Damn Good Dawg

It's a sad day in the Bulldog Nation. Uga VI has gone to the big Dawg Pound in the sky.

My 5 year old nieces are coming to visit this week and I don't think I'll tell them about this. I introduced them to Uga on their last visit and now they LOVE him. During their last visit, we went around town and found many of the painted statues Ugas that line the streets. Think: Cow statues in Chicago.

At each stop, the girls climbed on Uga's back and waved red and black pom poms, chanting "U-G-A, U-G-A!" and proudly demonstrating their newfound bulldog spirit. In a final show of devotion, each girl kissed Uga's concrete jowls and professed their love for him. It was a scene that was sure to send both grandfathers into conniption fits - one is a Vanderbilt Commodore and the other is an Auburn Tiger.

I'm not sure my nieces will understand the whole "Uga died, but now there's a new Uga and we love him just as much as the old Uga." They know that my mother's beloved west highland terrier died a couple of years ago. One of my nieces showed her understanding of the circle of life by remarking, "Grandma's dog died. Now she's in a hole." So, maybe I could start with, "Remember how Grandma's dog died and is now in a hole..." My mother has a new dog now, but they've christened the dog with a new name, so the analogy falls apart at that point. That, and my parents didn't build a marble shrine to the dog, though none of us would have been surprised if they did.

So, maybe I'll start by explaining how the Supreme Court works, or the papacy. Supreme Court justice, Pope, Uga - all the same thing really. Except Uga only has to see Clarence Thomas when the Justice delivers the commencement address at the local university.

Following the hallowed tradition, Uga VI will be enshrined with Ugas I - V in the marble vault at the stadium. The local paper has a several-page tribute to Uga VI and his accomplishments, naming him the "winningest" Uga in Uga history. The entire Bulldog Nation will be in mourning until a successor is named.

All of this makes me wonder what those folks at that engineering school do when their mascot goes to that big wasp nest in the sky.

Meatloaf

As I browsed through my favorite celebrity gossip headlines, I came across some news about Meatloaf. No, not everyone's favorite ketchup covered, fancy hamburger. I'm talking about history's most unlikely rock star.

Who else but this guy



could belt out epic-ly long songs and make it to the top of the charts? (By the way, is anyone else still wondering what Meatloaf won't do, as in he'd do "anything for love, but [he] won't do that?" What won't he do? And why not, if he'd do anything else?)

Anyway, seems Meatloaf (Meat, to his friends) had some trouble with his voice earlier this year. Some might say, "Yeah, I've had trouble with his voice, too." But I won't be one of those people. Not to worry, Mr. Loaf isn't letting a little thing like not being able to talk keep him from singing, according to Contactmusic.com:

Legendary rocker MEATLOAF isn't considering hanging up his microphone anytime soon - he has vowed to never give up performing. The Bat Out Of Hell hitmaker cancelled a string of gigs in the U.K. last year citing acute laryngitis and was ordered by medics to stay away from the stage for four to six weeks. And the star insists his time away from playing his dramatic shows for fans has made him realize he belongs in show business - and won't ever consider doing anything else.

He says, "It's like the old joke about the guy in the circus, right? He always wanted to be in show business so finally he got in the circus, and his job was walking behind the elephants cleaning up after them. He kept complaining and somebody finally said, 'Just stop, you don't need to keep doing this,' and he said, 'What? And give up show business?'"

He continued, "What am I gonna do, run a hotdog stand? Be a real estate agent? I don't know anything else."

I say good for you, Meatloaf! Don't let a little thing like acute laryngitis keep you from singing. Hell no, you just keep on keeping on. I'm sure that it's not some blatantly clear message from God. I'd recommend staying inside during thunderstorms for a while, just to be on the safe side.

But here's what I don't understand: What does his joke reference mean? If he's the guy cleaning up after elephants, who are the elephants? Bigger performers - big as in "more famous"? And is he saying that he's been cleaning up after these bigger stars for all of his career? That's so sad. Not "Paradise by the Dashboard Light," instead it's more like "Dismally Sad with a Dustpan and Broom." And, apparently, that's all he knows how to do. How very sad.

I bet he'd be good at real estate. Can't you just hear the sales pitch? "Though it's cold and lonely in the deep dark night, this house has a brand new furnace and good insulation." Or, "Ain't no doubt about it, you'll be doubly blessed, 'cause the water heater and the roof are barely seventeen and they are barely stressed."

Here's what this whole story reminds me of: There's this MASH episode where a patient annoys everyone by talking incessantly and trying to sell life insurance. BJ and Charles tell the patient that he has a rare medical condition and if he keeps talking, he'll ruin his vocal chords. The patient is quiet for the rest of his stay.

Maybe Meatloaf should watch that episode. See if he can draw any parallels.

Cute

Is it possible that everything is "cute"? Lately, I've become a-cutely aware of a veritable epidemic of cuteness. A term that was once reserved for puppies

and teddy bears

is now being used to describe everything. Everything is "cute," and not in that snarky "yeah, cute, really cute" way. No, instead, everything is sugar-coated gumdrops and lollipops cute.

I offer the following evidence:

• Clothes: During last week's shopping trip, I made two new friends. OK, they weren't so much "friends." They were more like "two annoying adolescent girls who followed me around all day." Any time I'd go into a dressing closet and close the door, I'd hear a squeaky, "Oooh, that's so cute" from another closet. The squeaky voice was followed by an extensive evaluation to determine just how "cute" the item of clothing was. Was it really cute? Was it cuter than the same item in a different store? What about the same item in the store before that? Would it go with the cute shoes, or would she need to buy newer and cuter shoes? Were the shorts too cute for the top? And on and on and on. I didn't stick around long enough to see if the poor girl ever found the exact right cute pair of white shorts.


• Movies: Yesterday afternoon, I decided that since I was on summer vacation, I could take in an afternoon movie in the middle of the week. So, I took myself to see Sex and the City: The Movie. I enjoyed it - it was perfect escapism. I followed two college-aged girls out of the theater, and as we got to the outside door, one asked the other for her thoughts on the movie. "It was really cute," she replied. Unlike the shopping girls, these two didn't launch into a comprehensive assessment of the movie's relative cuteness. Instead, they moved on to other matters of cute importance - like where they were going to meet their cute friends for a cute dinner in a cute restaurant.


• Porn: Yes, porn is cute. Just ask Bridget's mother. OK, so I've been known to watch The Girls Next Door on E! What of it? In this week's episode, Bridget and her mother went on a trip to Chicago. While there, Bridget took her mother to the city's Playboy offices, so her mom could meet all of Bridget's co-workers and get a tour of the facilities. As an added bonus, Bridget and her mother got a preview of some new photos of Bridget in varying stages of undress. Her mother's reaction, "Oh, these are really cute." I daresay that if my mother saw similar pictures of me, she would not say, "Oh, these are really cute," unless that statement was immediately followed by, "It's too bad that I'm going to have to kill you now."


• Major cities: In the same episode, Bridget asked her mother for her impressions of Chicago. Her mother said, "I liked it." Bridget then added, "Yeah, it's such a cute city." What does that mean? Did all the skyscrapers have pigtails with little pink ribbons? Did the river run chocolate that day, with little gumdrops floating along? Did everyone break into "It's a Small World, After All" and dance down Michigan Avenue? Clearly, Bridget hasn't read Upton Sinclair's The Jungle. Nothing cute about that.
  

I considered fighting this rising current, but I think I'll just swim along. When I introduce my syllabus to my students, I'll be sure to point out all of the cute reading they'll be doing. Then, we'll have cute discussions and they can write cute papers and take cute exams. When I grade their work, I'll be sure to note, "Cute analysis!" or "Cute thesis!" on their assignments. This opens up a whole new range of possibilities for me.

In the midst of this explosion of cuteness, I hold to the belief that there are some limits - some things that will never be cute. Slavery, for example. AIDS. Gun violence. Natural disasters. And Hitler. Whew.

Being Single

Lately, I find myself thinking more and more about being single vs being married. Maybe it's my upcoming reunion with my college friends, where I will be the lone unattached attendee; or maybe it's my cousin's wedding this weekend; or maybe it's just boredom. After much reflection, I've decided that people get married for a number of reasons, none of which you'll see in a Hugh Grant romantic comedy.

In romantic comedies, people get married because they have found their soul mate, the one person in the entire world who "completes them." While I like to believe that this is true, I've come to believe that it's not the primary reason that people get married. Instead, I think people just get tired of negotiating day-to-day inconveniences that require more than 2 hands - or perhaps require more height than God gave you.

Case in point: When I went shopping last week, I tried on a cute sundress that zipped up the back. Using my finely honed skills, I did the dance that all single women know well - the "reach around the back and push the zipper tab as far up as it will go, then reach over the shoulder and hope that you can reach it." There's an art to this. You have to manage to get the zipper tab beyond halfway, so you can grab it with your over-the-shoulder reach. You also have to manage to hold the zipper in a straight line as you continue to contort yourself, otherwise the tab won't move. Heaven forbid there's a goddamn hook and eye closure. Now, you need both hands over both shoulders to fish around and try to get those two pieces to come together and fasten. And don't think for a minute that this isn't hard work. I've done less challenging moves in yoga. I've broken a sweat on more than one occasion. I've had both arms go completely numb. I've considered ending my membership at the gym and just practicing zippping and unzipping my clothes for exercise.

So, back to my shopping trip - I put the dress on and started the zipper dance. I managed to get the tab 3/4 of the way up, then it got stuck. It would still go down (thankfully), but would not go up. Afraid I'd pull my arm out of socket or wrench my back, I finally gave up and took the dress off. If I couldn't get the dress on in the store, I sure as hell wasn't going to be able to put the damn thing on at home.

The next day, I met with my book club to discuss Memoirs of a Geisha. We were talking about the men who dressed the geishas, and remarked that we western women did not need folks to come in to help us get dressed. I relayed my experience in the dressing room and suggested that a dressing assistant would come in handy. One book club member remarked, "Oh, you don't have a husband to help."

Based on this, and other recent experiences, I've concluded that women get married so that they have someone on hand to help with back-zip dresses (putting on or taking off), they have someone who can hold the grocery cart to keep it from rolling away, and someone who do the things you don't want to do (ie, find the best deal among cable/phone/internet providers). Not to mention helping you get a bookcase out of a store and up three flights of stairs, and then help put the thing together.

Let's see someone make a movie about that.

Church

Saturday night, as I exhausted my weekly Netflix allotment, I thought, "I'm single, reasonably cute, and smart - and I'm home alone on yet another Saturday night." I decided that I need to expand my circle of local friends, and clearly, staying at home watching DVDs just wasn't working.

So, yesterday morning, I put on a dress and makeup and went to the big Methodist church downtown. I went to this church when I lived here 7 years ago. I went because I liked the minister. He was a reasonable person. His sermons encouraged us to be our best, to look out for our fellow man, and to live in community with our neighbors. He didn't use the pulpit to promote a particular political agenda, he didn't berate us for our sinful wickedness, and best of all - his sermons were clear, followed a certain logic, and made sense. In my experience, these qualities are harder and harder to find in Methodist churches.

I also went to this church because they still followed the "traditional" order of worship. Call me old fashioned, but I don't enjoy a church service with big screens, electric guitars, and driving beat. I get enough of that through my other entertainment options. When I go to church, I want to sing hymns that I've known since childhood, not something that someone wrote yesterday. I want to hear live organ music, not pre-recorded synthesized crap. I want to have some faith that the minister actually composed the sermon from his or her own thoughts and ideas, and is not just reading something they found when they googled, "Easter sermon."

At this Methodist church, they still have this kind of service. And so, I went, because it was familiar and felt like home. Now that I'm assured that I'll be in town for at least one more year, I was all set to make Sunday morning services a part of my weekly routine, and possibly go beyond an hour in the pew to look for my niche - an increasingly elusive spot for 40-ish non-divorced singles. Yesterday morning, I learned that after 12 years, the conference is transferring the minister to a large metro Atlanta church. Some fellow from an Atlanta suburb church is coming here. I hope it's not this guy:



Now, instead of settling in, I'll have to go for a few weeks to see if the new guy is a holy-rolling nutjob, and if so, I'll need to do some more extensive church shopping. Maybe I'll just join the local Habitat for Humanity.

I'm an Angel

Those of you who know me may be surprised to learn that I am "an angel, an absolute angel." Really. Just ask the woman in the grocery store parking lot. She told me so. Why? Well, because I helped her in her time of need. (Another fact that might take some of you by surprise.)

Our story takes place at the grocery store built on unflat land. Going into the store is easy, it's all downhill. However, when your food-laden self comes out of the store, you're forced to push your cart up a hill. Depending on how much food you've purchased, coupled with summer heat and humidity and black asphalt, this can be quite a feat. I haven't had to make this climb with one of those "kid-friendly" freaks of shopping cart nature, and God willing, I never will.

But, the real fun starts when you reach your car. Now, you need to figure out how to keep your food on wheels from rolling back down the hill while you use both hands to transfer your food into your car. The cart design (and gravity) works against you as the wheels automatically and continually turn into the path of least resistance, in this case, the bottom of the hill. Here's another reason why people get married: So someone can hold the cart while the other puts the bags in the trunk.

My strategy for preventing Rolling Blunder is to put the groceries in the passenger side of my car. That way, I can brace the cart against the side of the car while I unload, being careful not to scrape the paint on my car. Alas, some single shoppers have yet to figure this out.

Case in point: As I pulled into a space this afternoon, I noticed the woman next to me loading groceries into the trunk of her car. By the time I parked and got out, she was trying to execute the "hold the cart with one foot while balancing on the other, and continue to load groceries." I've seen this maneuver before and one needs more balance and flexibility than this woman had. The main problem with her approach seemed to be that she didn't have a firm hold on the cart. So, as she stretched, the cart wheels, and all forces of nature, worked against her. As the cart slowly inched its way back toward home base, she found herself in an ever-widening and precarious stance.

Rather than waiting to see if she'd split herself in half, I offered to hold her cart while she unloaded. You'd think that I'd offered to carry her first-born. "Why, you're just an angel. An absolute angel!" she gushed. I wanted to say, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Could you hurry up?" but I didn't think that sounded very angelic.

Perhaps this current photo of me helps to explain the woman's reaction.

(image from http://artfiles.art.com/images/-/Abbott-Thayer/Angel-Print-C10083645.jpeg)

Summer Vacation

As this week dawned, I put the women's history conference behind me and looked upon the expansive vista of summer vacation. I decided on three goals: complete a consulting project, plan my class for fall semester, and make serious dents in the stacks of books littering my floor. To give you some idea of the task ahead of me, I offer the following visual evidence:

From the living room:

Into the home office:

On to my desk:

In my defense, I have actually read a few of these books and some are textbooks that I just need to review. My plan: I'd choose a book and read at least 2 chapters each day. OK, the original plan was to read a book/day. That plan quickly went out the window, replaced by the 2 chapters/day plan. This was Tuesday. I dutifully read 2 chapters of Walter Johnson's study of the slave trade in the US South. Good book, sensitive treatment of a difficult subject.

Wednesday came. I decided to go the morning yoga class, promising to read my 2 chapters after I showered and had lunch. When I realized that it was a beautiful day, I decided to go to the local outlets. I promised myself I'd read my 2 chapters when I got home. I didn't. Instead, I tried to solve the cable/phone/internet puzzle. I promised I'd read 4 chapters the next day.

Yesterday came. I had the whole day ahead of me. I'd easily catch up on my reading and be back on track. I frittered away the morning ordering even more books - this time, textbooks for my fall class. That counts as work, right? Finally, at around 2PM, I settled on the couch with Walter Johnson. Three pages into chapter 3, I slipped into a coma. I woke up about an hour later. Needless to say, I did not immediately pick up the book and power through 4 chapters.

In the face of what might be considered utter failure, I've decided to focus on my accomplishments. Sure, I set a goal and have fallen well short. But, I learned how to upload pictures from my digital camera without completely tanking the entire computer, and I went to my local book club meeting last night - where thankfully, we were not discussing Walter Johnson's study of the southern slave trade. Now, back to my three goals.

Shopping

Today, the temps and humidity dropped to tolerable levels and I decided that God was telling me to go shopping at the local outlets. Shopping at the outlets involves walking around on black asphalt and it's just been too hot in recent weeks. (I should mention that several of my friends went on a bike ride across Georgia last week, when it was over 100 degrees, and yet, I decided it was too hot to go shopping at a strip mall. I refuse to see this as a shortcoming in my character.)

But I digress...God reinforced his "get thee to the outlets" message by making it utterly impossible for me to put an outfit together. I just did laundry yesterday and I just wanted to wear shorts and a t-shirt. God hid all of my clothes and replaced them with boring stuff I've worn so often, I want to cry when I look at it. Never one to ignore a message from the Almighty, I headed to the outlets.

I met with success, if you consider buying about 1/10 of what I tried on to be success. I've said it before, but it bears repeating. Empire waists are NOT universally flattering. Stacy and Clinton on "What Not to Wear" are liars! If you are petite and are not troubled by a mid-section that has experienced child-bearing, empire waists are the worst fashion option. If I wanted to look short and pregnant, I'd be short and pregnant. I'm not having much success in finding Mr. Right, but I'm guessing that he's not out there looking for Ms. Short and Pregnant (or Dr. Short and Pregnant, in my case.)

Amidst shapeless tops and skirts that magically erased my waist, I managed to find some items that I decided to call my own and bring home. Overall, I enjoyed the afternoon. I think I'm pretty good at spotting a bargain and I enjoy the hunt. I've since learned the limits of my enjoyment.

When I got home, I opened my cable/phone/internet bill to learn that the "too good to be true" package I got when I moved has expired. I called the cable/phone/internet company to inquire about my options. I'm convinced that the fellow on the other end of the phone didn't actually work for the c/p/i company. He didn't know squat. I asked, "Can you tell me about your phone packages?" and he put me on hold. I asked, "Can you tell me about your cable packages?" and he put me on hold. I wasn't asking for company secrets, I was asking for basic information. When he returned, he told me all about some fancy package that included everything I didn't want for more money than I'd been paying. At that point, I remembered that this c/p/i company wasn't my only option. I could, in the words of Smoky Robinson, "shop around."

Shopping for phone/internet/cable is not nearly as much fun as shopping for a new dress. The cell phone woman tried to convince me that unlimited service for as much as I'd been paying for c/p/i would be a really good deal. In her words, "You'd pay $100/month and you wouldn't have to worry about limits." I responded, "Yes, but I'd have to worry about paying $100/month." Turns out, I can get a good deal for bundled services from the competing c/p/i company.

I'm still considering my options. I realize that I'm not getting the best deal with my current provider, but it seems like a big hassle to switch. Now I remember why people get married, so they can make their spouse deal with this crap and they can go out shopping for a new dress.

Women's History Conference

Last week, I traveled to a part of the upper midwest that is not underwater to attend a women's history conference in one of the Twin Cities. The trip offered the added benefit of getting to visit with one of my college roommates who lives in Canada South. It was great to catch up with her and meet her family. Her 5 year old son was happy to share that he knows a kid named Michael whose "farts really stink." According to my friend's son, this kid's flatulent expressions earned the distinction of being "even worse than [his] dad's." And we all know how bad Dad farts can be. My friend's son attributed Michael's problem to "eating beans for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

The older son attempted to educate me on the finer points of Pokemon. Lucky for me, there wasn't a quiz after our discussion. I fear the day that my nephew discovers Pokemon and we're all forced to feign interest in health points, evolving cards, and Pikachu!

After this intellectually stimulating visit, I headed to the women's history conference. I have to say that I haven't been around that much estrogen since I graduated from a women's college. My advisor, one of the Queen Bees of Women's History, was clearly in her element. She flittered about, all a-twitter that four of her grad students were on the conference program. She shoved me in front of well-known scholars and a publishing rep, gushing about my dissertation and accomplishments. Quite a welcome change from the national conference last year where she couldn't remember my name. Not kidding. She went to introduce me to a well-known historian and her whole expression went blank. And, yes, I had on my name tag.

This time, she spotted a prominent historian across the book sale, grabbed my arm, and asked if I wanted to meet the historian. "Sure," I said. Next thing I know, my advisor has a copy of the historian's book in her hand (a copy that she hasn't purchased) and my arm in her other hand and we're making a beeline across the space, straight toward this other woman who is clearly having a conversation with someone else.

No matter to my advisor. Nope, she just butts right in and shoves the woman's book in her face, insisting that she inscribe the book to me. So now, we've stolen a book and defaced it - with my full name. The other historian seemed to take it all in stride. Clearly, my advisor has a well-earned reputation and everyone just goes along with it - kind of like the way that they used to treat the mentally ill.

Meanwhile, my advisor introduced me, saying, "She's just finished her dissertation, which was on..." and pointed to me expectantly. Slightly disoriented by the instant spotlight, I ignored the loud screaming in my head and managed to give what I think was a coherent summary of my dissertation. Then, we took our ill-gotten book and returned to the publisher's booth, where my advisor had left her very expensive digital camera just sitting on the table. On the way, I asked, "Are you buying this book?" And she did.

I was scheduled to present my paper on the second day of the conference - at the same time as an impromptu panel on the Presidential election. Conference planners insured that no one would come to my session by engaging every big name historian, including my advisor, for the election panel. Sure enough, about 10 people came to my panel, and 2 of them were my friends who really didn't have a choice. By the time I got up to speak, the crowd had whittled down to 6 people. Two dozed off while I was talking. I'm choosing to think that the previous 2 speakers lulled them to sleep. Surely, it wasn't my paper.

But before those 2 headed to Dreamland, I once again learned that academics should not be allowed in public. I stood up and arranged my paper on the podium, waiting for the exiting throng to get out the doors. As I started to read my paper, I noted that one of the remaining few had gotten up from her seat and was bending down to get something off of the floor. I'd seen her name tag and I'm familiar with her work, so she wasn't an anonymous face. I kept reading, taking note that she'd gotten back to her seat with her half-eaten apple. I surmised that she'd chased the apple across the floor, then retrieved it. She picked up her crochet yarn and continued to make granny squares. I just kept reading.

Not more than 3 minutes later, I looked over at her and she was eating the apple. I consider it a minor miracle that I was able to keep reading, while "Holy crap! She's eating an apple that rolled around on the floor!" reverberated through my head. I realize that yelling, "What the hell are you doing?" might have been inappropriate, but seriously, ewwwww.

Then, after she'd chomped away for a while, she set the apple back down on her desk and resumed her crocheting. At that point, I made a mental note that if I ever received an afghan from this well-known historian, I would wash it thoroughly before use. Or just burn it.

Luckily, I can list the conference appearance on my CV without adding, "Only 6 people showed up, and one of them was really, really gross."

Soccer

Today, as I walked on the treadmill at the gym, I watched a soccer match. I'd like to say that I was inspired by watching my 5 year old niece's soccer match, or by my friend's emails about World Cup soccer, but neither would be true. Yes, my niece is inspiring, but I think we all did a lot more perspiring when we watched her game.

No, I was inspired to watch soccer because I'd already decided to listen to an NPR podcast - Terry Gross's interview with Scott McClellan. I turned on the soccer so my eyes wouldn't wander to the TV showing Fox News, thus heading off any inevitable uncontrollable rage. Sure, McClellan's interview had the potential to send me into a rage that even Bruce Banner would envy. Instead, as I listened to him whine about how he was "caught up in the partisanship of Washington," I was just annoyed. Hey Scott, if you've had such a change of heart, go to work for an organization working for change. Take your valuable lessons to one of the Presidential campaigns and try to do things right this time. Don't just write some tell-all book where you show off your "new understanding" and make even more money off of this adminstration.

Anyway, back to the soccer match. I had no idea that soccer had become a full-contact sport. I learned some valuable lessons that I plan to apply to everyday life:

1) If someone trips you, don't get up immediately. Instead, roll around on the ground, holding your shin and yelling. This is most effective if you can muster a fully contorted face of complete anguish. The ref will take pity on you and give the other fellow a yellow card, the soccer equivalent of a "mark on your permanent record."

2) If someone slugs you in the mouth, fall to the ground and act like you're praying to Mecca. When you finally raise your head, hold out your bottom lip and ask each of your teammates if you are bleeding. They will take pity on you.

3) Don't stand 6 feet directly in front someone who has the ball. They will kick the ball straight into your face and you will not like it.

4) Always look surprised when the ref holds up a yellow card and points at you - even if you are still standing on your opponent's hand.

5) Don't bother trying to score. It's impossible. I know. I watched the game for a full 50 minutes and no one scored. They showed replays of players scoring goals, but I think they were all staged.

6) When you fall down, try not to get the ball caught between your knees. It's too tempting for your opponent, who will see this as an opportunity to make sure that you will never reproduce.

7) If you want more airtime, make sure you run into people and fall down a lot. In the absence of any scoring, you're sure to get a lot of slow-motion instant replays showing your ballet-like windmilling as your feet go out from under you and you belly-flop to the earth.

I'm happy to report that my niece played a kinder, gentler version of soccer.

Unimportant things

A couple of days ago, a friend "tagged" me. I'm not sure what this means, but it sounds like a chain letter. I'm supposed to list six unimportant things about myself and tag others. Because I don't have many blogging friends, I'm just going to post my list and not tag anyone else. I hope my blogging friend will forgive me. If not, I'll hang out with my non-blogging friends at the "uncool" lunch table.

Like my blogging friend, I've had some trouble coming up with 6 unimportant things. Rest assured, my dilemma is certainly not a reflection of too many important things. Quite the opposite, it's hard to limit myself to only 6 unimportant things. Here's what I've come up with:

1) I can't drive a stick shift car. Many have tried to teach me and many have failed. In one classic episode, I downshifted from third directly to first gear in my brother's car. After he peeled himself off the dashboard and checked behind the car to insure that his transmission wasn't lying on the ground, he said, "I didn't know my car could do that." That was the last time I drove his car. I've accepted that I'll never master this skill and have moved on with my life. As long as they continue to manufacture automatic cars, I think I'm OK.

2) I still keep myself organized with a paper calendar. That's right, I actually carry around a calendar that's printed on real paper, and I write my appointments in pencil. Not a mechanical pencil, a #2 Ticonderoga with a rubber eraser on the end. Maybe one day, I'll graduate to a Blackberry or similar device. For now, I'm happy with my low-tech calendar that never crashes. As long as I have a pencil sharpener, I'm good to go.

3) When I travel, I try to find the kitschiest souvenirs to remember my journeys. So far, my collection includes a rubber ducky with Bill Clinton's head and a saxophone from Little Rock; Poseable Elvis from Graceland; a potato bobble-head from Idaho; a Patrick Henry doll with fist raised (more Black Power salute than "Give me liberty...") from the Liberty Bell; and Instant Civil War capsules from Charleston (just add water and Civil War will ensue.) I'm heading to Minneapolis later this week, who knows what I'll come back with.

4) Some days, there's nothing better than Atlanta Braves baseball, potato chips, french onion dip, and cold beer.

5) I can identify MASH and Friends episodes within the first 2 minutes. I'm not particularly proud of this, but there you go. Perfectly good brain cells that could be used to cure cancer are instead storing information about Hawkeye, Klinger, Chandler, and Joey.

6) I like a window seat on an airplane. Sure, I'm boxed in and have to inconvenience 1 or 2 other people if I have to go to the bathroom, but for the remainder of the flight, I don't have to worry about getting hit by the cart and I can lean my head against the wall, zone out, and sleep. I'm also too short for airplane seats, so I carry a backpack that I can use as a footstool.

There you have it. As Julie Andrews might sing, "These are six of my unimportant things..."

Movies

Since graduating and getting a job, I'm catching up on my movie watching. I know that I'm venturing into a ridiculously crowded field, but I humbly offer the following reviews of movies I've seen recently, either at the theater or on DVD/TV.

Iron Man: Robert Downey, Jr. is really the only highlight of this movie. Good to see him putting his personal struggle with booze and drugs behind him by playing a guy who's hooked on booze and drugs. The movie is just what anyone would expect - lots of explosions, obvious bad guys (I had it figured out in the first 10 minutes of the movie), and mindless dialogue ("I'm going to kill you." "No you're not." - you see what I mean). At least Iron Man doesn't seem to need Prozac, unlike his superhero buddies Spiderman and Batman. I imagine the writers will explore Iron Man's tortured soul in subsequent sequels, and that's when he'll visit the Shrink to the Superheroes for his prescription. I realize that they're just trying to make our favorite superheroes more "complex," but I actually prefer my superheroes to be one-dimensional - particularly if the alternative is for them to be depressed and angst-ridden. Lighten up!

Lars and the Real Girl: I loved this movie! The premise is original, the writing is fantastic, and everyone is great. I'm not big on "suspension of reality," but I was completely taken in and I actually cried at the end (won't give the ending away). The humor is so well done. Rather than big set-ups to punchlines, the writers just seamlessly slip really funny comments into the dialogue - which makes it even funnier. And the interview with Ryan Gosling in the DVD extras - there is nothing like a man with a dry sense of humor.

Enchanted: I was determined not to watch this movie. Too much suspension of reality, too predictable, and too much Patrick Dempsey. Yeah, yeah, he's cute and has great hair. I got it. Enough already. But - I visited my brother's family last weekend and they'd just purchased the movie. So, being the good aunt, I took my appointed seat between my 5 year old nieces and watched. I was particularly disappointed in myself when I found that I was actually following the story and could explain it to my niece. Here's what I learned from the movie: if you're cheerful and beautiful, a rich man with great hair will rescue you even if you appear to be bat-shit crazy. If you just continue to be bat-shit crazy (breaking into song at a moment's notice, inviting pigeons and rodents into the house, and making clothes out of drapes), you can completely change the rich man's life so now he sings and dances too and he will set you up in your own clothing store. Oh, and if you're not as attractive and cheerful, you can still get a prince, but you have to become a cartoon. There's two hours of my life that I'll never get back.

I'm Not There: I think you're supposed to drop acid before you watch this movie. I did not, and I paid the price. This movie is exhausting. I totally fast-forwarded through the Richard Gere parts because I just didn't have the energy to try to figure out what the hell was going on. Runaway dogs, Civil War soldiers, bands playing in a gazebo, girls in coffins, old men yelling at Gere in a plastic mask...???? The Cate Blanchett and Heath Ledger parts were easier to follow, but by the end, I was totally wiped out. I decided that I wasn't deep enough for this movie. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I was too deep for "Enchanted."

The Jane Austen Book Club: I enjoyed the book, and was a bit nervous about the movie. The thing that captivated me about the book was the author's use of voice. Throughout the book, the reader views individual book club members from the collective book club's perspective. I wasn't sure how this would translate on screen. It didn't, but I ended up enjoying the movie anyway. It's one of the few movies with a happy ending that didn't completely piss me off. And, it has a great soundtrack. Sure, they could have done more character development and the ending comes together too neatly, but who wants to watch a 4-hour movie? My new goal in life is to find Grigg.

The Family Stone: Caught this movie on FX one night. It's not a good movie. It's like the writers sat down and said, "OK, we're making a holiday family movie. What would tug at an audience's heartstrings?" They came up with dying mother, gay couple where one has a physical handicap (seriously), painfully socially awkward newcomer, painfully pent-up son, painfully pregnant sister... The list goes on and on. Then instead of choosing one or two, they decided to throw them all into the movie. No one's character makes any sense because no one gets enough air time to explain themselves. Sarah Jessica Parker is particularly hard to watch as she goes from one painfully awkward moment to the next, only to be redeemed at the end by giving everyone the same Christmas gift. Then, she loses her boyfriend to her much more down-to-earth sister. But not to worry because she hooks up with her boyfriend's free-spirit brother, so it's all good. Happy ending, pissed me off.

That's all for now. More as I continue to work my way through my Netflix queue.

My day

Yesterday, I initiated my work-out plan for the summer. This plan includes a return to yoga and regular 3-mile walks on the treadmill. I've decided to try the morning yoga classes at my gym. The gym folks moved the evening classes to 7PM and I just can't figure out the eating. Do I eat my dinner before I go, trusting that I won't yak on my mat as we rock back and forth on our stomachs? Or do I eat dinner at 9PM, trusting that I won't have heartburn that could kill a horse? Turns out, I'm not capable of solving this problem. So, 10:30AM it is. I figured that I can get some work done, don my yoga attire, work out, and return home to shower and eat lunch, seamlessly returning to work in the afternoon. Perfect.

Except that my back is not a morning back. I made this discovery after yoga yesterday. My back started to complain when I got home. I think it was the rocking back and forth (think turtle on its back). Anyway, the pain didn't go away as I ran errands yesterday afternoon (savvy readers will note that I did not seamlessly return to work). By late afternoon, I was lying flat on my back on the couch, heating pad in place, and taking pain meds.

Later in the evening, I watched the first half of the Top Chef season finale. I can't believe they sent Antonia home and kept Lisa! The only reason Lisa has gotten this far is because she's managed to suck a little less than at least one other person in every challenge. The fact that Antonia went home for undercooking beans is yet another reason to believe that beans are, in fact, the source of all evil. I hope Stephanie and Richard wipe the floor with Lisa.

As I continued my litany of "What the hell?", I glanced over to the arm of my couch. Seeing my heating pad and pain meds, I wondered when I had turned 80. Then, I took my tired, sore, old body to bed.

Pandora

Thanks to my college friend, I have discovered Pandora Radio. This has to be the greatest thing ever! Just choose a genre and Pandora plays an endless stream of music. All free. Free of cost, free of mindless commercials, free of annoying announcers making sexist fart jokes, free. I'm listening to Bebop/Combo jazz now. Thanks to Pandora, I might actually finish this consulting project that I'm working on.

You can also choose an artist or song, and Pandora will magically play music by that artist or music that sounds like that artist. You can bookmark music so you can remember what you liked. But, before you think that the folks at Pandora are musical communists who believe in equal distribution of resources, they don't let you just listen to specific songs whenever you want. No, you need an iTunes playlist for that. On Pandora, you hear it once, then it moves on. But, Pandora provides an easy link to Amazon or iTunes so you can buy the song with one click of the touchpad. Ah, capitalism.

Check out Pandora at: http://www.pandora.com/

With Pandora, NPR podcasts, BBC News online, and DVDs on Netflix, I offically declare my independence from the oppressive TV and radio schedules that used to dictate my life. I am no longer tied to the arbitrary whims of media moguls who think they know what I want to watch and when I want to watch it. I am no longer at the mercy of radio DJs who sound like the boys I avoided in high school. Farewell to four-minute blocks of commercials with scantily clad women gyrating over a shiny car while men drink beer and tell fart jokes. As God is my witness, I will never listen or watch on someone else's schedule again! (Until I quit working to watch the Top Chef season finale at 10PM tonight.)

Pandora is the greatest thing ever. According to the website, there's a gizmo that will let me stream Pandora through my home stereo. What more would I need? This must be what it would be like to find the Holy Grail, and I didn't even need to know the windspeed velocity of an African swallow.

Yes, I'm still watching a 17-inch TV and my home phone doesn't have caller ID. And yes, I realize that many of you probably found Pandora years ago. Call me a dinosaur, I don't care. I can't hear you over Pandora.

B-52s

The B-52s are following me. Last night, Fred "Love Shack, Baby" Schneider made an apperance on the Daily Show. He did a rather lame skit about how lame Scott McClellan sounds reading his own book on tape. It was hard to tell if Fred was supposed to seem bored and lame, or if he thought the skit was lame. I like to think that he wondered if he'll ever get away from "So hurry up, and bring your jukebox money!"

Then, this afternoon, as I walked along on the treadmill at the gym, I glanced up and saw the unmistakable "Love Shack" video. There were Kate Pierson, Cindy Wilson, and Fred Schneider in all of their 80s glory - beehives, short skirts, go-go boots. Come to think of it, they were in their 60s glory. I thought, "Here's a group of people that I haven't thought of in years and in the span of 24 hours, they've visited me twice."

I'm sure this is a sign, but I'm not sure what it signifies. I'll win free B-52s tickets? I kind of hope that's not the case, since I read recently that they were touring with Rosie O'Donnell, and free or not, I don't want to see Rosie. Maybe the B-52s visits are a sign that my hairdresser will give me a beehive on Thursday. Again, I hope not. Maybe I have a rock lobster in my future. Maybe I'll win a trip to "roam if I want to, roam around the world."

On the way home from the gym, I "headed down the Atlanta Highway." Again, a sign? I wasn't necessarily "looking for a love getaway," though I didn't rule it out. Instead of a "Chrysler that seats about 20," I had a Honda, that seats about 4. Somehow, not the same. In the meantime, I'll just keep humming, "...everybody's movin', everybody's groovin'..."