation next to the entry. Know what this means? It's not a real word!

Phew. I can go now and massage that throbbing forehead vein back down to a more manageable size.

[Added October 31, 2005]

8) Innappropriate Possesive's.
You know what, Roy Rogers? You don't have a "Fixin's Bar." Not unless someone named "Fixin" works for you. What you have is a "Fixins Bar." By tossing in an apostrophe to demystify your slang for "Fixings," then you've committed the greater sin of deliberate error. I don't know why "Fixin's" is so much hipper than "Fixings." Seriously, do you think you're going to attract more folks fromt he 18-24-year-old demographic by swapping out a perfectly nice "g" with a perfectly unnecessary " ' "?

Ice Cream TV

I'm having one of those moments where I think I could be standing on the precipice of understanding something about myself. Then I think maybe it doesn't really mean anything at all. What is "it" you might ask? It is the Parents Television Council's Top 10 Best and Worst Shows for Family Viewing on Prime Time Broadcast Television for the 2005-2006 Season. Phew, that's a mouthful.

When I heard the PTC had released such a list, I giggled 'cause I was certain that I would probably be a fan of what they consider to be the Top 10 Worst Shows, and that I would consider the whole of the Top 10 Best Shows list to be sappy pap. Then I looked up the lists; the ones I regularly watch are in green:

BEST
1. Extreme Makeover: Home Edition ABC/8:00 Sunday - Returning show (3 seasons)
2. Three Wishes NBC/9:00 Friday (1st season)
3. American Idol Fox/Returning in spring '06 (4 seasons)
4. The Ghost Whisperer CBS/8:00 Friday (1st Season)
5. Everybody Hates Chris UPN/8:00 Thursday (1st Season)
6. Reba WB/9:00 Friday - Returning show (5 seasons)
7. Bernie Mac Fox/8:00 Friday - Returning show (5 seasons)
8. Dancing with the Stars ABC/Returning in spring ‘06 (1 season)
9. 7th Heaven WB/8:00 Monday - Returning show (10 seasons)
10. Not available.
Collective season total: 31

WORST
1. The War at Home Fox/8:30 Sunday (1st Season)
2. The Family Guy Fox/9:00 Sunday - Returning show (4 seasons)
3. American Dad Fox/9:30 Sunday - Returning show (1 season)
4. The O.C. Fox/8:00 Thursday - Returning show (3 seasons)
5. C.S.I. (Crime Scene Investigation) CBS/9:00 Thursday - Returning show (6 seasons)
6. Desperate Housewives ABC/9:00 Sunday - Returning show (2 seasons)
7. Two and a Half Men CBS/9:00 Monday - Returning show (seasons)
8. That ‘70s Show Fox/Returning in November ‘05 (8 seasons)
9. Arrested Development Fox/8:00 Monday - Returning show (3 seasons)
10. Cold Case CBS/8:00 Sunday - Returning show (3 seasons)
Collective season total: 33

Color me surprised. Here I thought I was a rebellious, trash TV watcher. I was sure I was going be be a dedicated viewer of all the 'Worst' shows. Let's not even discuss whether or not the shows have won Emmys. We're not talkin' about what the critics have to say -- we're just taking a look at these shows through the PTC's "family frinedly" lens. But I don't even have the facility to make fun of either of these lists because I don't watch enough of the shows.

What I can sincerely mock, though, is the PTCs choice to list the "returning" or inaugural status of the show. My take is that they are trying to shame network execs into giving family-friendly shows a shot at longevity. But when I looked up the lists on IMDB.com, I found that they collectively had the same seasonal duration average (3 seasons).

Know what's really funny about this? The PTC sees fit to list only nine shows in its "Best" category. It says that they simply can't find a tenth family friendly show. Yet on their "Best and Worst Shows of the Week" site, I count six prime time shows that weren't included in the annual ranking (Wife Swap, Nanny 911, So You Think You Can Dance?, R U the Girl?, Meet Mr. Mom, and Brat Camp). Weird that all of these are reality shows. Anyway, back to my point: clearly there are a lot of shows that make their weekly grade. I can't help but wonder if they declined to include a 10th show because it would appear that the shows one both lists are, oh, I don't know, on equal footing with respect to how long the American public, via Nielsen ratings, keeps them on the air.

Here's a basic fact: Television producers are in it to make money. If it's not about the money, then it's on PBS. To make money, the broadcast television companies charge for advertising during their programs. The more the American public want to watch a program, the more money the TV suits can charge advertisers for commercial air time. If the American public doesn't watch a program, ratings go down, the suits can't bank cash money for advertising, and so they pull it from the airwaves. 'Cause it's ALL ABOUT THE MONEY, which is determined by whether or not people WANT TO WATCH A SHOW.

So if there are only NINE programs on TV that are suitable for families, ipso facto, that's all the happy shiny family programming that the majority of the American people WANT to see. Maybe that's disappointing, but it's the truth.

Long story short: if the PTC wants more family friendly shows on television, then it needs to open up its resources to clever, talented writers who want to pen sitcoms, dramas, crime stories, etc., that fall under that umbrella. If it's good, people will watch it. The tack they've taken -- shaming executives into feeding the American people a steady diet of vegetable TV -- won't work. Americans have proven time and again that they want ice cream TV.

I'm not saying I want PAX 24/7. I'm just saying that the PTC is going after the wrong people.

Right. Right. Right. Right.

There's a dark new trend on the horizon in talk radio. It's the dawn of "right." Not the Right, as in Rush Limbaugh, Bill O'Reilly, or Bill Bennett. I'm talking about the prodigious use of the word "right" as a semantic crutch. I'm lookin' at you Elliot, and Chad Dukes, and you, random evening-but-not-late-night dude on WJFK.

Let me 'splain...

On multiple occasions on all of these shows, someone will call in to share a story. At brief pauses during the caller's ramblings, the above-mentioned talk-show hosts will punctuate the lull with "Right." I think they're doing this to indicate that they are engaged in the caller's tale, but it just sounds like it confuses the listener. It definitely gives me pause (har har) because I'm a Gen Xer, and whenever someone of my skeptical era hears "Right" in a conversation, it makes the speaker sound sarcastic and disinterested.

I'm not saying that it isn't appropriate to sound saracastic and disinterested on occasion. If people were calling me to dissect the latest NASCAR race, I might sound bored outta my skull too. All I'm saying is that the radio hosts should change it up a little since every other host in the same demographic is overusing it.

Three Weeks Since My Last Post?!?

Looking around, it's a pretty common thing for bloggers to hem and haw about their lack of posting. I'm no exception. Hem haw, hem haw, hem haw.

Thing is, not much else has been going on in my life besides feeling my way through my new job. It's wonderful to feel challenged again. My greatest professional pleasure is applying some kind of order to swirling chaos. Okay, that's a little hyperbolic. It's not like I stepped into a tornado or anything. More like a tropical storm. Much as I enjoy it, I recognize that it's not terribly interesting to read about someone tapping out press releases or performing statistical research on web traffic.

Oooh, wait, here's something new: my thirty-year-old self seems to be falling apart. In the span of a week I've gotten an infected hangnail, a cracked tooth, a random twitchy muscle in my back, and some weird swelling in my right eyelid. The last one is especially concerning because I can't figure out what it is since it started yesterday afternoon. It's definitely not pinkeye, 'cause, well, my eye isn't pink and it isn't oozing any crusty goo. Have you ever worn fake eyelashes? And the fringy strip came loose and got stuck under your eyelid? That's what this feels like. Clearly, I've got ebola of the eyelid. I'm trying to get an appointment today so I can get some kind of prescription strength soother.

Phew. I thought this kind of stuff started happening during retirement, when I'd have time to run around to doctor's and pharamacies. Ah well. Maybe it's God's way of telling me to take it easy for a minute.