Remember that old Dolly Parton song? "Here you come again and here I go …" I'm watching Sen. John Edwards address a barbecue in New Hampshire. He's so gorgeous.
He's talking about how we don't need politicians, we need leaders. He's talking about the heart of the American people, and how the world doesn't realize that in addition to being powerful, we're decent and caring. He talked about Darfur and New Orleans, about healthcare and poverty. I agree with everything he said and was striken by how long it's been since our dialog has included talk about the less fortunate and our responsibility to our fellow citizens, fellow humans.
I was also, truth to tell, striken by how good that blue shirt looks with his blue eyes.
That's not all, of course. I love how proud he is of wife Elizabeth, who is waging a battle against breast cancer. I love his moonlight and magnolias voice, and how his hair looks in the sunlight.
Having a crush on a possible president makes me uncomfortable. My never-disguised lust for Edwards was OK back in 2004 because he was undeniably our vice presidential candidate. Senator John Kerry was the top of the ticket, our alpha. There was never any Bush/Cheyney "whose in charge here?" confusion.
But with the possibility of John Edwards being our candidate, and our president, in 2008, I'm not sure my distinctly carnal feelings are appropriate. Politicians should be leaders. Presidents should be even more than that. Viewing the president as my dream date just seems wrong somehow. Frivolous. Icky/incestuous. Like being in love with your minister.
So instead I'll turn to ESPN, and more comfortable territory. Why look at that! Greg Maddux is taking the mound for the Los Angeles Dodger! The 12th most winning pitcher in the history of baseball, the one with the sweetest baby face, is about to face Barry Bonds in the heat of a pennant race. Dodger blue doesn't look as good on him as Cubbie blue did, but to me he still looks better than a body has a right to, too.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
How do I help?
A good friend, old and true, is having money troubles. Her ex-husband is up to date with child support but a few months late in his payments to the kids' doctors and school. Her payments on the new used car don't fit as easily into her monthly budget as she thought they would. Neither she nor the kids have dental insurance, so she has quite a bit of toothy debt on plastic.
To make matters worse, she feels like a fiscal crimnal because the man she is involved with and desperately wants to marry does not believe in accumulating credit card debt. (Because he's been "cleaned out" by two ex-wives; a man with two divorces behind him may not have money issues, but I bet he's carrying baggage of the emotional variety.)
And now her cat Callie has resumed urinating on the furniture. "Callie's got to go." I asked her what she was going to do with Cal. After all, shelters are overcrowded and prospective owners never come in looking for overweight adult cats who pee on the furniture. She said she didn't know. We both know what she's going to do with poor Callie. I asked her to please not do anything until she takes Callie to a different vet. Her current vet dismisses Callie's behavior as purely behavioral, and while I know that cats are finicky critters, I believe there must be a solveable problem at the root of this. (My cat Charlotte peed on the carpet for months and months until the vet discovered an internal infection and I installed a second litter box.)
Karen says that she simply cannot afford to take Callie to the vet at all.
I want to help. I make more money than she does and I have a very strong credit rating. I get tons of balance transfer offers in the mail every week. I'm thinking of lending her money that way and letting her pay it off according to the terms of the promotional offer.
I realize that will just be more debt, but I'm quite sure it will be at a more attractive interest rate than she's paying. I wish I could just give her the money outright, but I can't afford to do that right now. I have more debt, and less in retirement accounts, than is wise for a woman my age. Digging myself in deeper to help her just doesn't make sense. Plus it would send my long-term goals, renovating my kitchen and bathroom, even further into the distance.
And I can't take Callie. That would be 4 cats in a two bedroom condo. Aside from the fact that I'd be in violation of village ordinance, it would further cement my reputation as crazy cat lady.
So we'll see what this week's mail brings, credit-offer-wise. If it makes sense for her, I hope she'll take me up on it. This is what friends are for, right?
To make matters worse, she feels like a fiscal crimnal because the man she is involved with and desperately wants to marry does not believe in accumulating credit card debt. (Because he's been "cleaned out" by two ex-wives; a man with two divorces behind him may not have money issues, but I bet he's carrying baggage of the emotional variety.)
And now her cat Callie has resumed urinating on the furniture. "Callie's got to go." I asked her what she was going to do with Cal. After all, shelters are overcrowded and prospective owners never come in looking for overweight adult cats who pee on the furniture. She said she didn't know. We both know what she's going to do with poor Callie. I asked her to please not do anything until she takes Callie to a different vet. Her current vet dismisses Callie's behavior as purely behavioral, and while I know that cats are finicky critters, I believe there must be a solveable problem at the root of this. (My cat Charlotte peed on the carpet for months and months until the vet discovered an internal infection and I installed a second litter box.)
Karen says that she simply cannot afford to take Callie to the vet at all.
I want to help. I make more money than she does and I have a very strong credit rating. I get tons of balance transfer offers in the mail every week. I'm thinking of lending her money that way and letting her pay it off according to the terms of the promotional offer.
I realize that will just be more debt, but I'm quite sure it will be at a more attractive interest rate than she's paying. I wish I could just give her the money outright, but I can't afford to do that right now. I have more debt, and less in retirement accounts, than is wise for a woman my age. Digging myself in deeper to help her just doesn't make sense. Plus it would send my long-term goals, renovating my kitchen and bathroom, even further into the distance.
And I can't take Callie. That would be 4 cats in a two bedroom condo. Aside from the fact that I'd be in violation of village ordinance, it would further cement my reputation as crazy cat lady.
So we'll see what this week's mail brings, credit-offer-wise. If it makes sense for her, I hope she'll take me up on it. This is what friends are for, right?
Friday, August 11, 2006
Farewell, Mike Douglas. Way to go, Kinkajou!
I'm not stupid. I'm not airheaded. Honest. I just enjoy taking refuge in lowest common denominator entertainment. Like Court TV. And The Insider. I love that my job has summer hours, so I can leave early on Friday and catch up on all the celebrity news with sleazy Pat O'Brien and plastic Lara Spencer. I positively devour every second of it.
Today I was sad to learn from Pat and Lara that Mike Douglas died at age 81. His show was on every day after school and I watched it because … well, we didn't have cable back then and you didn't expect me to go outdoors or do homework, did you? Mike Douglas seemed like such a nice man. I thought it would be neat if he was my dad (instead of the one who came home angry and argumentative every night at 5:30). And it was through Mike Douglas that I saw all those Vegas-y acts like Steve & Eydie and Charo and Wayne Newton. I still love all that schmaltzy crap. I'm a sucker for a crooner in a tux who snaps his fingers when he sings, or an over-ripe gal in bugle beads.
And Paris Hilton was bitten by her pet kinkajou! This wise little rascal chomped down so hard that Paris had to go to the emergency room. She was told by the authorities that it's illegal to own an exotic animal in Los Angeles, so I hope that someone responsible takes custody of kinkajou and gives him a more suitable life than he gets riding around in that dumb slut's purse. He deserves it. Kinkajou didn't do anything that the rest of us wouldn't have done if we were condemned to long-term exposure to Paris Hilton.
Today I was sad to learn from Pat and Lara that Mike Douglas died at age 81. His show was on every day after school and I watched it because … well, we didn't have cable back then and you didn't expect me to go outdoors or do homework, did you? Mike Douglas seemed like such a nice man. I thought it would be neat if he was my dad (instead of the one who came home angry and argumentative every night at 5:30). And it was through Mike Douglas that I saw all those Vegas-y acts like Steve & Eydie and Charo and Wayne Newton. I still love all that schmaltzy crap. I'm a sucker for a crooner in a tux who snaps his fingers when he sings, or an over-ripe gal in bugle beads.
And Paris Hilton was bitten by her pet kinkajou! This wise little rascal chomped down so hard that Paris had to go to the emergency room. She was told by the authorities that it's illegal to own an exotic animal in Los Angeles, so I hope that someone responsible takes custody of kinkajou and gives him a more suitable life than he gets riding around in that dumb slut's purse. He deserves it. Kinkajou didn't do anything that the rest of us wouldn't have done if we were condemned to long-term exposure to Paris Hilton.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Awfulizing: It's, like, what I do
As an inveterate news junkie, and one with a cat who simply refuses to let her sleep through the night, I was able to watch the latest air/terror plot unfold on live TV.
I have one friend who is vacationing with her family in Ireland. Since they have family in England, I'm quite sure they plan on flying home through Heathrow so they can squeeze in a visit with loved ones. Her little girl (second or third grade) doesn't like riding the "el" because people are so noisy and mean. Wait till she gets schooled in terrorism on the way home. I am so concerned about what these heightened security features will do to her. It's a scary world. Poor little Rosie.
Then there's my best friend, who happens to be a diabetic and has a new job that will involve air travel each and every week through the end of the year. Since he just moved last week, he doesn't have a driver's license from this new state of residence yet. So his government-issued ID will be from one state, while his e-ticket will show him living in another state, and he'll be carrying a week's worth of insulin in his carry-on. Security is just going to loooove him. I'm so worried about him I can barely stand it.
Don't bother telling me not to worry about situations I can't have an impact on. It's not like I enjoy doing this. If I could figure out how to stop doing this, I would. It's just an ingrained part of my personality.
So I think I'll go work out. I'm having dinner tonight with an old friend, so that will keep me away from the news coverage for a while. I'll do what I can to distract myself.
But I'm scared and sad. Our lives are different, post-9/11. Things are getting worse, not better. My heart is so heavy. I don't like this new world.
I have one friend who is vacationing with her family in Ireland. Since they have family in England, I'm quite sure they plan on flying home through Heathrow so they can squeeze in a visit with loved ones. Her little girl (second or third grade) doesn't like riding the "el" because people are so noisy and mean. Wait till she gets schooled in terrorism on the way home. I am so concerned about what these heightened security features will do to her. It's a scary world. Poor little Rosie.
Then there's my best friend, who happens to be a diabetic and has a new job that will involve air travel each and every week through the end of the year. Since he just moved last week, he doesn't have a driver's license from this new state of residence yet. So his government-issued ID will be from one state, while his e-ticket will show him living in another state, and he'll be carrying a week's worth of insulin in his carry-on. Security is just going to loooove him. I'm so worried about him I can barely stand it.
Don't bother telling me not to worry about situations I can't have an impact on. It's not like I enjoy doing this. If I could figure out how to stop doing this, I would. It's just an ingrained part of my personality.
So I think I'll go work out. I'm having dinner tonight with an old friend, so that will keep me away from the news coverage for a while. I'll do what I can to distract myself.
But I'm scared and sad. Our lives are different, post-9/11. Things are getting worse, not better. My heart is so heavy. I don't like this new world.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Trying new things isn't all it's cracked up to be
I recently got a free sample at the Smashbox cosmetic counter. It was a foundation primer called Photofinish. Erik, the sales associate who waited on me, assured me that I'd be in to buy a whole bottle.
It's supposed to make my tinted moisturizer just glide on. OK, it did.
It's supposed to fill up or minimize fine lines. I didn't notice any great improvement.
It's supposed to make me break out in bright pink little zits all around my mouth. OK, Erik didn't promise that. But Photofinish delivered on that, anyway.
I feel pretty! Oh, so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and bright!
It's supposed to make my tinted moisturizer just glide on. OK, it did.
It's supposed to fill up or minimize fine lines. I didn't notice any great improvement.
It's supposed to make me break out in bright pink little zits all around my mouth. OK, Erik didn't promise that. But Photofinish delivered on that, anyway.
I feel pretty! Oh, so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and bright!
I'm a Millenial Girl
Last night was high stress. I was watching the Cubs/Brewers game on TV. I was watching the Dodgers/Rockies game on mlb.com. I was switching over to the newschannels and sites to see how Lamont/Lieberman was shaping up. I had my cellphone on my lap, in case my best friend had time to chat before he boarded his flight. (He did, but he called on my landline so I missed him.) It was information overload.
So this is how it is in the new millenium, isn't it? We are constantly accessible to the world, and have 24/7 access to all kinds of information. Sometimes this old broad gets overwhelmed by it all, even though it's my choice to stay connected.
There are those out there who would say that the two ballgames weren't worth stressing over. We pity those sad people. There's something completely charming and right about how well the Cubs are suddenly playing, now that they are completely out of contention. And now, every 5 days, I am a Dodger fan because every 5 days Greg Maddux goes out on the mound for them. It's essential that the Dodgers make the playoffs. Otherwise the heartbreak of his trade won't mean anything, and I simply refuse to accept that.
There are those out there who say that a Democratic primary in Connecticut shouldn't matter to an Illinois resident. We pity those sad people, too. This was a referendum on the Iraq War, and on the heart and soul of the Democratic Party. It matters to all of us who vote in our two-party system. Now I just hope that Lieberman has the grace to leave the stage. I suspect he won't. I remember in the waning days of 2002 and early days of 2003, he insisted he had "Joe-mentum" and could wrest the Presidential nomination away from Senator Kerry, John Edwards or Howard Dean. Finally after losing state primary after state primary, he was like Wily Coyote after the ACME Anvil falls on his head, and Lieberman dropped out. I guess it'll be that way again. Someone is going to have to convince him that he cannot win, or that he shouldn't be siphoning votes away from Lamont, before he exits stage right.
So this is how it is in the new millenium, isn't it? We are constantly accessible to the world, and have 24/7 access to all kinds of information. Sometimes this old broad gets overwhelmed by it all, even though it's my choice to stay connected.
There are those out there who would say that the two ballgames weren't worth stressing over. We pity those sad people. There's something completely charming and right about how well the Cubs are suddenly playing, now that they are completely out of contention. And now, every 5 days, I am a Dodger fan because every 5 days Greg Maddux goes out on the mound for them. It's essential that the Dodgers make the playoffs. Otherwise the heartbreak of his trade won't mean anything, and I simply refuse to accept that.
There are those out there who say that a Democratic primary in Connecticut shouldn't matter to an Illinois resident. We pity those sad people, too. This was a referendum on the Iraq War, and on the heart and soul of the Democratic Party. It matters to all of us who vote in our two-party system. Now I just hope that Lieberman has the grace to leave the stage. I suspect he won't. I remember in the waning days of 2002 and early days of 2003, he insisted he had "Joe-mentum" and could wrest the Presidential nomination away from Senator Kerry, John Edwards or Howard Dean. Finally after losing state primary after state primary, he was like Wily Coyote after the ACME Anvil falls on his head, and Lieberman dropped out. I guess it'll be that way again. Someone is going to have to convince him that he cannot win, or that he shouldn't be siphoning votes away from Lamont, before he exits stage right.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Hillary Clinton's enemies are her strength
Let me preface this by saying I've always loved Bill Clinton. Yes, he's facile (OK, slick). But he's very smart, very talented, and was peerless when it came to getting the disenfranchised in this country to feel like they have a place at the table. I admire Senator John Kerry with every fiber of my being and still believe that he is the right man to lead us at this time. Senator Kerry is as smart as Bill Clinton, certainly more wise, and I believe he's probably a better person. Yet Senator John Kerry doesn't connect on a human level the way ol' Bill does. Also, I've worked on Bill's winning campaigns and the Senator's heartbreaking effort. Gotta tell ya, winning feels a whole helluva lot better.
All that said, I'm not crazy about the junior Senator from the great state of New York.
There is something greedy about her. Greedy for power, greedy for money. Back when I followed the Whitewater mess, I got a sinking feeling in my gut. I believe the First Lady's fingerprints were all over that dubious deal and the ensuing coverup. Do I believe Bill was in on it, too? I'm very willing to believe he wasn't. After all, don't the Clintons seem like a couple who may not answer each other truthfully when one asks the other, "What did you do today, hon?"
When it comes to the 7 Deadly Sins, I understand lust more than greed. And in addition to flesh, I believe Bill lusts after each one of our hearts. Hillary is a harder nut for me to crack. How could she have voted for the war in Iraq? Both W. and Bill agree they reviewed virtually the same intell. Bill chose not to go to war, to give the UN time, because he believed it would be better to let Saddam Hussein inevitably crumble from within. We know what W. chose to do. And Hillary never asked her husband about this? I don't believe it. And if she didn't, I'm not happy about that, either. The reason I'd vote for Hillary is to get Bill back.
Or because she's a chick.
I never thought I'd say that, but I also didn't expect to have such a powerful, visceral reaction to watching her with Rumsfeld. I saw it live (in a Holiday Inn Express as I prepared to check out and come back home after a client presentation) and I've seen replays since. When she asked him how, with his track record, we should believe what he says about staying the course in Iraq, he was sooooo condescending. He told her she'd have "a dickens of time" finding instances where he had been "overly optimistic" about Iraq.
A "dickens of a time?" At least he didn't call her "Little Lady."
Whether any of us likes it or not, she's a Senator and he's the Secretary of Defense. He is accountable to her, and to us. It behooves him to drop the Superior Rich White Guy routine and treat her as a formidable adult who is his equal.
Watching him interact with her, I felt like I was watching myself with every doctor, appliance salesman or janitor who ever talked down to me.
I don't want to vote for Hillary just because she's a woman. I hope some journalist really holds her feet to the fire and gets her to answer a lot of serious questions. I hope that I accept her answers. I hope that, if I end up voting for her, it's not because no matter how I feel about her, I believe her enemies are worse.
All that said, I'm not crazy about the junior Senator from the great state of New York.
There is something greedy about her. Greedy for power, greedy for money. Back when I followed the Whitewater mess, I got a sinking feeling in my gut. I believe the First Lady's fingerprints were all over that dubious deal and the ensuing coverup. Do I believe Bill was in on it, too? I'm very willing to believe he wasn't. After all, don't the Clintons seem like a couple who may not answer each other truthfully when one asks the other, "What did you do today, hon?"
When it comes to the 7 Deadly Sins, I understand lust more than greed. And in addition to flesh, I believe Bill lusts after each one of our hearts. Hillary is a harder nut for me to crack. How could she have voted for the war in Iraq? Both W. and Bill agree they reviewed virtually the same intell. Bill chose not to go to war, to give the UN time, because he believed it would be better to let Saddam Hussein inevitably crumble from within. We know what W. chose to do. And Hillary never asked her husband about this? I don't believe it. And if she didn't, I'm not happy about that, either. The reason I'd vote for Hillary is to get Bill back.
Or because she's a chick.
I never thought I'd say that, but I also didn't expect to have such a powerful, visceral reaction to watching her with Rumsfeld. I saw it live (in a Holiday Inn Express as I prepared to check out and come back home after a client presentation) and I've seen replays since. When she asked him how, with his track record, we should believe what he says about staying the course in Iraq, he was sooooo condescending. He told her she'd have "a dickens of time" finding instances where he had been "overly optimistic" about Iraq.
A "dickens of a time?" At least he didn't call her "Little Lady."
Whether any of us likes it or not, she's a Senator and he's the Secretary of Defense. He is accountable to her, and to us. It behooves him to drop the Superior Rich White Guy routine and treat her as a formidable adult who is his equal.
Watching him interact with her, I felt like I was watching myself with every doctor, appliance salesman or janitor who ever talked down to me.
I don't want to vote for Hillary just because she's a woman. I hope some journalist really holds her feet to the fire and gets her to answer a lot of serious questions. I hope that I accept her answers. I hope that, if I end up voting for her, it's not because no matter how I feel about her, I believe her enemies are worse.
There are worse places I could be
Yes, I hate this job. Yes, I have lost respect for the agency I work for. Neither of these things is good and I know I should direct some of my resources to looking for a new job.
That said … I went to Border's at lunch today and overheard one of the retail staff saying he didn't want a promotion. It would mean a raise of $1/hour, and being in management just wasn't worth $9/hour. Assuming he works a 40-hour week (and that is by no means a safe assumption), that would mean that as a manager he'd be making less than $20,000 year.
I make 4x that.
Looked at through the prism of this agency, I am underpaid. I actually produce work that helps move our clients' business along. I work on weekends and evenings, for no pay, writing or researching. Even though I always promise myself I won't, I think about my job and my clients on my own time. Unlike most of my coworkers and bosses, I don't dismiss our client as a drag, too uncool to exist and fortunate to get the benefits of my hip, Michigan Avenue wisdom. And I don't make anywhere near as much as some of the flotsam and jetsam that drifts by my office.
But this agency is not the real world.
The guy I was listening to at Border's is undoubtedly on his feet most of the day. He has to smilingly field questions from the public, many of whom I guess are not that polite. He probably has to return misplaced stock and all kinds of other tasks that are invisible to us shoppers.
He may not have to deal with the deadline pressure that I have here, but I'm quite sure he has his own minefield of office politics to maneuver through.
That's why I'm not at all sure I work 4x harder than he does.
It's good for me to remember that every now and again.
That said … I went to Border's at lunch today and overheard one of the retail staff saying he didn't want a promotion. It would mean a raise of $1/hour, and being in management just wasn't worth $9/hour. Assuming he works a 40-hour week (and that is by no means a safe assumption), that would mean that as a manager he'd be making less than $20,000 year.
I make 4x that.
Looked at through the prism of this agency, I am underpaid. I actually produce work that helps move our clients' business along. I work on weekends and evenings, for no pay, writing or researching. Even though I always promise myself I won't, I think about my job and my clients on my own time. Unlike most of my coworkers and bosses, I don't dismiss our client as a drag, too uncool to exist and fortunate to get the benefits of my hip, Michigan Avenue wisdom. And I don't make anywhere near as much as some of the flotsam and jetsam that drifts by my office.
But this agency is not the real world.
The guy I was listening to at Border's is undoubtedly on his feet most of the day. He has to smilingly field questions from the public, many of whom I guess are not that polite. He probably has to return misplaced stock and all kinds of other tasks that are invisible to us shoppers.
He may not have to deal with the deadline pressure that I have here, but I'm quite sure he has his own minefield of office politics to maneuver through.
That's why I'm not at all sure I work 4x harder than he does.
It's good for me to remember that every now and again.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Not funny anymore
I'm watching the 1981 movie Arthur as I write. When it first came out, I loved it. A couple fighting convention to follow their hearts, clever writing, a wonderful performance by Gielgud, and my crush on Cuddley Dudley Moore. Oh, and I was involved with an abusive alcoholic. I was ripe for a movie that completely romanticized being in love with a drunk. (He was, to be fair, better looking than Dudley Moore. But he was mean, selfish and, in some ways, dumb as a stump. The key to our powerful attraction is akin to the conventional wisdom about Fred and Ginger: he gave me sex appeal and I gave him intellectual validity. That's why back in 1981 our friends referred to us as "Sam and Diane.")
But back to Arthur. I can't believe a movie with so many scenes of drunk driving, so many scenes of excessive drinking, was mainstream entertainment. Alcoholism is not funny. There are health consequences to drinking from sun up to sunset. There are very, very serious consequences to driving drunk.
Ask Mel Gibson.
Too bad, because the dialog is still very, very funny. But I just can't enjoy it anymore.
But back to Arthur. I can't believe a movie with so many scenes of drunk driving, so many scenes of excessive drinking, was mainstream entertainment. Alcoholism is not funny. There are health consequences to drinking from sun up to sunset. There are very, very serious consequences to driving drunk.
Ask Mel Gibson.
Too bad, because the dialog is still very, very funny. But I just can't enjoy it anymore.
Avoiding Mr. B.
Hiding in an alley for nearly 10 minutes. Yes, I'd say I've reached a new low.
My downstairs neighbor is a very nice old man. But he is sooooo annoying! All of our conversations are ultimately pointless, which is what makes them grate so.
This retired gentleman sells Avon. At first I found this charming. A little additional income, a way to stay active. Well, things are not quite as they seem.
Mr. B. not only owns his condo outright, and his unit has appreciated considerably over the last few years, he also owns the unit beside his and rents it out. The old boy is a land baron! And he always gets my Avon orders wrong. He forgets to place them, forgets what I ordered, forgets what to charge me, forgets to deliver my order to me. The only constant in dealing with Mr. B. is that you can count on him screwing up.
Yet every time I see him, he says, "Buy, buy, buy." He wants to know when I'm going to place my next order. He confesses to having my most recent order in his apartment and vows to bring it to me "tonight," even though "tonight" never arrives.
I want to be polite. I want to be pleasant. I just don't want to order anymore Avon. Nor do I want to spend long, looong minutes in inane chatter. So today, when I came around the corner after breakfast and a quick trip to the grocery store, I saw him waiting out front and ducked into the alley.
I put down my 12-pack of Coke and Woolite and checked my voice mail, even though I knew there wouldn't be any messages. Then I counted the cars that went by (only one light truck and no SUVs). As I listened for the sound of a car door closing and someone taking Mr. B. away, I sat there in terror, afraid someone I knew would walk by and ask me what I was doing there in the alley.
This is no way for a grown woman to behave, is it?
My downstairs neighbor is a very nice old man. But he is sooooo annoying! All of our conversations are ultimately pointless, which is what makes them grate so.
This retired gentleman sells Avon. At first I found this charming. A little additional income, a way to stay active. Well, things are not quite as they seem.
Mr. B. not only owns his condo outright, and his unit has appreciated considerably over the last few years, he also owns the unit beside his and rents it out. The old boy is a land baron! And he always gets my Avon orders wrong. He forgets to place them, forgets what I ordered, forgets what to charge me, forgets to deliver my order to me. The only constant in dealing with Mr. B. is that you can count on him screwing up.
Yet every time I see him, he says, "Buy, buy, buy." He wants to know when I'm going to place my next order. He confesses to having my most recent order in his apartment and vows to bring it to me "tonight," even though "tonight" never arrives.
I want to be polite. I want to be pleasant. I just don't want to order anymore Avon. Nor do I want to spend long, looong minutes in inane chatter. So today, when I came around the corner after breakfast and a quick trip to the grocery store, I saw him waiting out front and ducked into the alley.
I put down my 12-pack of Coke and Woolite and checked my voice mail, even though I knew there wouldn't be any messages. Then I counted the cars that went by (only one light truck and no SUVs). As I listened for the sound of a car door closing and someone taking Mr. B. away, I sat there in terror, afraid someone I knew would walk by and ask me what I was doing there in the alley.
This is no way for a grown woman to behave, is it?
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Sorry, but The Nanny Diaries are soooo 5 minutes ago
The Friends of the Oak Park Public Library sponsored the used book sale this weekend. I so dearly love this event. The Village of Oak Park has three libraries, and this is their big fundraiser. Beginning right after the July 4th weekend, Oak Parkers start going through their bookshelves, deciding what to part with. It seems like the whole town gets involved, which gives the sale a unique personality and makes it a joy. There are so many people, and so many books, that it's held not at the library but at the cavernous OPRF high school.
Today is free, but last night … that was the event! Admission was $5, the doors open at 6:00. I got there at about 5:30 and the line was already around the block. I saw people with bags (I brought a sturdy oversized green plastic bag from The Body Shop), people with wagons, people with carts, empty suitcases, childless strollers and even one catless cat carrier. We were all ready to go in and scoop up some treasures. Hardcovers are $1, paperbacks 50¢. (I've often wondered if they would make more if they charged us by the pound, but the Friends have been hosting this for 35 years now, so I guess they know what they're doing.)
I made a deal with myself: I donated a bag of books, so I was limited to purchasing a bag of books. I headed straight for the mystery table and grabbed myself a Robert Parker hardcover I somehow missed and a terrific old Nero Wolfe paperbook with its original, lurid vintage cover. Then I perused the rest of the room. This fascinates me. You can tell which books were in vogue, but aren't anymore, by all the copies that have been donated.
John Grisham is always big at this sale, but he shouldn't feel bad. He should be proud. Year after year there are tons of Grisham paperbacks for sale. I believe every man, woman and child in the western suburbs must buy at least one Grisham each year. Besides, for the most part, Grisham is not really a writer you re-read. Once you know "whodunit," you know, and what's the point of going over the story again?
To the gals who wrote The Nanny Diaries, though: Sorry. Tons of copies of that book, in hard cover, were turned in. In theory, that's one that could be read again and again. I'm afraid your time is done, and your movie hasn't even come out yet.
Every year there's one like that. If not a single title that the public is just done with, then a topic. One year it was Princess Diana. About two or three years after her tragic death, it seems like the mourning ended and those big coffee table books about her clothes, her reign, her wedding and her funeral just weren't worth hanging onto. They could have filled an entire table that year, just with Diana. I don't know if that's sad, or just the way it is. Life goes on.
Today is free, but last night … that was the event! Admission was $5, the doors open at 6:00. I got there at about 5:30 and the line was already around the block. I saw people with bags (I brought a sturdy oversized green plastic bag from The Body Shop), people with wagons, people with carts, empty suitcases, childless strollers and even one catless cat carrier. We were all ready to go in and scoop up some treasures. Hardcovers are $1, paperbacks 50¢. (I've often wondered if they would make more if they charged us by the pound, but the Friends have been hosting this for 35 years now, so I guess they know what they're doing.)
I made a deal with myself: I donated a bag of books, so I was limited to purchasing a bag of books. I headed straight for the mystery table and grabbed myself a Robert Parker hardcover I somehow missed and a terrific old Nero Wolfe paperbook with its original, lurid vintage cover. Then I perused the rest of the room. This fascinates me. You can tell which books were in vogue, but aren't anymore, by all the copies that have been donated.
John Grisham is always big at this sale, but he shouldn't feel bad. He should be proud. Year after year there are tons of Grisham paperbacks for sale. I believe every man, woman and child in the western suburbs must buy at least one Grisham each year. Besides, for the most part, Grisham is not really a writer you re-read. Once you know "whodunit," you know, and what's the point of going over the story again?
To the gals who wrote The Nanny Diaries, though: Sorry. Tons of copies of that book, in hard cover, were turned in. In theory, that's one that could be read again and again. I'm afraid your time is done, and your movie hasn't even come out yet.
Every year there's one like that. If not a single title that the public is just done with, then a topic. One year it was Princess Diana. About two or three years after her tragic death, it seems like the mourning ended and those big coffee table books about her clothes, her reign, her wedding and her funeral just weren't worth hanging onto. They could have filled an entire table that year, just with Diana. I don't know if that's sad, or just the way it is. Life goes on.
After all, I was invited
I am not really invited to my neice's baptism. Place plenty of emphasis on the word, "really." Everyone in my family is. This is a perfect example of how my family works. (Or doesn't.)
I got word through my mother when the baptism will be. I was told that of course I'm welcome, but she wasn't sure I'd want to attend when I heard the exclusive little guest list:
My neice and nephew, naturally. My lunatic older sister, unavoidable since she's the mother of my other neice and nephew, who will be acting as godparents. And Jim and Joyce.
Jim is a relative who sees Becky and Nicky once a year. He is, however, a Good Lutheran and a Pillar of his Church. That's why he deserves a spot in the pew. He also molested me when I was in high school. He was between wives at that time, and I don't know if Joyce knows.
That molestation brought me years of pain beyond the confusion, revulsion and rage that came with being fondled. It's not so much that my mother and kid sister don't believe it happened. I suppose they do. They just don't know why I can't brush it under the rug. Why can't I just put it behind me and show up at family gatherings? It's so hard on them to have to explain why I don't attend anything with Jim.
Part of it is that he violated me and never apologized, never got help. He deserves jail time or couch time for what he did to me, not post-baptism cake and ice cream.
The other part of it is that it still gives him some kind of perverse joy to have gotten away with it. The last time he and I were together (at my mother's 60th birthday party) he kept standing too close to me, moving up behind me and leaning into me, whispering in my ear. I was holding then very young Becky on my hip and he asked me if I wanted one of those (a baby) and was I willing to do what it takes to get one. Yes, the pig actually said that to me. He was almost daring me to make a scene in front of everyone.
No more. He no longer gets the opportunity to humiliate me.
I would love to see Becky's baptism. But I love me more. I need to protect myself. Even it if it's from my family.
Besides, I believe in God and Jesus. I respect Christianity. We must remember that behavior like Jim's is serial, and I doubt I'm the only relative he fondled. (His second wife, Joyce, came with daughters.) To see him sitting there in church smugly, secure in his position as Super Lutheran, just makes a mockery of something very important.
So I'm sending gifts for Becky and Nicky to be opened on their special day. I got them each an age-appropriate book and made a donation to the local children's home in their names. I'm including a note with each gift. I don't know what I'll say to Nicky that he'll understand, but I've chosen to quote JFK in Becky's ("Here on earth we must make God's work truly our own").
And I may smile to myself when I think of Becky asking, "Why isn't Laurie here today?" And my mother and my sister exchanging "Damn that Laurie" looks as one of them makes something up that will begin with, "She was invited …"
I got word through my mother when the baptism will be. I was told that of course I'm welcome, but she wasn't sure I'd want to attend when I heard the exclusive little guest list:
My neice and nephew, naturally. My lunatic older sister, unavoidable since she's the mother of my other neice and nephew, who will be acting as godparents. And Jim and Joyce.
Jim is a relative who sees Becky and Nicky once a year. He is, however, a Good Lutheran and a Pillar of his Church. That's why he deserves a spot in the pew. He also molested me when I was in high school. He was between wives at that time, and I don't know if Joyce knows.
That molestation brought me years of pain beyond the confusion, revulsion and rage that came with being fondled. It's not so much that my mother and kid sister don't believe it happened. I suppose they do. They just don't know why I can't brush it under the rug. Why can't I just put it behind me and show up at family gatherings? It's so hard on them to have to explain why I don't attend anything with Jim.
Part of it is that he violated me and never apologized, never got help. He deserves jail time or couch time for what he did to me, not post-baptism cake and ice cream.
The other part of it is that it still gives him some kind of perverse joy to have gotten away with it. The last time he and I were together (at my mother's 60th birthday party) he kept standing too close to me, moving up behind me and leaning into me, whispering in my ear. I was holding then very young Becky on my hip and he asked me if I wanted one of those (a baby) and was I willing to do what it takes to get one. Yes, the pig actually said that to me. He was almost daring me to make a scene in front of everyone.
No more. He no longer gets the opportunity to humiliate me.
I would love to see Becky's baptism. But I love me more. I need to protect myself. Even it if it's from my family.
Besides, I believe in God and Jesus. I respect Christianity. We must remember that behavior like Jim's is serial, and I doubt I'm the only relative he fondled. (His second wife, Joyce, came with daughters.) To see him sitting there in church smugly, secure in his position as Super Lutheran, just makes a mockery of something very important.
So I'm sending gifts for Becky and Nicky to be opened on their special day. I got them each an age-appropriate book and made a donation to the local children's home in their names. I'm including a note with each gift. I don't know what I'll say to Nicky that he'll understand, but I've chosen to quote JFK in Becky's ("Here on earth we must make God's work truly our own").
And I may smile to myself when I think of Becky asking, "Why isn't Laurie here today?" And my mother and my sister exchanging "Damn that Laurie" looks as one of them makes something up that will begin with, "She was invited …"
Thursday, August 03, 2006
An exceptional young woman
My neice, Becky, is finally going to be baptized on August 22. She is not a baby, far from it. She will be 14 in November. This baptism is her doing. She engineered it for herself, and her younger brother (who is going into first grade). I am so proud of that girl.
My kid sister did not have the same introduction to organized religion that my older sister and I did. By the time she should have begun confirmation classes, my parents' marriage had deteriorated to such a sad state that other things took precedence. My sister fell in love with, and then married, a lapsed Catholic son of a not-so lapsed mother. It was easier for them to have their wedding in a non-denominational church. When my neice and nephew were born, it was easier for them to not have the conversation with his mother about not having the kids baptised Catholic. At least that's what they say. Since Mike's mom has been dead for years and my sister never belonged to any church, they were never clear about what faith they would raise their children in instead.
Which is because it simply wasn't a priority for them. This concerned me. I used to ask them where the kids would go for answers to the big questions about God, fate, death, the afterlife, etc. My sister actually said, with a straight face, "the Internet."
My neice has always been very bright and an independent thinker. When she was barely in Kindergarten, we were walking around town one day and she asked, "If there's only one God, where are there so many different churches?" As she got older, she became concerned about sin, and punishment -- both on a macro level (war) and on a micro level (her own anger). It came to a head when my sister heard Becky crying herself to sleep because she had enjoyed teasing her obnoxious kid brother. Was that a big enough sin, would it displease God enough, that she would end up in hell?
So much for my sister's plan that, when confronted with the big questions, Becky just Google "Jesus."
Becky's pain convinced her parents that it was time to shop around for a church. They ended up at the one where my late grandmother was very active, where my sisters and I were baptised and I was confirmed. That was fine, except the services are too early and it's such a drag to get the whole family dressed and to church on time. My lazy ass sister wondered if Becky would think about some other nice church, with more convenient showtimes and a nearer location.
My neice politely, but seriously, stood up to her mother. She wanted to go to this Lutheran church. To Becky, the fact that two generations of women before her worshipped there made it the church she wanted to go to. She told her parents that she understood how hard it would be for them to get the whole family to services and not to worry about it. She could there on her own. She could ride her bike.
This completely got to my brother-in-law, who has always had a special and very lovely bond with his little girl. No, he said he'd go with her. He has been as good as his word. He drives her over, attends the service with her. He also drives her to her Saturday confirmation classes, and the Monday evening volunteer work she does (currently cleaning and folding the used bedding that's been donated for the homeless).
In order to be confirmed with her class, Becky has to be baptised. She is in junior high. Being baptised like a baby during a regular service, in front of everyone, made her too nervous and embarrassed. She discussed it with the pastor and he is bending the rules to allow her to be baptised between services on August 22. And, thank goodness, her kid brother is being baptised at the same time and will start Sunday school in the fall. Saving him the turmoil she's gone through.
Becky doesn't have any real friends in her confirmation class. She likes the kids she volunteers with, but they're already in high school and she doesn't have much in common with them. This isn't about social connections or peer pressure. My neice has found peace through worship.
She has done this on her own. I am so incredibly proud of her.
My kid sister did not have the same introduction to organized religion that my older sister and I did. By the time she should have begun confirmation classes, my parents' marriage had deteriorated to such a sad state that other things took precedence. My sister fell in love with, and then married, a lapsed Catholic son of a not-so lapsed mother. It was easier for them to have their wedding in a non-denominational church. When my neice and nephew were born, it was easier for them to not have the conversation with his mother about not having the kids baptised Catholic. At least that's what they say. Since Mike's mom has been dead for years and my sister never belonged to any church, they were never clear about what faith they would raise their children in instead.
Which is because it simply wasn't a priority for them. This concerned me. I used to ask them where the kids would go for answers to the big questions about God, fate, death, the afterlife, etc. My sister actually said, with a straight face, "the Internet."
My neice has always been very bright and an independent thinker. When she was barely in Kindergarten, we were walking around town one day and she asked, "If there's only one God, where are there so many different churches?" As she got older, she became concerned about sin, and punishment -- both on a macro level (war) and on a micro level (her own anger). It came to a head when my sister heard Becky crying herself to sleep because she had enjoyed teasing her obnoxious kid brother. Was that a big enough sin, would it displease God enough, that she would end up in hell?
So much for my sister's plan that, when confronted with the big questions, Becky just Google "Jesus."
Becky's pain convinced her parents that it was time to shop around for a church. They ended up at the one where my late grandmother was very active, where my sisters and I were baptised and I was confirmed. That was fine, except the services are too early and it's such a drag to get the whole family dressed and to church on time. My lazy ass sister wondered if Becky would think about some other nice church, with more convenient showtimes and a nearer location.
My neice politely, but seriously, stood up to her mother. She wanted to go to this Lutheran church. To Becky, the fact that two generations of women before her worshipped there made it the church she wanted to go to. She told her parents that she understood how hard it would be for them to get the whole family to services and not to worry about it. She could there on her own. She could ride her bike.
This completely got to my brother-in-law, who has always had a special and very lovely bond with his little girl. No, he said he'd go with her. He has been as good as his word. He drives her over, attends the service with her. He also drives her to her Saturday confirmation classes, and the Monday evening volunteer work she does (currently cleaning and folding the used bedding that's been donated for the homeless).
In order to be confirmed with her class, Becky has to be baptised. She is in junior high. Being baptised like a baby during a regular service, in front of everyone, made her too nervous and embarrassed. She discussed it with the pastor and he is bending the rules to allow her to be baptised between services on August 22. And, thank goodness, her kid brother is being baptised at the same time and will start Sunday school in the fall. Saving him the turmoil she's gone through.
Becky doesn't have any real friends in her confirmation class. She likes the kids she volunteers with, but they're already in high school and she doesn't have much in common with them. This isn't about social connections or peer pressure. My neice has found peace through worship.
She has done this on her own. I am so incredibly proud of her.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
More than a game, more than a team, more than a player
I am bereft. I am desolate. I am all kinds of other synonyms for sad that I'm too sad to think of right now. Yes, all because of The Trade. Greg Maddux to the Dodgers.
I feel bad about Todd Walker, too, because he was hot. But Greg Maddux is one of the best pitchers to ever pick up a baseball. It was a privilege to have him here … twice. I looked forward to his every start. I was actually there, within the Friendly Confines, that rainy night last summer when he got his 3000th strikeout. Losing him hurts like hell.
Don't say it's "just a game." It's so much more than that. It's the Cubs. And the Cubs are the only thing that brought my dysfunctional family together. As an adult I have converted to another religion and certainly vote differently than my relatives. But I'm still and always and forever a Cub fan. It feels like the only thing that links us.
My mother's mom was a serious fan who preferred the radio broadcasts to watching TV because she hated the Cubs' announcer, Jack Brickhouse (or "Jack Brickhead," as she called him). Her son, my uncle, is battling Parkinson's disease and his body fails a bit more every day. Yet one of the things that still makes him happy is Vineline, and passing the back issues along to me. My dad watched every game he could and yelled at the set when they lost (which has been often). I'm a fan in the mold of my dad's parents. I learned from them that it's not whether you win or lose, it's loyalty to your guys. So what if we didn't win? Did a Cub hit a homer or make a terrific catch? Was the sun bright and the beer cold? Then it was a good game. Winning is wonderful, but not mandatory. My grandmother loved her team so much she wore a Cubs jacket when she gardened. Her all-time favorite Cub was Ryne Sandberg. I just knew she was happy, watching from Heaven on the day he was inducted into the Hall of Fame, and whenever I catch a glimpse of the #23 pennant waving above Wrigley Field, I think of her and smile.
Ernie Banks. Ron Santo. Glenn Beckert. Don Kessinger. Billy Williams. Mark (sigh) Grace. And now Greg Maddux. I have loved them all. I have said farewell to them all. God, but this one really hurts.
In his exit interview, the ever-classy future Hall of Famer said that part of him would always be a Cub. Amen. Once my guy, always my guy.
I feel bad about Todd Walker, too, because he was hot. But Greg Maddux is one of the best pitchers to ever pick up a baseball. It was a privilege to have him here … twice. I looked forward to his every start. I was actually there, within the Friendly Confines, that rainy night last summer when he got his 3000th strikeout. Losing him hurts like hell.
Don't say it's "just a game." It's so much more than that. It's the Cubs. And the Cubs are the only thing that brought my dysfunctional family together. As an adult I have converted to another religion and certainly vote differently than my relatives. But I'm still and always and forever a Cub fan. It feels like the only thing that links us.
My mother's mom was a serious fan who preferred the radio broadcasts to watching TV because she hated the Cubs' announcer, Jack Brickhouse (or "Jack Brickhead," as she called him). Her son, my uncle, is battling Parkinson's disease and his body fails a bit more every day. Yet one of the things that still makes him happy is Vineline, and passing the back issues along to me. My dad watched every game he could and yelled at the set when they lost (which has been often). I'm a fan in the mold of my dad's parents. I learned from them that it's not whether you win or lose, it's loyalty to your guys. So what if we didn't win? Did a Cub hit a homer or make a terrific catch? Was the sun bright and the beer cold? Then it was a good game. Winning is wonderful, but not mandatory. My grandmother loved her team so much she wore a Cubs jacket when she gardened. Her all-time favorite Cub was Ryne Sandberg. I just knew she was happy, watching from Heaven on the day he was inducted into the Hall of Fame, and whenever I catch a glimpse of the #23 pennant waving above Wrigley Field, I think of her and smile.
Ernie Banks. Ron Santo. Glenn Beckert. Don Kessinger. Billy Williams. Mark (sigh) Grace. And now Greg Maddux. I have loved them all. I have said farewell to them all. God, but this one really hurts.
In his exit interview, the ever-classy future Hall of Famer said that part of him would always be a Cub. Amen. Once my guy, always my guy.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Still friends, still good
My best friend left me a message late Saturday night/early Sunday morning. He called me where he knew I wasn't at that hour (the office) to update me on the travails of moving to another state. His wife and little girl were worn out and had crashed at a friend's. He was alone in his empty house, patching holes and painting, preparing for the final walk through before the Monday morning closing. The message was detailed and friendly and comfortable and it meant the world to me.
He may have called because as he looked over his weekend and experienced yet another unplanned turn, he thought, "Laurie would appreciate this shit." Or he may have called because we won't be able to talk in real-time for several days and he doesn't want me to feel anxious about not being able to contact him. Did he want to share, or was he just being thoughtful? I don't care. It doesn't matter.
The only thing that does matter is that we're still friends, and we're still good. I feel less isolated, less vulnerable, knowing that. It's a good way to prepare for Monday and a possibly tension-filled, deadline-driven week.
He may have called because as he looked over his weekend and experienced yet another unplanned turn, he thought, "Laurie would appreciate this shit." Or he may have called because we won't be able to talk in real-time for several days and he doesn't want me to feel anxious about not being able to contact him. Did he want to share, or was he just being thoughtful? I don't care. It doesn't matter.
The only thing that does matter is that we're still friends, and we're still good. I feel less isolated, less vulnerable, knowing that. It's a good way to prepare for Monday and a possibly tension-filled, deadline-driven week.
Please don't, Mr. Hendry. PLEASE DON'T!
You cannot trade my beloved #31, Future Hall of Famer Greg Maddux. You simply can't! I had to watch him pack up and leave the Cubs for another team once before. I don't think I can bear it again.
Look, he's on the wrong side of 40, so you're not going to get that much for him. He's such a class act, both on the field and off, that he would be a positive influence on whatever young pitchers you decide to go with.
And hey, let's not forget about me. I hate my job. My mom has had a health scare. There's more than a little unnecessary but distracting drama going on with my sisters these days. I miss my best friend sooooo much. I have to pay $3675 that I don't have for new windows. It's hot. My complexion is acting up … GIVE AN OLD GIRL A BREAK, MR. HENDRY! I've been a good, loyal and true Cub fan my whole life. Watching The Professor is one of the few slivers of sunshine in my otherwise drab existance.
Please, sir.
Look, I'm not unreasonable here. There are players you can trade and I wouldn't protest. Phil Nevin, for example. I'm sure he's a completely lovely man who has always been good to his mother, but he's really very average looking and he hasn't been on the team long enough for me to become too attached to him. I'll even close my eyes and look away if you decide to part with (sigh) Todd Walker. Yes, I love his hair, his perpetual 5:00 shadow and his butt, but I realize you have a job to do. (And, as a boyfriend once pointed out to me, I'm supposed to view Wrigley Field as a tabernacle of baseball, not as a Hooters for women.)
But not Mad Dog. Please don't trade him, Mr. Hendry. Please don't!
Look, he's on the wrong side of 40, so you're not going to get that much for him. He's such a class act, both on the field and off, that he would be a positive influence on whatever young pitchers you decide to go with.
And hey, let's not forget about me. I hate my job. My mom has had a health scare. There's more than a little unnecessary but distracting drama going on with my sisters these days. I miss my best friend sooooo much. I have to pay $3675 that I don't have for new windows. It's hot. My complexion is acting up … GIVE AN OLD GIRL A BREAK, MR. HENDRY! I've been a good, loyal and true Cub fan my whole life. Watching The Professor is one of the few slivers of sunshine in my otherwise drab existance.
Please, sir.
Look, I'm not unreasonable here. There are players you can trade and I wouldn't protest. Phil Nevin, for example. I'm sure he's a completely lovely man who has always been good to his mother, but he's really very average looking and he hasn't been on the team long enough for me to become too attached to him. I'll even close my eyes and look away if you decide to part with (sigh) Todd Walker. Yes, I love his hair, his perpetual 5:00 shadow and his butt, but I realize you have a job to do. (And, as a boyfriend once pointed out to me, I'm supposed to view Wrigley Field as a tabernacle of baseball, not as a Hooters for women.)
But not Mad Dog. Please don't trade him, Mr. Hendry. Please don't!
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Fan, as in "fanatic" or "Fanilow."
A lifelong friend of mine is going through a rough spot. Man trouble, kid trouble, work trouble and (I suspect) money trouble. She has been finding respite in a gentler past, which includes … gulp … Barry Manilow.
She saw Barry Manilow at Ravinia decades ago and he rocked her world. OK. I think some of his stuff can be fun and entertaining. I have maybe a half dozen of his songs on my iPod. I also have Helen Reddy and Bobby Sherman on my iPod. I have great affection for some pop songs because of who I was, where I was, when they were hits. I know that they certainly aren't art, but they mean something to me.
My friend's love of Manilow goes deeper. She has romantic, sexual fantasies about him. She thinks he's a great artist. She thinks he could have been the next Gene Kelly or Frank Sinatra.
Shudder. But what they hey. If it makes her happy, there's no harm.
She chats with other Fanilows on internet boards. This to me is the fascinating part. Through her I have been exposed to an entire world of Fanilows. They write about him, take umbrage on all who cast aspersions on his sexuality, express disgust toward those who dismiss his music as "schmaltz," rejoice in his recent Emmy nomination, and, most interestingly of all, live in terror of his management company … Stiletto. Apparently Stiletto has supernatural powers. Fanilows seem to believe Stiletto can control their blogs and their thoughts. Anyone who says anything even slightly negative about Barry Manilow is going down, baby.
He's Barry Manilow. He's not even Taylor Hicks. It's not like all the major magazines and news shows are clamoring for his time. Yet these folks believe he's so hot that this band of brass-knuckled image protectors are out there, guarding this evergreen man of the hour/year/decade/lifetime.
If Barry Manilow has such a passionate legion of true believers, does that mean every 70s artist who had more than one gold record also has them? What about KC and the Sunshine Band? Helen Reddy? Tony Orlando? Glen Campbell? Right now, could I be trading fond recollections of the red flannel shirts and stutter that made Bobby Sherman's TV persona so compelling to me back in 7th grade?
I know that mystery authors have serious message boards that inspire discussion. But this is new to me. The good thing, I guess, is that the Internet provides people with a sense of community they simply can't get anywhere else. It doesn't matter if you're emailing about "Mandy" or posting about your post card collection. You've found someone who shares your interest, and it makes you feel a little less lonely.
She saw Barry Manilow at Ravinia decades ago and he rocked her world. OK. I think some of his stuff can be fun and entertaining. I have maybe a half dozen of his songs on my iPod. I also have Helen Reddy and Bobby Sherman on my iPod. I have great affection for some pop songs because of who I was, where I was, when they were hits. I know that they certainly aren't art, but they mean something to me.
My friend's love of Manilow goes deeper. She has romantic, sexual fantasies about him. She thinks he's a great artist. She thinks he could have been the next Gene Kelly or Frank Sinatra.
Shudder. But what they hey. If it makes her happy, there's no harm.
She chats with other Fanilows on internet boards. This to me is the fascinating part. Through her I have been exposed to an entire world of Fanilows. They write about him, take umbrage on all who cast aspersions on his sexuality, express disgust toward those who dismiss his music as "schmaltz," rejoice in his recent Emmy nomination, and, most interestingly of all, live in terror of his management company … Stiletto. Apparently Stiletto has supernatural powers. Fanilows seem to believe Stiletto can control their blogs and their thoughts. Anyone who says anything even slightly negative about Barry Manilow is going down, baby.
He's Barry Manilow. He's not even Taylor Hicks. It's not like all the major magazines and news shows are clamoring for his time. Yet these folks believe he's so hot that this band of brass-knuckled image protectors are out there, guarding this evergreen man of the hour/year/decade/lifetime.
If Barry Manilow has such a passionate legion of true believers, does that mean every 70s artist who had more than one gold record also has them? What about KC and the Sunshine Band? Helen Reddy? Tony Orlando? Glen Campbell? Right now, could I be trading fond recollections of the red flannel shirts and stutter that made Bobby Sherman's TV persona so compelling to me back in 7th grade?
I know that mystery authors have serious message boards that inspire discussion. But this is new to me. The good thing, I guess, is that the Internet provides people with a sense of community they simply can't get anywhere else. It doesn't matter if you're emailing about "Mandy" or posting about your post card collection. You've found someone who shares your interest, and it makes you feel a little less lonely.
Icky Vicki of the of the Main Post Office in Oak Park, IL -- Part 2
I won't go into the detail about precisely how rude my favorite public "servant" was yesterday (except to say that I believe she took her afternoon break while waiting on me). But it was so grating that on the way out of the post office I took that happy little take one, with the smiling lady in the blue uniform, with the headline, "Let's hear from you." (Smiling? Does Vicki know she's supposed to smile?)
I called the toll-free number and complained about dear, sweet Vicki. I emphasized that every at the post office is friendly and helpful … except Vicki. It's true. Everyone smiles, everyone chats, everyone offers me phone cards, stamps or money orders … except dour, unfriendly, unhappy Vicki.
Complaining felt good. My tax dollars help pay that bitch's salary. The least she could do is return the courtesy I show her. We all inhabit this planet together. A minimal amount of respect helps keep the emotional temperature tolerable, even during this heat wave.
But can she spit in my mail?
I called the toll-free number and complained about dear, sweet Vicki. I emphasized that every at the post office is friendly and helpful … except Vicki. It's true. Everyone smiles, everyone chats, everyone offers me phone cards, stamps or money orders … except dour, unfriendly, unhappy Vicki.
Complaining felt good. My tax dollars help pay that bitch's salary. The least she could do is return the courtesy I show her. We all inhabit this planet together. A minimal amount of respect helps keep the emotional temperature tolerable, even during this heat wave.
But can she spit in my mail?
Thursday, July 27, 2006
But I don't wanna!
Condo association meeting tonight. We are going to tackle all manner of serious topics: what fee new owners should be charged when they move in (don't care); whether owners should be allowed to rent their units (no); and what to do about the windows. I don't know! I know this is an important and potentially expensive decision I am about to make. Replacing windows is costly and almost always has an impact on resale value.
But this is a subject I know nothing about. I resent having to make this decision. I wish this was being handled like our roof. I simply received a note in the mail one day, telling me how much I owed for my 1/24th of the new roof. Fine.
To make matters worse, I got a free pass to a sneak preview to Miami Vice tonight. It's tempting to blow off this condo association meeting and get reacquainted with Crockett and Tubbs. The siren song of a free movie, I can feel it coming in the air tonight.
But no, I shall act my age and go to the damn meeting. But I don't want to do it, and will be primed with beer before I get there.
But this is a subject I know nothing about. I resent having to make this decision. I wish this was being handled like our roof. I simply received a note in the mail one day, telling me how much I owed for my 1/24th of the new roof. Fine.
To make matters worse, I got a free pass to a sneak preview to Miami Vice tonight. It's tempting to blow off this condo association meeting and get reacquainted with Crockett and Tubbs. The siren song of a free movie, I can feel it coming in the air tonight.
But no, I shall act my age and go to the damn meeting. But I don't want to do it, and will be primed with beer before I get there.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Farewell to one of my favorite places on earth
I believe I had my final adventure in retail at Marshall Field's State Street. It was a melancholy experience. The store was not that crowded, and the merchandise is being shifted and rearranged and cleared away to make way for Macy's and those house brands. Maybe it makes it easier that it didn't feel like my store anymore.
I got two sweaters (deep navy Ralph Lauren pullover and powder blue Liz Claiborne cardigan), and shorts (Field sniff-sniff Gear) and a black/red blouse from JM (a Macy's house brand). While it came to about $205, but it's important to note that I saved more than $30 with my final Field's Rewards coupon.
Then on the way out I hit the cosmetic counters. This was a far less sentimental journey because almost all of these brands will be available even after Macy's takes over. I visited my friends at Clinique for blemish concealer, bought SJP's Lovely body lotion (and look and smell more and more like Carrie Bradshaw with each passing minute) and Smashbox auburn mascara and lash primer. There's nothing wrong with my lashes -- it's not like they are brittle, dry or sparse. But I like the idea of buying a new product during my last visit with a dear old friend. (And I saved more than $16 at the cosmetic counters; I prefer thinking of that, rather than what I spent.)
Thanks, Marshall Field's State Street. Because of your convenient location and your rich history, you were my perfect getaway destination when I needed a retail fix. Whether I had hours to browse or had to power shop, you fit the bill and made me feel like I'd stumbled upon the happiest place on earth. I'll miss how helpful the sales associates always were How every purchase was wrapped carefully in tissue. How my personal shopper turned me on to Eileen Fisher. And, like everyone else, I loved the Christmas windows, the tree and the Frangoes. Goodbye, Marshall Field's State Street.
I got two sweaters (deep navy Ralph Lauren pullover and powder blue Liz Claiborne cardigan), and shorts (Field sniff-sniff Gear) and a black/red blouse from JM (a Macy's house brand). While it came to about $205, but it's important to note that I saved more than $30 with my final Field's Rewards coupon.
Then on the way out I hit the cosmetic counters. This was a far less sentimental journey because almost all of these brands will be available even after Macy's takes over. I visited my friends at Clinique for blemish concealer, bought SJP's Lovely body lotion (and look and smell more and more like Carrie Bradshaw with each passing minute) and Smashbox auburn mascara and lash primer. There's nothing wrong with my lashes -- it's not like they are brittle, dry or sparse. But I like the idea of buying a new product during my last visit with a dear old friend. (And I saved more than $16 at the cosmetic counters; I prefer thinking of that, rather than what I spent.)
Thanks, Marshall Field's State Street. Because of your convenient location and your rich history, you were my perfect getaway destination when I needed a retail fix. Whether I had hours to browse or had to power shop, you fit the bill and made me feel like I'd stumbled upon the happiest place on earth. I'll miss how helpful the sales associates always were How every purchase was wrapped carefully in tissue. How my personal shopper turned me on to Eileen Fisher. And, like everyone else, I loved the Christmas windows, the tree and the Frangoes. Goodbye, Marshall Field's State Street.
Larry King is a doddering fool
He's interviewing Sen. John Warner and Gov. Bill Richardson about the crisis in Lebanon. These men are decision-makers (Warner) and steeped in the history of the region (Richardson). And what does goofy ol' Lar ask them? "What do you think about this cease fire … thing?" I half expect him to ask the Senator, "You were married to Liz Taylor for a while, weren't you? Isn't she a Jew? Does that influence how you feel about this … thing?"
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
It's not Sarah Jessica Parker's fault
I really love her scent, Lovely. It's unique, it's lasting, it's feminine. The bottle is pretty, too. I feel all girly when I'm wearing Lovely.
I was embarrassed the first time I bought it, though. And I have felt a little silly each subsequent time I've approached the cosmetic counter. Here's why …
Years ago there was a movie named Educating Rita. The heroine was a student by evening and a hairdresser by day. She spoke of her clients with a mix of amusement and contempt, especially the 250 lb. grannies who would bring in magazine photos of Princess Diana and request, "Make me look like that."
I imagine that each time I buy Lovely bath gel or body lotion or cologne, the woman behind the counter is rolling her eyes, thinking, "So this pudgy, middle-aged broad thinks wearing the scent will make her like Sarah Jessica Parker."
But just as I wouldn't buy a fragrance because a celebrity endorses it, I shouldn't not buy it because of a celebrity endorsement, either. I like Lovely. And I'm going to keep wearing it.
Besides, these days those manning the cosmetic counter at Marshall Field's are probably wondering how long their severance will last once the folks from Macy's take over. They couldn't care less what I buy. I can be such a silly woman!
I was embarrassed the first time I bought it, though. And I have felt a little silly each subsequent time I've approached the cosmetic counter. Here's why …
Years ago there was a movie named Educating Rita. The heroine was a student by evening and a hairdresser by day. She spoke of her clients with a mix of amusement and contempt, especially the 250 lb. grannies who would bring in magazine photos of Princess Diana and request, "Make me look like that."
I imagine that each time I buy Lovely bath gel or body lotion or cologne, the woman behind the counter is rolling her eyes, thinking, "So this pudgy, middle-aged broad thinks wearing the scent will make her like Sarah Jessica Parker."
But just as I wouldn't buy a fragrance because a celebrity endorses it, I shouldn't not buy it because of a celebrity endorsement, either. I like Lovely. And I'm going to keep wearing it.
Besides, these days those manning the cosmetic counter at Marshall Field's are probably wondering how long their severance will last once the folks from Macy's take over. They couldn't care less what I buy. I can be such a silly woman!
I'm looking away now
I heard about the destruction of the UN post and the casualties late this afternoon. It broke my heart. It's THE UNITED NATIONS, people! This is how massive world wars begin. I can't stand it.
I checked CNN.com regularly at work. I've watched CNN since I got home. I heard Senator Allen talk about how great it was that Israel also managed to take out a Hezbollah leader. I'm against terrorists and murderers, of course, but it makes me very uncomfortable and sad to hear a self-proclaimed Christian sound like a cheerleader when discussing the death of a fellow human being. ANY fellow human being. (It's interesting that Allen is against protecting a woman's reproductive rights but is downright giddy over the violent death of another person. WWJD, Senator?)
All this is so sad. All this is so pointless. None of this will accomplish anything. Iraq, Iran, Korea, Lebanon, Israel, Pakistan … Dear God, where are we headed?
I'm turning away from CNN now. Maybe My Fair Brady is on VH1. I need complete escape.
I checked CNN.com regularly at work. I've watched CNN since I got home. I heard Senator Allen talk about how great it was that Israel also managed to take out a Hezbollah leader. I'm against terrorists and murderers, of course, but it makes me very uncomfortable and sad to hear a self-proclaimed Christian sound like a cheerleader when discussing the death of a fellow human being. ANY fellow human being. (It's interesting that Allen is against protecting a woman's reproductive rights but is downright giddy over the violent death of another person. WWJD, Senator?)
All this is so sad. All this is so pointless. None of this will accomplish anything. Iraq, Iran, Korea, Lebanon, Israel, Pakistan … Dear God, where are we headed?
I'm turning away from CNN now. Maybe My Fair Brady is on VH1. I need complete escape.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
It's not cancer
My mother got good news from her doctor. Thank goodness, the business with her throat has NOT resulted in cancer. I am so relieved … and grateful. My concern now, of course, is that since she doesn't have cancer now, she will believe this means smoking hasn't harmed her and there is no need to quit.
I have never been a smoker, so I simply do not understand how such a filthy, smelly, expensive habit can be so pleasurable that she's willing to risk her life for it. I realize that women of my mother's generation began smoking so they could look sophisticated, like Lauren Bacall. But we have known the hazards of smoking since the 1960s. She has had decades to quit. Yet she can't/won't.
In fairness to her, I must report that she has gone from a pack/day to just 3 or 4 cigarettes a day. But over the space of a year, that's more than 1,200 cigarettes, with smoke and carcinogens traveling down her poor old esophagas. Yet she won't quit. I find this unutterably sad.
Oh well. I realize that what I am dealing with here is really not unique. Coping with our parents' mortality is something we will all have to face. And I imagine it's just this crappy for everyone.
I have never been a smoker, so I simply do not understand how such a filthy, smelly, expensive habit can be so pleasurable that she's willing to risk her life for it. I realize that women of my mother's generation began smoking so they could look sophisticated, like Lauren Bacall. But we have known the hazards of smoking since the 1960s. She has had decades to quit. Yet she can't/won't.
In fairness to her, I must report that she has gone from a pack/day to just 3 or 4 cigarettes a day. But over the space of a year, that's more than 1,200 cigarettes, with smoke and carcinogens traveling down her poor old esophagas. Yet she won't quit. I find this unutterably sad.
Oh well. I realize that what I am dealing with here is really not unique. Coping with our parents' mortality is something we will all have to face. And I imagine it's just this crappy for everyone.
Visiting with Katie and Hubbell
I am watching "The Way We Were" again for the 3,000,000th time. I know every scene, and can recite much of the dialog verbatim. And yet here I am watching ... again. Almost unable to look away.
Why do some movies have such a hold on our imaginations? Yes, the stars help. The 1970s were The Golden Age of The Golden Boy, with Redford looking impossibly gorgeous. And activism and involvement has seldom had a more poignant spokeswoman than Streisand, whose longing (for justice, for a better world, for more time in his arms) is so achingly real.
And I was so young and impressionable when I saw this for this first time. In my adolescence I wanted to believe in a world where, no matter how strident or unconventional I was, I could still come home and find a terrifically fabulous sailor nude in my bed. It's only through repeated viewings that I have noticed that my life has imitated this particular piece of art in subtle ways. (My inability to "leave the soapbox at home" has damaged a relationship or two.) Unfortunately none of these ways included a blond, blue-eyed Adonis.
Movies race by faster when you're this familiar with the content. You'd think it would be the opposite, that the pace would seem slower and that you'd be bored. But no, it moves faster. This is not the only time I've noticed this strange compression of time. After midnight time seems to race, too. I can be doing something at 1:30, look at the clock a little bit later and will be shocked to discover it's 3:00 already.
Gotta go. Katie is about to explain to Hubbell why it must be exciting to be stationed in Washington. ("Because Roosevelt is there!")
Why do some movies have such a hold on our imaginations? Yes, the stars help. The 1970s were The Golden Age of The Golden Boy, with Redford looking impossibly gorgeous. And activism and involvement has seldom had a more poignant spokeswoman than Streisand, whose longing (for justice, for a better world, for more time in his arms) is so achingly real.
And I was so young and impressionable when I saw this for this first time. In my adolescence I wanted to believe in a world where, no matter how strident or unconventional I was, I could still come home and find a terrifically fabulous sailor nude in my bed. It's only through repeated viewings that I have noticed that my life has imitated this particular piece of art in subtle ways. (My inability to "leave the soapbox at home" has damaged a relationship or two.) Unfortunately none of these ways included a blond, blue-eyed Adonis.
Movies race by faster when you're this familiar with the content. You'd think it would be the opposite, that the pace would seem slower and that you'd be bored. But no, it moves faster. This is not the only time I've noticed this strange compression of time. After midnight time seems to race, too. I can be doing something at 1:30, look at the clock a little bit later and will be shocked to discover it's 3:00 already.
Gotta go. Katie is about to explain to Hubbell why it must be exciting to be stationed in Washington. ("Because Roosevelt is there!")
Friday, July 21, 2006
My biggest fan is automated
I don't know who is out there, if anyone, but just in case any actual, warm-blooded human beings visit this blog, I warn you not to read the comments. They're spam. I know I can go through and remove them, but I don't feel like doing it just now. So consider this your consumer warning.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Scarlett replaces Gwyneth …
… as my least favorite movie actress.
I'm watching Match Point as I write this. I loved it when I saw it in the theater and told everyone it was sexy and suspenseful. It seems to move slower on DVD, which only gives me more time to be annoyed by Scarlett Johanssen.
SPOILER ALERT! I haven't been this gleeful about a leading lady's demise since Brad Pitt took the lid off the bakery box in Seven. Aside from annoying me, Scarlett and Gwyneth Paltrow don't have a lot in common.
Gwyneth is self-consciously aristocratic, as though being a Paltrow is akin to being a Windsor or a Grimaldi. But Scarlett simply oozes slut. While Gwyneth is high-maintenance, clear-skinned pretty, Scarlett's vibe is all dead eyes, sleepy voice and swollen lips. (When I think of that captivating little girl from The Horse Whisperer, I'm just glad Pilgrim is dead so he can't see that he risked his noble equine life for such a trollop.)
Yet they have over-rated talent in common. I never for a moment forget that Gwyneth is Gwyneth. And that Scarlett is Scarlett. They are not actresses enough to disappear into their parts, nor charismatic enough to engage me as film personalities. (Like Julia Roberts, Sandra Bullock or Jennifer Aniston. They may not be great actresses, but they sure are fun movie stars.)
I suggest that from here on, directors hire Anne Hathaway for all roles previously slated for Scarlett.
Young Jonathan Rhys Meyer is fun and versatile. From Bend it Like Beckham to Elvis to MI:3, he surprises me and delights me. Still, I'd like all his roles to go to Johnny Depp. Because I believe that every movie should star Johnny Depp.
I'm watching Match Point as I write this. I loved it when I saw it in the theater and told everyone it was sexy and suspenseful. It seems to move slower on DVD, which only gives me more time to be annoyed by Scarlett Johanssen.
SPOILER ALERT! I haven't been this gleeful about a leading lady's demise since Brad Pitt took the lid off the bakery box in Seven. Aside from annoying me, Scarlett and Gwyneth Paltrow don't have a lot in common.
Gwyneth is self-consciously aristocratic, as though being a Paltrow is akin to being a Windsor or a Grimaldi. But Scarlett simply oozes slut. While Gwyneth is high-maintenance, clear-skinned pretty, Scarlett's vibe is all dead eyes, sleepy voice and swollen lips. (When I think of that captivating little girl from The Horse Whisperer, I'm just glad Pilgrim is dead so he can't see that he risked his noble equine life for such a trollop.)
Yet they have over-rated talent in common. I never for a moment forget that Gwyneth is Gwyneth. And that Scarlett is Scarlett. They are not actresses enough to disappear into their parts, nor charismatic enough to engage me as film personalities. (Like Julia Roberts, Sandra Bullock or Jennifer Aniston. They may not be great actresses, but they sure are fun movie stars.)
I suggest that from here on, directors hire Anne Hathaway for all roles previously slated for Scarlett.
Young Jonathan Rhys Meyer is fun and versatile. From Bend it Like Beckham to Elvis to MI:3, he surprises me and delights me. Still, I'd like all his roles to go to Johnny Depp. Because I believe that every movie should star Johnny Depp.
All I wanna do is sleep
Sleep, sleep, sleep.
When it's as hot as it is, and has been, that's all I want to do. Just going outside for a minute takes so much out of me! Heat is to me as Kryptonite is to Superman. It saps all my powers and renders me downright mortal.
Nothing holds my interest for long. I'm thirsty all the time. My hair finds imaginative ways to curl, all on its own. My eye shadow melts. My institutional gray desktop is so cool that I'm tempted to just give up and give in by pressing my cheek against it and calling it a day. Sleep, sleep, sleep.
Then tonight, after a 45-minute el ride with really cranky fellow commuters, I'll get home and find that if I try to run the air conditioner AND the DVD player, I blow the livingroom/diningroom/kitchen circuit. (Actually I think the problem is my cable box, which in hot weather behaves as if it's auditioning for a dinner theater production of Poltergeist.) But that's OK. Because right now my dearest wish isn't to be tucked in the corner of my sofa watching those DVD's I rented. No, I wish to be in my bedroom. On clean, cool sheets. After (at least) making out with my best friend.* Then sleep, sleep, sleep.
*Oh, it won't ever happen. But it's hot and I'm grumpy and we take our pleasure where we can.
When it's as hot as it is, and has been, that's all I want to do. Just going outside for a minute takes so much out of me! Heat is to me as Kryptonite is to Superman. It saps all my powers and renders me downright mortal.
Nothing holds my interest for long. I'm thirsty all the time. My hair finds imaginative ways to curl, all on its own. My eye shadow melts. My institutional gray desktop is so cool that I'm tempted to just give up and give in by pressing my cheek against it and calling it a day. Sleep, sleep, sleep.
Then tonight, after a 45-minute el ride with really cranky fellow commuters, I'll get home and find that if I try to run the air conditioner AND the DVD player, I blow the livingroom/diningroom/kitchen circuit. (Actually I think the problem is my cable box, which in hot weather behaves as if it's auditioning for a dinner theater production of Poltergeist.) But that's OK. Because right now my dearest wish isn't to be tucked in the corner of my sofa watching those DVD's I rented. No, I wish to be in my bedroom. On clean, cool sheets. After (at least) making out with my best friend.* Then sleep, sleep, sleep.
*Oh, it won't ever happen. But it's hot and I'm grumpy and we take our pleasure where we can.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
This stuff is good
1) I saw my best friend on Wednesday night. He looked wonderful. He was in for a job interview and he might get a firm job offer. I hope he takes it, and not only because it would mean a trip to Chicago every month. I think this is great for his bruised ego, and this company seems to want to help him grow in his career. It was terrific to see him, even if it wasn't for long and I had to share him with former coworkers that he didn't get a chance to say goodbye to. He kept his tie on for me. I always said I wondered how he'd look in a tie. He looks good very good in a tie. I think he looks very good under any and all circumstances. I miss him so …
2) There's an extra $600 in my checking account. Apparently it's been there since before I started using Quicken in the late 90s. I'm going to pretend I haven't discovered this -- using the $600 as a cushion against rubber checks. But it makes me happy.
3) I got a raise. 4.5%. I still hate my job, but it's easier to endure knowing that I'm being compensated a bit more fairly. The "loser/sucker" that had previously been printed across my forehead appears to be fading a little …
There's a lot that's NOT good, but I'm not going to think about that now. I'm going to think of how nice it was that he wore a tie, how good it is that I have six hundred secret dollars, and that I finally got a raise.
2) There's an extra $600 in my checking account. Apparently it's been there since before I started using Quicken in the late 90s. I'm going to pretend I haven't discovered this -- using the $600 as a cushion against rubber checks. But it makes me happy.
3) I got a raise. 4.5%. I still hate my job, but it's easier to endure knowing that I'm being compensated a bit more fairly. The "loser/sucker" that had previously been printed across my forehead appears to be fading a little …
There's a lot that's NOT good, but I'm not going to think about that now. I'm going to think of how nice it was that he wore a tie, how good it is that I have six hundred secret dollars, and that I finally got a raise.
Mother/Daughter Role Reversal
My mother had quite the week last week. She had a malignant growth removed from her left arm -- skin cancer. The hole took five stitches to close and it bled quite a bit, but her dermatologist is confident they got it all. We won't know for sure, though, until next week, when the biopsy results come back. You'd think that when the test is something as important as a biopsy, they could add an element of "hurry up," but I guess a week is what it takes.
Then she went to a different doctor to get her throat checked. My mother has "Barrett's esophagas," which means the lining of her esophagas is compromised. This is the result of acid reflux and more than half a century of cigarettes. She's been taking Prevacid for years, but her doctor is concerned that the degeneration hasn't slowed. Another biopsy. Another week long wait.
I took Thursday off to check on her after the exicision. I got to her house before she returned and was laying on the sofa when she arrived. I watched her come up the front steps, wincing because of the little shopping bag she was carrying. On the way back from the dermatologist, she asked my sister to make a stop at the convenience store so she could pick up her essentials for the weekend. The bag held peanuts (so my mother and my little nephew could feed the squirrel that lives in her backyard) and a carton of cigarettes.
I was speechless. And I cannot tell you how seldom that happens!
My mother had been told twice -- by two different doctors -- that she was flirting with life threatening cancer. The skin cancer on her arm will turn out fine, God willing, but she has to take care of herself. Smoking has helped exacerbate the Barrett's and she's waiting for results of that biopsy, too. And she felt that what she needed for the weekend was another carton of cigarettes!
Last night I had a very serious conversation with her. I reminded her of that long ago day, back in the 1970s, when my mother was summoned to the hospital to speak to her mother's doctors. My grandmother had been drinking on the sly for years, and it had seriously damaged her health. Doctors had summoned the family to the hospital, alerted them to her drinking, and explained the ramifications. My mother and grandmother were very close, and this upset her enormously.
Now, said I, how would you have felt if, on the way home from the hospital, old Grandma had stopped for a beer … said that she knew the drinking was "bad," but wasn't quite ready to quit yet.
I reminded my mother that back in the 1970s, she was already an adult. She had her own home and her own family. Yet she still needed her mother. I told her this was no different for me. She said she had never thought of it that way, and realizes that now is the time to quit smoking.
We will see. My mother can be very stubborn in a passive-aggressive way. She'll agree to something, but then just turn around and go her own way. Let's see how this story unfolds.
Then she went to a different doctor to get her throat checked. My mother has "Barrett's esophagas," which means the lining of her esophagas is compromised. This is the result of acid reflux and more than half a century of cigarettes. She's been taking Prevacid for years, but her doctor is concerned that the degeneration hasn't slowed. Another biopsy. Another week long wait.
I took Thursday off to check on her after the exicision. I got to her house before she returned and was laying on the sofa when she arrived. I watched her come up the front steps, wincing because of the little shopping bag she was carrying. On the way back from the dermatologist, she asked my sister to make a stop at the convenience store so she could pick up her essentials for the weekend. The bag held peanuts (so my mother and my little nephew could feed the squirrel that lives in her backyard) and a carton of cigarettes.
I was speechless. And I cannot tell you how seldom that happens!
My mother had been told twice -- by two different doctors -- that she was flirting with life threatening cancer. The skin cancer on her arm will turn out fine, God willing, but she has to take care of herself. Smoking has helped exacerbate the Barrett's and she's waiting for results of that biopsy, too. And she felt that what she needed for the weekend was another carton of cigarettes!
Last night I had a very serious conversation with her. I reminded her of that long ago day, back in the 1970s, when my mother was summoned to the hospital to speak to her mother's doctors. My grandmother had been drinking on the sly for years, and it had seriously damaged her health. Doctors had summoned the family to the hospital, alerted them to her drinking, and explained the ramifications. My mother and grandmother were very close, and this upset her enormously.
Now, said I, how would you have felt if, on the way home from the hospital, old Grandma had stopped for a beer … said that she knew the drinking was "bad," but wasn't quite ready to quit yet.
I reminded my mother that back in the 1970s, she was already an adult. She had her own home and her own family. Yet she still needed her mother. I told her this was no different for me. She said she had never thought of it that way, and realizes that now is the time to quit smoking.
We will see. My mother can be very stubborn in a passive-aggressive way. She'll agree to something, but then just turn around and go her own way. Let's see how this story unfolds.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Reynaldo & Me, Life and Love with the World's Worst Cat
Reynaldo is 2.5 years old. This cat is no longer a kitten. Yet even though chronologically he should have left kittenhood behind, he remains a wild-eyed, destructive force who must be reckoned with, day in and day out. Like the Grogans in their book about Marley, I find my patience sorely tested.
Monday morning, at about 4:30 AM, he decided it would be fun to "let there be light." So he jumped onto my vanity, stretched, reached, and thoroughly amused himself by turning the switch on and off. I live alone. I cannot express how terrifying it is to be awakened by my bedroom light being switched on and off. I yelled at him as I threw my legs over the side of the bed. He looked at me with big, bright orange eyes, lit with excitement. "Oh, good," you could see him thinking, "We're going to play that game where she chases me and yells at me!" But I fooled him. I simply closed my bedroom door, turned off the light, and slept for another 90 minutes.
Chalk one up for the bi-ped with opposing thumbs, right? Not really.
I opened my bedroom door at 6:00 to the worst smell imaginable. Reynaldo had left a very fragrant, rather runny "gift" for me in my bathtub. (Props to whoever invented kitty litter; before Monday I don't think I fully realized how wretched that smell is without it.) I had forgotten that when I closed him out of my bedroom, I had closed him off from his box. Stifling a gag or two I cleaned and disinfected my tub (just what I want to do first thing Monday morning) and figured he had used up his quota of really bad morning behavior for the week.
Ah, but I'm just a dreamer.
This morning all was going well. Reynaldo was racing around happily, chasing the balls with the bells inside and tormenting my older, more sedate cat, Charlotte. (The torment is only perceived on her end; with him, it's all good fun, as in "We're going to play that game where she lays on her back and squeals like a monkey until I take my paws off her chest.") I was in the bathroom, applying just a little more hairspray to combat the humidity when I heard a CRASH! in the kitchen.
Charlotte raced past me, in the other direction, down the hall. Alone. Where was Rey? As I went to investigate I was filled with dread. Turning the corner to the dining room I saw him, scrunched down on his haunches, dragging his butt along the carpet. I saw a wet trail behind him. I was sure that he had fallen hard and broken something, damaging his internal organs so that he could no longer control his bladder. I tried gently to get him to stand on all fours. No way. That skinny little tom can he very strong when he wishes to be and he most emphatically was not going to stand on all fours.
It wasn't quite 8:00 AM yet. Emergency vet, I was thinking. But is it OK to bundle him up and put him in the carrier? How much can I handle him without doing more damage?
Then I looked past him to the kitchen. And it all became very clear. He had fallen or jumped from somewhere (the top of the new refrigerator, perhaps?) and had somehow landed ass first into his metal water bowl. And he wasn't crazy about the feeling of cold water on his anus, hence the scraping it along the carpet. I stood up and looked down at him. "You're fine, aren't you?" He sprung up and tried to herd me into the kitchen, hoping I would feed him again. I went into the kitchen to clean up the water spill and he circled me, trying to convince me that giving him more Friskies would be just thing to do right now.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Hell, I'm afraid for tonight.
He doesn't believe in framed artwork. He knocks it off the desk and bookshelves as well as stretching up and trying to remove it from walls. He likes to eat things -- mostly the handles on bags and purses. Every now and then, though, a nice umbrella hits the spot. (There are few things in life more useless than an umbrella covered with little pinprick-sized bite holes.) Glasses need to be spilled, as to cans. It's always more fun to spill cola than beer because the stain is so much darker. Hanging from the drapes is nice. As is trying to sneak between my legs and out the door at every given opportunity.
I'm tired.
But, like Marley in Grogan's book, Rey is not without his charms. He loooooves me. He enjoys sprawling across my lap while I'm reading. He submits merrily to "We're going to play the game where she cuts my nails." When we're en route to the vet, he comforts Charlotte by gently cleaning her ears. He is endlessly patient and gentle with the little boy next door and my nephew (as in, "We're going to play the game where he pulls my ears or yanks my tail"). Since he doesn't perceive any interaction as negative, he is utterly fearless. Reynaldo's world isn't filled with strangers, just playmates he hasn't met yet.
So I guess I should just accept it. After almost two years, Reynaldo is mine and I am his, and we simply have to find a way to peacefully co-exist.
Monday morning, at about 4:30 AM, he decided it would be fun to "let there be light." So he jumped onto my vanity, stretched, reached, and thoroughly amused himself by turning the switch on and off. I live alone. I cannot express how terrifying it is to be awakened by my bedroom light being switched on and off. I yelled at him as I threw my legs over the side of the bed. He looked at me with big, bright orange eyes, lit with excitement. "Oh, good," you could see him thinking, "We're going to play that game where she chases me and yells at me!" But I fooled him. I simply closed my bedroom door, turned off the light, and slept for another 90 minutes.
Chalk one up for the bi-ped with opposing thumbs, right? Not really.
I opened my bedroom door at 6:00 to the worst smell imaginable. Reynaldo had left a very fragrant, rather runny "gift" for me in my bathtub. (Props to whoever invented kitty litter; before Monday I don't think I fully realized how wretched that smell is without it.) I had forgotten that when I closed him out of my bedroom, I had closed him off from his box. Stifling a gag or two I cleaned and disinfected my tub (just what I want to do first thing Monday morning) and figured he had used up his quota of really bad morning behavior for the week.
Ah, but I'm just a dreamer.
This morning all was going well. Reynaldo was racing around happily, chasing the balls with the bells inside and tormenting my older, more sedate cat, Charlotte. (The torment is only perceived on her end; with him, it's all good fun, as in "We're going to play that game where she lays on her back and squeals like a monkey until I take my paws off her chest.") I was in the bathroom, applying just a little more hairspray to combat the humidity when I heard a CRASH! in the kitchen.
Charlotte raced past me, in the other direction, down the hall. Alone. Where was Rey? As I went to investigate I was filled with dread. Turning the corner to the dining room I saw him, scrunched down on his haunches, dragging his butt along the carpet. I saw a wet trail behind him. I was sure that he had fallen hard and broken something, damaging his internal organs so that he could no longer control his bladder. I tried gently to get him to stand on all fours. No way. That skinny little tom can he very strong when he wishes to be and he most emphatically was not going to stand on all fours.
It wasn't quite 8:00 AM yet. Emergency vet, I was thinking. But is it OK to bundle him up and put him in the carrier? How much can I handle him without doing more damage?
Then I looked past him to the kitchen. And it all became very clear. He had fallen or jumped from somewhere (the top of the new refrigerator, perhaps?) and had somehow landed ass first into his metal water bowl. And he wasn't crazy about the feeling of cold water on his anus, hence the scraping it along the carpet. I stood up and looked down at him. "You're fine, aren't you?" He sprung up and tried to herd me into the kitchen, hoping I would feed him again. I went into the kitchen to clean up the water spill and he circled me, trying to convince me that giving him more Friskies would be just thing to do right now.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Hell, I'm afraid for tonight.
He doesn't believe in framed artwork. He knocks it off the desk and bookshelves as well as stretching up and trying to remove it from walls. He likes to eat things -- mostly the handles on bags and purses. Every now and then, though, a nice umbrella hits the spot. (There are few things in life more useless than an umbrella covered with little pinprick-sized bite holes.) Glasses need to be spilled, as to cans. It's always more fun to spill cola than beer because the stain is so much darker. Hanging from the drapes is nice. As is trying to sneak between my legs and out the door at every given opportunity.
I'm tired.
But, like Marley in Grogan's book, Rey is not without his charms. He loooooves me. He enjoys sprawling across my lap while I'm reading. He submits merrily to "We're going to play the game where she cuts my nails." When we're en route to the vet, he comforts Charlotte by gently cleaning her ears. He is endlessly patient and gentle with the little boy next door and my nephew (as in, "We're going to play the game where he pulls my ears or yanks my tail"). Since he doesn't perceive any interaction as negative, he is utterly fearless. Reynaldo's world isn't filled with strangers, just playmates he hasn't met yet.
So I guess I should just accept it. After almost two years, Reynaldo is mine and I am his, and we simply have to find a way to peacefully co-exist.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Why Suri Cruise matters
I just downloaded Suri Cruise's birth certificate. And I, too, wonder why she hasn't been seen. I also feel terribly invested in Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughan. I'm happy they're in love, but I don't want them to rush into marriage, just because Brangelina had a baby first so Jen wants to win the race to the altar. And I'm hoping that his dramatic turn in the upcoming Hollywoodland rejuvenates Ben Affleck's career. All of this is important to me.
No, I'm not stupid. And yes, I do have real friends, people that I actually interact with on a regular basis, that I could concentrate on.
But I often find reality lacking, so I escape into the pages of US, PEOPLE and smokinggun.com.
My mom is flirting with skin cancer. One friend told me that she enjoys following her Xanax with wine because it calms her down faster. Another friend is so overwhelmed at work that she has a hard time stringing three coherent words together. Another can't afford medical insurance so she keeps telling me how superior she feels to the rest of us, experiencing her body while the rest of us simply medicate ours. And it's Monday, so let me say it for the first time this week: I hate this job.
I do read. I know about the Korean situation. It scares me that we have Bolton at the UN. It disgusts me that we are occupying a country with no WMD's while we should have been paying attention to a country that is rather proud of its missles. I know about the soldiers charged with rape and murder in Iraq and wonder how far our actions at Gitmo and Abu Gharib went in dehumanizing these American boys. I ache for the woman here in Chicago who deserted her ADD son at Taste of Chicago because she didn't have the resources -- emotional and fiscal -- to care for him. There's so much misery everywhere we look.
So I choose every now and again to look away and focus instead on Suri and Jen and Vince and Ben. (The Star Jones thing is pretty entertaining, too.)
I do, however, about the soul-sucking nature of celebrity worship. In the summer of 2004 I saw Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg at a fundraiser for Senator Kerry. Here's a woman who has been famous her entire life, and not by choice. As she walked through the crowd, she seemed fragile and damaged. Here she was, at a reception for Kerry campaign staff. She would never find a more supportive audience anywhere. And yet as she made her way to the stage, she seemed not to hear us, as though sending her mind away to the Happy Place would protect her somehow. I worried how she would fare at the real dinner in the ballroom where she would have to mingle with big dollar contributors. I suddenly felt very maternal toward her. I wanted to put my arms around her and tell her she didn't have to do this -- we had their credit card numbers already, so even if she ran away, we still had their contributions. Once she made it to the stage, she was poised, sophisticated and very well spoken. But we weren't surrounding her when she was on stage.
It occured to me as I listened to her speak that I have seen her bid farewell to her entire immediate family. I watched her slip her hand under the flag that covered her father's coffin. I saw her kiss her hand and touch her mother's grave at Arlington. Through telescopic lenses I saw her seated on a ship, listening to the service as her brother's ashes were tossed into the sea. How weird, creepy and intrusive is that? I realize that the Kennedys are public figures, part of history, and that press attention goes with the territory. But watching that thin woman try to slip through the crowd without making eye contact, seeing the trepidation in every line of her body, I wonder what had happened to her to make her construct such a thick protective shell. Do people stop her on the street and ask about Marilyn Monroe, Chappaquidick and assassination theories? Seeing her that night makes me wonder about the personal price of celebrity as entertainment, even as I indulge in it.
No, I'm not stupid. And yes, I do have real friends, people that I actually interact with on a regular basis, that I could concentrate on.
But I often find reality lacking, so I escape into the pages of US, PEOPLE and smokinggun.com.
My mom is flirting with skin cancer. One friend told me that she enjoys following her Xanax with wine because it calms her down faster. Another friend is so overwhelmed at work that she has a hard time stringing three coherent words together. Another can't afford medical insurance so she keeps telling me how superior she feels to the rest of us, experiencing her body while the rest of us simply medicate ours. And it's Monday, so let me say it for the first time this week: I hate this job.
I do read. I know about the Korean situation. It scares me that we have Bolton at the UN. It disgusts me that we are occupying a country with no WMD's while we should have been paying attention to a country that is rather proud of its missles. I know about the soldiers charged with rape and murder in Iraq and wonder how far our actions at Gitmo and Abu Gharib went in dehumanizing these American boys. I ache for the woman here in Chicago who deserted her ADD son at Taste of Chicago because she didn't have the resources -- emotional and fiscal -- to care for him. There's so much misery everywhere we look.
So I choose every now and again to look away and focus instead on Suri and Jen and Vince and Ben. (The Star Jones thing is pretty entertaining, too.)
I do, however, about the soul-sucking nature of celebrity worship. In the summer of 2004 I saw Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg at a fundraiser for Senator Kerry. Here's a woman who has been famous her entire life, and not by choice. As she walked through the crowd, she seemed fragile and damaged. Here she was, at a reception for Kerry campaign staff. She would never find a more supportive audience anywhere. And yet as she made her way to the stage, she seemed not to hear us, as though sending her mind away to the Happy Place would protect her somehow. I worried how she would fare at the real dinner in the ballroom where she would have to mingle with big dollar contributors. I suddenly felt very maternal toward her. I wanted to put my arms around her and tell her she didn't have to do this -- we had their credit card numbers already, so even if she ran away, we still had their contributions. Once she made it to the stage, she was poised, sophisticated and very well spoken. But we weren't surrounding her when she was on stage.
It occured to me as I listened to her speak that I have seen her bid farewell to her entire immediate family. I watched her slip her hand under the flag that covered her father's coffin. I saw her kiss her hand and touch her mother's grave at Arlington. Through telescopic lenses I saw her seated on a ship, listening to the service as her brother's ashes were tossed into the sea. How weird, creepy and intrusive is that? I realize that the Kennedys are public figures, part of history, and that press attention goes with the territory. But watching that thin woman try to slip through the crowd without making eye contact, seeing the trepidation in every line of her body, I wonder what had happened to her to make her construct such a thick protective shell. Do people stop her on the street and ask about Marilyn Monroe, Chappaquidick and assassination theories? Seeing her that night makes me wonder about the personal price of celebrity as entertainment, even as I indulge in it.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
I'm an American Girl
With all apologies to Tom Petty fans, I'm going to mix and merge two of his songs here. A few years back, I met a Jordanian ex-patriate at a party and after about a half hour of conversation, he said (with affection), "I have finally met the American Girl from the Tom Petty song." He had gotten "American Girl" and "Free Falling" confused. I was flattered by his observation and have thought about it often since then.
"She's a good girl, loves her Mama …" Yes. My mother is having minor cancer surgery this Thursday and it's about all I can think of. It's skin cancer, an in-office procedure. But it's still cancer and she's still my mother.
"Loves Jesus, and America, too." Yes, indeedy. I'm a patriotic Christian. (Which is why I'm still proud of MY vote on 11/2/04. Wonder how many Bushies can say the same.)
"Crazy 'bout Elvis." Yes. Definitely. I wanted Emil or Elliott or whoever the hell he was voted off American Idol after he screwed up "If I Can Dream." That's a great song. A beautiful song. Elvis' contribution is just as moving a testament to its time as "Blowin' in the Wind." Oh, and I have seen King Creole and Viva Las Vegas like a million times.
"Loves horses, and her boyfriend, too." I've always loved horses. Noble, beautiful beasts. And actually, I'm secretly in love with someone else's husband, but since I've never told him, I don't think that will cost me my "good girl" status.
And yes, I do believe I'm "free falling." Sometimes I feel like it's a battle to keep my head above water, to remain positive, to concentrate on the many good and happy things in my life. But I'm trying!
And, as an American Girl, I have to confess that I COULD NOT CARE LESS about Wimbeldon or the World Cup. Make them go away. They are just confusing my TV watching and taking valuable media attention away from my Cubs. HEY! They are on a streak now (two in a row)! And besides, there's trade talk floating around regarding my two favorite players (my beloved #31, future Hall of Famer Greg Maddux and Todd Walker, he of the really beautiful hair). I need to be informed!
"She's a good girl, loves her Mama …" Yes. My mother is having minor cancer surgery this Thursday and it's about all I can think of. It's skin cancer, an in-office procedure. But it's still cancer and she's still my mother.
"Loves Jesus, and America, too." Yes, indeedy. I'm a patriotic Christian. (Which is why I'm still proud of MY vote on 11/2/04. Wonder how many Bushies can say the same.)
"Crazy 'bout Elvis." Yes. Definitely. I wanted Emil or Elliott or whoever the hell he was voted off American Idol after he screwed up "If I Can Dream." That's a great song. A beautiful song. Elvis' contribution is just as moving a testament to its time as "Blowin' in the Wind." Oh, and I have seen King Creole and Viva Las Vegas like a million times.
"Loves horses, and her boyfriend, too." I've always loved horses. Noble, beautiful beasts. And actually, I'm secretly in love with someone else's husband, but since I've never told him, I don't think that will cost me my "good girl" status.
And yes, I do believe I'm "free falling." Sometimes I feel like it's a battle to keep my head above water, to remain positive, to concentrate on the many good and happy things in my life. But I'm trying!
And, as an American Girl, I have to confess that I COULD NOT CARE LESS about Wimbeldon or the World Cup. Make them go away. They are just confusing my TV watching and taking valuable media attention away from my Cubs. HEY! They are on a streak now (two in a row)! And besides, there's trade talk floating around regarding my two favorite players (my beloved #31, future Hall of Famer Greg Maddux and Todd Walker, he of the really beautiful hair). I need to be informed!
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Back to the grind
Why is it so hard to concentrate after four glorious days off? Shouldn't I feel invigorated and re-energized? Instead I'm lethargic and completely unenthusiastic about everything on my desk, on my calendar, on my to-do list.
Is this because I am no longer happy at this job? Perhaps this is just the natural order of things and everyone feels this way today.
There are so many things I could be doing at home. Scrubbing my bathroom floor. Disposing of even more extraneous paper. (Two bags of magazines, catalogs and outdated correspondence yesterday alone!) Sorting through books for the book fair to benefit the Oak Park Public Library. Watching continuous coverage of Ken Lay/Korea while playing endless games of Pogo 21 …
Instead of all those lofty pursuits, I am, in the immortal words of Huey Lewis, "Taking what they're giving because I'm working for a living."
Is this because I am no longer happy at this job? Perhaps this is just the natural order of things and everyone feels this way today.
There are so many things I could be doing at home. Scrubbing my bathroom floor. Disposing of even more extraneous paper. (Two bags of magazines, catalogs and outdated correspondence yesterday alone!) Sorting through books for the book fair to benefit the Oak Park Public Library. Watching continuous coverage of Ken Lay/Korea while playing endless games of Pogo 21 …
Instead of all those lofty pursuits, I am, in the immortal words of Huey Lewis, "Taking what they're giving because I'm working for a living."
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Unable to part with Johnny Depp
Right here beside me is Johnny Depp, smiling from the June 26 cover of Newsweek. I am making an optimistic attempt to rid my living room of all this paper. I should toss this into the bag of recycled paper. Oh, but look at him …
There are lots of things I could think about today. My mom's health. Current events. My suck-o job/career. My longing for my best friend.
Or I could just look at Johnny Depp.
I'm sticking with Johnny.
He's simply gorgeous,and he refuses to trade on it. Pirates of the Carribean. Finding Neverland. Blow. Ed Wood. Secret Window. Charley and the Chocolate Factory. Considering how completely delicious he looks, these were not only daring career choices, they were downright perverse. I admire his sense of humor and sense of integrity. Oh, and his cheekbones and how he looks in jeans.
Now that I'm thinking good, clean, dirty thoughts: I am also in love with Bruce Willis. His effortless sense of cool. His (seeming) complete of vanity, in both his personal appearance and his career choices. In Lucky Number Slevin, he played the father figure to Josh Hartnett, an actor just about the same age as his ex-wife's new hubby. So much for caring about the image.
Then there's George Clooney. I never cared much about him, one way or the other, until Good Night and Good Luck. Loved the movie, love his point of view about free speech and the press, love how he looked in a tux during awards season. Love how he uses his fame to draw attention to genocide. Love how well he seems to get along with his dad. I hope he forgives me for ignoring him during the ER/Ocean's 11 hubub, and if there's still room on his bandwagon, I'd like to jump on.
I also get all swooney about Rob Lowe on The West Wing. (I'm into the reruns on Bravo.) He's so earnest and idealistic. And I love how he looks in those suits. Didn't I read somewhere that Aaron Sorkin based Rob's Sam Seaborn on George Stephanopolous when he worked for Bill Clinton? Sure, he's a pretty boy. But then I can be hot for a pretty boy with the right social conscience.
Then there's the pretty boy who is that and nothing else: Hugh Grant. Maybe he's a good actor. We've never really seen him stretch himself. But he's certainly a charming screen presence, and that's enough for me. And ever since I was a little girl, breathlessly enchanted by Paul McCartney, I've had a weakness for handsome Brits who can't keep their hair out of their eyes.
What a lovely respite this was! Thank you Johnny, Bruce, George, Rob and Hugh. I appreciate the stardust you've sprinkled into my mundane little life. But now it's back to housework.
There are lots of things I could think about today. My mom's health. Current events. My suck-o job/career. My longing for my best friend.
Or I could just look at Johnny Depp.
I'm sticking with Johnny.
He's simply gorgeous,and he refuses to trade on it. Pirates of the Carribean. Finding Neverland. Blow. Ed Wood. Secret Window. Charley and the Chocolate Factory. Considering how completely delicious he looks, these were not only daring career choices, they were downright perverse. I admire his sense of humor and sense of integrity. Oh, and his cheekbones and how he looks in jeans.
Now that I'm thinking good, clean, dirty thoughts: I am also in love with Bruce Willis. His effortless sense of cool. His (seeming) complete of vanity, in both his personal appearance and his career choices. In Lucky Number Slevin, he played the father figure to Josh Hartnett, an actor just about the same age as his ex-wife's new hubby. So much for caring about the image.
Then there's George Clooney. I never cared much about him, one way or the other, until Good Night and Good Luck. Loved the movie, love his point of view about free speech and the press, love how he looked in a tux during awards season. Love how he uses his fame to draw attention to genocide. Love how well he seems to get along with his dad. I hope he forgives me for ignoring him during the ER/Ocean's 11 hubub, and if there's still room on his bandwagon, I'd like to jump on.
I also get all swooney about Rob Lowe on The West Wing. (I'm into the reruns on Bravo.) He's so earnest and idealistic. And I love how he looks in those suits. Didn't I read somewhere that Aaron Sorkin based Rob's Sam Seaborn on George Stephanopolous when he worked for Bill Clinton? Sure, he's a pretty boy. But then I can be hot for a pretty boy with the right social conscience.
Then there's the pretty boy who is that and nothing else: Hugh Grant. Maybe he's a good actor. We've never really seen him stretch himself. But he's certainly a charming screen presence, and that's enough for me. And ever since I was a little girl, breathlessly enchanted by Paul McCartney, I've had a weakness for handsome Brits who can't keep their hair out of their eyes.
What a lovely respite this was! Thank you Johnny, Bruce, George, Rob and Hugh. I appreciate the stardust you've sprinkled into my mundane little life. But now it's back to housework.
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