New Year's Eve Eve

Tomorrow is New Year's Eve, which means I'll be donning a glamorous red gown and stepping out on the town for champagne and midnight snogging with my dashing . . .

Sorry. I can't lie well at all. My actual plans are much more fun, anyway, and won't involve make-up or corrective undergarments of any kind: The Boy and I are each having two friends over for chicken pot pie, junk food, and board games, and . . . maybe a little Ryan Seacrest at midnight. There are only going to be a few more New Year's Eves when The Boy will deign to hang out with me, and even give me a smooch when the ball drops, and there's no way I'm giving that up.

Weasley is Our King

I give you . . . the Ron Weasley scarf, finished mere hours before it was scheduled to be unwrapped:



My mother liked it, I think, but . . . I don't know whether the ratio of her appreciation to the amount of time/work went into it was what I was hoping for. I love the colors, but . . . I think it ended up being too Aztec-looking, or something. I guess it doesn't matter, though. She liked her other gifts, and my dad loved his stuff (especially The Boy's framed drawing of the car my dad is restoring), and everyone was happy.

I have to admit that I'm starting to like Christmas less and less. Christmas morning with The Boy and his dad was wonderful and happy and peaceful and fun (we spent hours eating cookies and fruit and playing MarioKart and The Price is Right on the Wii), but the rest of the time left me feeling drained. Everyone is too loud, and I'm too likely to take the easy way out and hide on the porch with the old men and the smokers.

Maybe I won't quite say Humbug, but I'm glad, glad, glad it's over, and I can enjoy some silence.

Happiness

The Boy and I finally put up the tree last night (We have a fake tree because C is allergic to certain kinds of pine, and even though we're divorced I really don't want to see him end up in the ER because of the tree. AGAIN.), and I'm pleased to announce that my idea of loading it up with cinnamon-scented pine cones to repel the cats seems to be a success. And it looks so full and pretty that I'm tempted to leave off the rest of the decorations, and just have it as it is, with lights and the pine cones.

I had a moment of total happiness and contentment last night once we decided to take a break from the decorating. The Boy had been to an ice skating party after school and was tired and getting sort of saggy, so turned out all the lights but the tree, cuddled up on the couch with a blanket and the cats, and watched some of the DVD set about the Steelers' super bowl championships we borrowed from the library.

I was warm and comfortable, enjoying being cozy with my favorite person in the world, on my new couch in a room made beautiful by Christmas lights, and watching a surprisingly interesting and well-made program on TV. I was happy. And I was lucky enough to have recognized it. I may be fat and broke, and frustratingly unable to find a job as a librarian, but . . . my life is a happy one.

Still Knitting

This sock yarn is KILLING me.

***
I sat with The Boy and some of his friends to watch the Middle School girls play a basketball game after school yesterday, and one of the boys, J (P knows him as Mutt), remarked to me in a whisper that one of the girls on the opposing team had a mustache. She did, too. A pretty big, full, dark one. J wasn't being mean about it, necessarily; he was surprised and bemused, more than anything.

I said, "Yes, she does. And I can promise you that she feels terrible about it every time she looks in the mirror, and that her parents probably won't let her do anything about for one reason or another, and that the moment she can, she will." He said, "Why wouldn't her parents let her get rid of it?" I told him that it might be because they think she's too young, or because they think she's great the way she is, or that it could anything . . . but that she's stuck with it, at least for now.

He seemed appropriately moved by her plight. Because, really: How crappy must it be to find yourself a 7th or 8th-grade girl with a mustache? My thirteen-year-old self, the one with braces, glasses, and zits, really felt for her.

Then I wondered if I was wrong to feel badly for her. I mean, maybe it doesn't bother her at all? Maybe she's a million times more secure than I was at that age, and she already knows that it's not what you look like that matters, and could do something about the mustache but chooses not to?

Could kids be that much more mature in 2008 than they were in, say, 1984? Maybe?

Noodle Arms Update

I mentioned yesterday that the kids on The Boy's basketball team have noodle arms, and I sort of stick by that (the combined scored yesterday was 32), but MY kid, well . . . My kid seems to have turned into a beast, and I am truly amazed and thrilled.

You see, I never wanted to play basketball, because the idea of having to get into peoples' personal space to try and steal the ball from them always made me very uncomfortable--especially when you consider that basketball uniforms leave a lot of moist, sweaty, stranger skin exposed. Ick. (Football is different: If there aren't pads, there are at least proper clothes, and you aren't so much invading personal space as you are just plowing people down. In my mind, it's very different, and way less creepy.)

The Boy, though, after a very meek first game, seems to have decided that aggression is okay on the court, and showed none of the pleasant good manners or reserve that he displays generally: He leaped, he grabbed, he intercepted (if you can use that terms in basketball), and he fought for the ball, and strangers' personal space and sweaty skin be damned.

Do you people know what this means? It means that he may grow up to be more sure of himself than his dad and I are. It means that he may be a lot less likely to back down from things. It means that his dad and I may get our wish, because we both believe that we'd be a lot happier if we could find healthy ways to unleash our inner beasts.

Go team!

Can't Talk: Knitting

Christmas is in, like, fifteen minutes, and I just started a project for my mom that has derailed everything and is going to take forever. See, my mother loves Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley in particular. What was I to do, then, upon finding this Harry Potter sock yarn in the Ron Weasley pattern?



I can't make socks (not well enough to give them away as gifts--YET), so what to do with the Ron yarn? I'm making a scarf, of course. On #3 needles. And the woman at the yarn store suggested knitting a tube, so I'm using FOUR #3 needles. Which is taking for-freaking-ever. But it's going to be nice. So nice! So pretty! And she's going to love it.

In other news, The Boy (who is now officially twelve) is playing on the Middle School basketball team. No one in the history of my family (or C's) has ever played on a basketball team, so this is cool and foreign to all of us. You should see how cute he looks in his SUPER PURPLE uniform! Super dorks! With noodle arms! Do you know how low-scoring a basketball game can be when all of the boys playing have noodle arms, and therefore miss FAR more of the shots at the ten-foot-high hoop than they make? He's played in one game so far, and I don't think the total final score broke 30. There's another game today--I can't wait. FINALLY basketball that's slow enough for me to follow!

Birthday Party #1

December is the month that keeps on giving for The Boy, as his birthday is eleven days before Christmas. It doesn't always work out quite this way, but this year he's getting to celebrate his birthday three times, and the first was a sleep over for his friends last Saturday night.

His dad, C, was here, to supply the pizza and get some cake, and my friend P was here, because The Boy loves her and because I needed an adult to hang out with once C made a break for it, and The Boy's friends M, J, and A spent the night. I had expected to spend most of the evening upstairs with P, watching Buffy episodes with P while the boys played video games downstairs, but I couldn't have been more wrong.

We had pizza, cake, and presents, and then when C left P and I headed upstairs as planned. We had just just started watching Buffy when we heard singing. Loud, off-key, fairly rhythm-free singing that sounded more like drunken carousing than anything else. The boys were playing Sing Star 80s, which is a sort of karoke game I bought myself when The Boy got his PS2. I have no idea why, but THAT'S what the boys decided to start off with. Imagine four twelve-year-old boys on two teams, sharing two microphones, and competing to see who was better at singing songs none of them knew (although to be fair, they ALL knew Eye of the Tiger and The Final Countdown). The only thing sadder (and funnier) than their rendition of Madonna's Material Girl was their attempt at Billy Joel's Uptown Girl. Think of the song, and think of the extended "whoa-oh-oh-OH-ohs" included in it. And then imagine boys who aren't familiar attempting to interpret the textual representations of those "whoa-ohs" and then sing them. Talk about SLAUGHTER. But they had a grand time, despite the fact that you couldn't have paid any of these kids to have taken part in the recent Middle School Musical, and that when they were in Lower School and HAD to be involved in stage productions and musicals, they'd all sort of stand on stage, hands in pockets, looking bored or sheepish or both as they worked their way through the songs. Maybe it was the element of competition that made them enjoy Sing Star? Maybe they'd have enjoyed the school productions more if winners were declared at the end? I don't know, but they really enjoyed their own miserable singing. And the laughing at each other.

The real fun started when one of the kids brought out his little Flip video camera, and the boys decided to make a movie. P and I saw some of the action, and heard most of it, and so pieced things together before getting to view the finished products. The movie was about a sort of bank heist, and opened with J and M playing the robbers. We learned this because they and A, the camera man, came upstairs and asked if we could pause the Buffy so they could pretend to climb in that particular window and thus film the break-in. I duly opened the window (despite the fact that it was 15-degrees outside), but wouldn't remove the screen as J asked me to do. In the words of M, "NO! What if you fall out?" Right.

So P and I were shunted to the side while the break-in was filmed. M played Dog, the tougher, smarter criminal, and J was Mutt, the comic relief. I don't know if the casting was on purpose, but J is a good head taller than M, so they made the classic Smart Little Guy/Dumb Big Guy cartoon team. Filming began with Dog already inside, and Mutt coming through the window. The set up and dialog made it appear that the two were surprised to see each other, as there were greetings and questions of, "How long ya been out?" (The incomprehensibility of the scene, delivered in tough-guy slang and voices, was too much for P and I. We didn't want to be rude, but we were literally doubled over in tears of silent laughter--the kind of tears that make you have to blow your nose and clean your glasses. The boys didn't mind a bit.)

P and I regained control of ourselves and our seats, and then sat in silence while the boys filmed take after take of the scene where they descended the stairs and talked over their plan to break in (again?), attack The Boy, and then not shoot him until AFTER they had THE ANSWERS. (See where that comic relief might come in?)

Things got quiet for a while, so P and I resumed the Buffy until we heard the unexpected strains of Avril Lavigne's I Don't Like Your Girlfriend, which mystified us. We stayed where we were, though, not wanting to intrude on the filming. It turns out that The Boy was a security guard of sorts, and his scene involved waking up to the Avril Lavagne song, and then dancing until the criminals came out from behind a curtain and attacked him.

Dog gave The Boy ten seconds to give up the answers (although I'm not at all sure what the questions were), and then proceeded to count backwards from ten. Again, and again, and again, take, after take, after take. Finally, though, The unyielding Boy was shot by Mutt, and fell silent . . . BEFORE GIVING ANY ANSWERS. And Dog, in his disgust, killed the hapless Mutt and drug him outside. Upon Dog's return, though, it was revealed that The Boy wasn't actually dead. A fight ensued, during which A, playing a robot, killed Dog and then said, "Okay, time to watch Dharma and Greg. The not-really-dead Dog deadpanned, "I hate that show," and took a last shot at the robot, who fell over, spectacularly dead, and . . . Fin.

P and I tossed Buffy aside to listen to all of this from the top of the stairs, laughing hysterically. I think I even peed a little when I heard A mention Dharma and Greg, because . . . WHAT?

I never expected to be so entertained, and I know P didn't either, but it was a spectacle. They tried another movie after P left, this time a Bond film that involved me and my best British Accent supplying the telephone voice of M. I got to end my conversation by saying, "And Bond . . . try not to kill him." Classic! That movie didn't last long, however, and turned more into a lot of mugging and ninja-ing for the camera.

Everyone finally started to get tired around 1am, so I saw to it that blankets and pillows were distributed and went to bed with some Wodehouse. They finally played video games the way I expected to until they shut it all down a little after 2am.

I'm glad I'm off today, because as much as I enjoyed them, I needed the peace.

I Seem to Have Dropped (Nearly) a Decade

I took The Boy to our local EB Games last night (those things are like Radio Shacks--there's one on every corner now), because he wanted to trade in the video games he doesn't play to make room for what he hopes will be plenty of new ones coming for his birthday (a week from Sunday) and Christmas. He also wanted to see if he'd get enough in trade to be able to get a new (used) game for free, so he and his friends would have something new to play at his birthday party sleep-over tomorrow night.

It turns out that he got more in trade than he'd anticipated: He got his new game and a Wii zapper, and still has credit left to buy anything he might not get for Christmas. But that's not the exciting thing, and it's certainly not why I'm telling you this story.

The guys who work at our EB Games are really nice, and even kind of flirty (with me, not with The Boy--they're just nice to him). So they were checking my information to update The Boy's frequent buyer card, and after confirming my address and stuff, the guy said, "And your birth date is January of 1980?" 1980?!?!? I was born in January of 1971! I don't care if the guy was blind, stupid, lying, or whatever, but he didn't bat an eye at the notion that I was 28 years old! I have no problems with the fact that I'll actually be 38 next month, and I'm always bothered by the importance our culture puts on being/looking young, but I have to admit that I was flattered.

So that was nice. Especially when my boy is about to turn twelve. (Which, the astute among you may have noticed, means that next year my son will be a teenager.) I try not to think about that, though, because my mind can't grasp the physics of how my child could be a teenager when I myself was a teenager like, fifteen minutes ago. Perhaps I've been spending time hanging out near a black hole without knowing it?

Dream On

I have been having a veritable bonanza of crazy dreams lately, featuring such celebrity guest stars as Roy Scheider (scary dream that featured elements of The Abyss), Ronald McDonald (terrifying dream, which co-starred Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, and in which Ronald McDonald HAD NO EYES), and Lance Bass (In that dream, The Boy was jealous and pissy because he thought Lance was being too flirty with me, and I had to say, “Um, you should worry about how much attention Lance Bass pays to DAD, not me!”).

I dreamed recently of my Uncle Tom’s ex-wife’s brother’s son, who I’ve probably met twice in my life—both times before my uncle’s divorce circa 1981. I dreamed about the scary, chainsaw-wielding guy from the commercial that tells parents about the ability to block television programs so their kids can’t watch them. I dreamed that Mimi Smartypants was pregnant (and sent her an e-mail to tell her so, just in case).

I dreamed about being on a softball team and having to join the team in lugging an enormously heavy king-sized bed frame to the field, and that the coach parked blocks away despite the fact that there was a parking space RIGHT WHERE WE NEEDED TO PUT THE BED.

I don’t even know what to say for myself. I believe I have moaned/yelled loudly enough that I have scared The Boy, whose room is a good ten yards away from mine, twice.

My subconscious is clearly trying to tell me something lately, but I have no idea what.

Math & Musicals

The Boy is taking part in some kind of math competition today, and since it’s being held here on campus, I went up to the student union to see if I could have a peek and wish him well. I found him in the ballroom, surrounded by hundreds of kids with huge calculators sitting at round tables, fidgeting, swinging their feet, pulling their hair, sucking their teeth, and sniffling. I love my kid and his friends, but I could never stand to be a teacher. Gah!

I got there as the final questions were going on, so I sat with some other adults along the wall, chit-chatting in a respectfully low tone, so as not to disturb the young mathletes at work. Do you know that one of the women running the show grabbed a microphone and chastised the adults—not only for making too much noise (which we weren’t, but which would have been understandable if we had been), but because she said she could hear numbers coming from the sidelines! Like we were cheating! The man and woman I was sitting with were equally surprised and put off. I started whisper-shouting, “Five! Five!” The man laughed, and the woman started (softly) banging her foot off the floor, counting like a trained horse. Another lady came over and said, “If we wanted to cheat, we’d text them the answers. Duh.” Duh, indeed.

I’m glad I went up, though, as The Boy was happy to see me.

I’ll see more kids tonight, as The Boy and I will be meeting some other kids and parents to have dinner and then go to the opening performance of Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, this year’s Middle School musical. The Boy is not in it, and wanted nothing at all to do with it, but is excited to go see it. I don’t think I’ve seen kids this age perform since I was but a poor Catholic school kid in many an impoverished production of those incredibly horrible musicals specifically composed to be performed by school kids, so this will be a treat. I think.

I mean, it would have to be. One of our school productions (held in the cafeteria that also served as our gym) included a medley of songs from commercial jingles (around the time Coca Cola wanted us to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony). In addition to the Coke song (we ended the show by dimming all the lights and HOLDING LIT CANDLES as we sang), we covered Band-Aids and Kodak. Why? No idea. The most memorable shows—for me, at least—were actual musicals, rather than just concerts. Once we traveled through time exploring . . . transportation, singing songs about cave people Rock and Martha and their wheel, Henry Ford and his Model T, and perambulating babies in The Baby Buggy Boogie. The absolute best (worst), though, was The Greatest Christmas Card, featuring G.T. G.T., you see, stood for Glad Tidings. The girl who played G.T. had to sing:

Mr. Glad
Mr. Tidings
Mr. Messenger
I’m a real go-getter
When you get to know me better
You can call me
G.T.

Ugh! Terrible! G .T. escorted hallucinating children through time to check out various Christmas cards, teaching about wassail bowls, and ending up at the nativity, where the camels sang an Eeyore-like song called Poor Us, and then shepherds sang a sort of barbershop quartet song about how a shepherd has a very hard life (a very lard life). Shudder. But here's proof that it existed as more than a bad dream:



I can’t believe our poor parents had to just sit there and take it.

There’s a Tear in My Beer

Actually, I don’t have a beer, but The Boy has a sty on his eye. I have been walking around for days singing, “There’s a sty on my eye, and I cannot tell you why . . .” and then reverting back to the proper song lyrics, “You are on my lonesome mind.” Over and over and over . . .

***

So Thursday night I talked to the aunt for whom I had made the Arthritis Scarf. She had a doctor’s appointment here in the city Friday afternoon, and wanted to have dinner that evening. I said that would be great, and then bailed on a party I really didn’t feel like going to anyway . . . and then Friday evening my aunt bailed on me. Was I left feeling lonely and dejected? Did I go to the party after all? Hell no. I shipped The Boy off to his dad’s and then settled in for an evening of staying up too late watching Friday Night Lights on Hulu. I’m halfway through the first season, and I truly can’t recommend it enough.

In fact, I can’t remember the last time I watched a program featuring so many well developed characters with such complexity and heart. Buffy and my beloved Veronica Mars are the only two that come to mind. But FNL is different from those shows, because there’s not a vampire or a slayer or a wunderkind detective in sight; it’s about regular people. The remarkable thing, though, is that these characters aren’t just transplants from 90210 who’ve been turned into “regular people” based on costume changes and the fact that they drive crappy old pick-up trucks: They’re are fully realized people, with thoughts and ideas and fears and flaws and goodness and meanness and kindness and stupidity. And even senses of humor.

They go to school and work and shop for groceries and go to church and take casseroles to the neighbors. They talk and they don’t talk. They fight and cry and laugh. They do things they know are wrong without understanding why they do them anyway. And there isn’t a wise-ass, precocious child or crackling, snappy dialogue anywhere. It’s certainly well-written dialogue—don’t get me wrong—but it’s not overwritten. You never get caught up in the actor’s clever lines because they aren’t speaking as writers, if that makes any sense.

It’s just good TV. Please, if you have a fast internet connection and a spare 45 minutes, go to Hulu and watch the pilot. I love this show and its characters, and I’m dying to have someone to share it with.

Fat Head

Someone sent this to my boss, who doesn't live in a dorm, and so doesn't have a place for it in his home:



Big Ben, Pittsburgh Steeler quarterback and public library card holder, now lives in our office. The thing is life-sized, which means it huge. And you probably can't tell from this crappy image, but it's remarkably clear and sharp. It's pretty darn cool.

I especially like the way this photo shows off how crappy our office is. Ah, the glamorous life of public radio.

Couched in Comfort

There are TWO couches, and they fit easily! My new living room looks like a life-sized game of Tetris, and will stay that way until I can figure out what to do with a cabinet that doesn't fit anywhere, but it's a COMFY game of Tetris, let me tell you. The couches are so deep that if I take off one of the enoromously puffy back cushions and sit with my legs straight out, only my feet hang off the end. (Granted, my legs are short, but still . . . )

I'm also going to have to come up with a new coffee table or some end tables, because the ottoman I had been using as a coffee table is now too short--it's inches lower than the edges of the couches, and it looks stupid. Plus, the couches are gree and the ottoman is dark purple, so there's that. It'll do until something new comes along, though.

I can't wait to take a nap this weekend!

She-Ra: Princess of Power

I may be getting a new couch today, courtesy of my mom's cousin, who's giving it away to make room for a new one. I say "may," because there's a slight chance it's too big to fit through my door. (My brother-in-law is picking it up for me, and he and my sister will take it if it won't fit.)

In preparation for this couch, which is cushier/larger/longer than my current couch (or, perhaps, than any other couch in the history of the world: It's quite a couch, and only a year old. She [Is she my second cousin? Is she a first cousin but once-removed? BB's husband explained that to me once, but now I can't remember]is getting rid of it because she wants DIFFERENT CHAIRS, which won't look right with the couch. Whatever. Her loss.), I moved the living room furniture into the dining room and the dining room furniture into the living room. It's a little dumb, I know, but I figured that we never use the dining room for anything other than as a place for The Boy to do his homework (we almost always eat in the kitchen), so it doesn't matter if it's next to the kitchen. The DR furniture looks really nice in its new room--it fits better, for one thing, and the color of the walls makes the furniture look less shabby. We'll see how it goes with the couch this evening.

By the way, I'm not going to move things back if it doesn't fit: I was sweating, straining, and exhausted last night, moving that furniture all by myself. The Boy was there, but his scrawny 85-pounds and noodly arms render him pretty useless when it comes to moving furniture. He carried lamps and unloaded the china cabinet and offered moral support. (Oh, and between my Trivial Pursuit performance Saturday night and my furniture-moving feat last night, The Boy now thinks I am the smartest and strongest woman in the world. He will probably never again hold me in such high regard as he does now.)

Anyway, the new set-up works fine with my (stupidawfuluglymiserableuncomfortable) current couch, so unless I get really tired of it, or The Boy and his friends sprout some muscles, things will stay where they are whether the new couch fits or not.

Cross your finger for me, though, as the new couch really is comfortable. Nap-tastic, even.

You Got to Know When to Hold 'Em

The weird warm snap is over, and it's unmistakably November again, which is a-okay with me. I made beef stew in the crock pot Friday, served with homemade rolls. Dinner may get better than that, but I'm not sure how.

This was a wonderful weekend all around (despite the heartbreaking Steelers loss to the Colts yesterday). Soccer is finally over, so The Boy and I spent Saturday and Sunday at my parents', where we baked and ate and watched football and hockey and played board games and knitted and just made my parents very happy by being there.

The Boy and I were scanning through radio stations on the way home last night, and I made him stop to listen to Kenny Rogers sing about The Gambler. (What? Everyone should know that song!) He said, "Is he talking about poker but referring to life? Because those are some good tips." I'll make an English major of him yet. We also discovered, in scanning across the radio dial, that the stupid station that plays nothing but Christmas music through the holidays has already started. Too soon! Too soon! The Boy doesn't think so, but I do. I'm a firm believer in No Christmas Until After Thanksgiving, which means that the radio station and Hallmark (who can stop it with their noisy, creepy No Peeking gift bags and Sheryl Crow's very first Christmas album) and Garmin (with their damn commercial sung to the evil Carol of the Bells (I hate the way it's so frantic: "Here come the bells! So many bells! Oh, God the bells! I hate the bells!") and all the other stores who are pushing their Christmas crap need to shut up and leave me alone.

Or else I need to avoid everything but PBS and NPR for another few weeks.

Oh, also: I spent a little time working on some GRE sample questions, and guess what! I'm not stupid! (Or, at least I don't think I'm any dumber than I was when I took the GRE a million years ago.) That's the good news. The bad news is that while I have a decent vocabulary and grasp of the English language, and still remember how to do much of the math I learned in high school, I continue to have the terrible habit of rushing through exams and making stupid mistakes because I haven't read the questions carefully enough. I blame my friend K, who used to race with me in grade school to see who could finish everything first. Damn K!

Never Happier to Have Been Wrong

Confession: I was braced for a loss, for four more years of the same, because I honestly didn't believe that America would elect a black man named Barack Hussein Obama. Shame on me for letting my faith in my country falter like that.

I'm proud, and I'm happy, and I'm hopeful.

I heard a man on NPR say, "Rosa sat so Martin could walk, so Obama could run, so our children could fly." Amen.

Election Day

I dragged The Boy out of the house early this morning despite the fact that we were both up until nearly midnight watching the Steelers beat the Redskins. (Did you know that every time [save one] the Redskins have lost their last home game before an election, the incumbent's party has lost? Rock ON, Steelers!)

I left The Boy to doze in the car when I went into my polling place at about 6:50, where I discovered I was the 59th person in line! I was out in about 30 minutes, and we made it to school and work in plenty of time.

We switched to the electronic touch screens at my polling place a few years ago, and I have to say that I still dislike them--they don't have the same gravitas as the booths. I loved having the curtain slide closed, leaving me in private with my ballot. I loved flicking the levers, and I loved the finality of the ka-chunk sound that meant my vote was registered.

Where can I register my vote for wanting to go back to voting old school?

Korny, Happy & Jaws

Sounds like a children's book, doesn't it? The Steelers are playing the Redskins in tonight's Monday Night Football game, which means I will spend three hours putting up with these three:



The Boy and I call Mike Tirico Happy, because the smile never leaves his face.



This is Ron Jaworski, AKA Jaws. Much to my surprise, I sort of like him. He knows what's going on (of course they all do, even Mr. Crazy Mumbles, John Madden) and he knows how to talk about it in a way that makes me able to understand and learn something, without feeling like I'm being talked down to. He does tend to get on my nerves a bit, but not nearly as much as this guy:



Tony Kornheiser drives me absolutely bananas. He's a sportswriter, not a former player, which in theory might be a good thing, as he might be able to discuss the game in ways us mere mortals might better relate to. His writing skills, however, (specifically, the fact that he tends to speak the way he writes) make him all wrong for broadcast. He tends to speak in a flowery, poetic, fanboy way that reads well on paper but makes me want to kick him the moment I hear his voice.

I don't usually watch MNF because it's on ESPN and I don't have cable anymore, but Disney graciously allows ABC affiliates to simulcast home games, which means I'll be spending the evening with Happy, Jaws, and Korny. Sigh.

Sometimes it's hard to be a fan.

PS--Notice that I didn't mention the MNF women: BECAUSE THEY MAKE ME SAD. I'm all for ladies being involved in football if they want to be, and I'm very much for knowledgeable women getting a chance to discuss the game, but . . . these people are relegated to standing on the field (often in bad weather, either wearing really girly hats or getting their over-sprayed hair blown around in odd masses), talking to players and coaches who usually don't want to be bothered. And then the fellas in the booth ignore them and do their best to pretend the whole thing never happened.

Creepy, wrong, resentful, and very poorly done. Boo.

Let Us Eat Cake

Getting ready for Tuesday . . .

Halloween 2008

The Boy decided he didn't want to dress up this year, because he's never been big on trick-or-treating (a trait he inherited from me) and the Halloween parade and party at his school are only for the little kids, so we he and his dad (who loves Halloween and refers to it at least once a year as The Gay Christmas) decided they would stay at my place (C lives on a quieter street), decorate my porch, and pass out candy. We invited one of The Boy's friends and a few other people who don't get many trick-or-treaters of their own, ordered pizzas, and had an odd but very fun little party for ourselves. C bought candy, I bought candy, and the two other adults (a wizard and a Mrs. Lovett) who came brought candy and goodies, and we still ran out a few minutes before the official end--we had to turn kids away. (It was either that or give them the only other thing in my cupboards I could think of that came individually wrapped--tea bags.) I'm sure there were close to a hundred kids, and very few of them were teenagers in lame non-costumes, just looking for candy. In fact, the two who actually were in lame non-costumes were very funny and friendly once we called them on it.

The Boy and his friend did the official candy-handing-out duties, so we got to pretty much sit around, eating, drinking, talking to the neighbors, and checking out costumes. There were many store-bought Hanna Montanas and High School Musical cheerleaders (which Mrs. Lovett pointed out to us parents of boys who had no clue), and there were more than a few Pittsburgh Steelers, but there were also a lot of creative and/or well made costumes. One of The Boy's friends, who is a very quiet, creative girl who always looks meek and a bit frightened, attached a whole bunch of those small, individualized cereal boxes to herself and then jammed plastic knives into them: She was, of course, a cereal killer. One set of boys were in very cute Mario and Luigi costumes their mom had made out of red and green t-shirts, ball caps, and creative sewing. One family was dressed as a moon, stars, and planets (but the planet couldn't fit through the walkway in my hedges and had to entrust his bag to someone else while he waited on the street).

A kid from The Boy's soccer team dressed all in black and covered himself with glow sticks, while his little brothers were race car drivers. There were plenty of baby pumpkins and Tiggers in strollers, the cutest, fattest baby Superman I've ever seen, and more Spidermen (Spidermans?) than I could count.

It was a very good night. I'm not a big Halloween person, but this one was a very good time.

Wearing Our Hearts on Our Pumpkins

Happy Halloween!

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

I live in this townhouse, on the city's east end. It's nothing fancy, but it's comfortable, and I can either walk, bike, or take a five-minute bus ride to pretty much anything I want or need.



Plus, there's this. This is about a hundred yards outside of my back door. (See my shadow waving?)



I live mere feet away from one of the greatest city parks ever.



The dork watching is especially fine.



I had the day off today. I wanted a day to recover from the fund drive at work, and it was parent-teacher conference day at The Boy's school, so I used a vacation day. I met C at the school at 7:30 (we took the early slot so he could get to work on time) and were informed by The Boy's advisor that he's sweet and charming, and CONSCIENTIOUS (that last bit was news to us). He's happy and popular and his interim grades (still a few weeks until the end of the trimester) are all As. You really can't ask for a better report than that.

I came home, woke up The Boy to tell him how wonderful he is, ate some delicious reheated pizza while watching Curious George on PBS (no idea why, aside from the fact that it was there), and then baked chocolate chip cookies and made a pot of soup. We spent the afternoon at my lovely park with a friend, her son, and another boy they go to school with. We would normally have left the boys to go to the park on their own, but it was so nice outside that we joined them and sat on a picnic table soaking up the sunshine.

There are few finer things than sitting in the sun while everyone else is at work.

Criminal Mastermind

The Cleveland Cavaliers played the Boston Celtics right here in our town last, and The Boy was thrilled because I gave my ticket to one of his friends and let them sort of go alone. I meant to take them to the arena and hang out in the food court with my book, my laptop, and my knitting, because I care nothing for the NBA. It happens, though, that I walked the boys right to their seats without a ticket of my own, and so found myself able to pretty much do whatever I wanted. I've never even TRIED to sneak into anything, and yet there I was. Moms should look into this: If we're with kids, it seems we might be able to get away with quite a bit.

Anyway, we went here:



I spent about fifteen minutes watching the game and having impure thoughts about this man:



And then I gave him up for this man:



I had my laptop with me, and the first season of Extras on DVD from the library. I pulled out my headphones and watched the first two episodes, laughing like a maniac the whole time. The first episode, with Kate Winslet giving advice on talking dirty and phone sex, was one of the funniest things I've ever seen, and makes me love Kate Winslet forever. Seriously. Look (NSFW):



Bloody brilliant!

Not Much to Report

Not much going on here, but I thought I'd check in anyway.

The Boy is finally pretty much over the plague that seems to be knocking his classmates down like Ten Little Indians. His cough is nearly gone, and he spent the last few nights sleeping like a log for 12+ hours. Finally! He's lost five pounds, which wouldn't even be noticeable on me, but which makes him look like a POW--I've made him promise to commit to shoving calories in his face at every opportunity. Ice cream before bed? Do you want chocolate syrup with that?

Other than that, there's little going on. Work has me in the middle of a fund drive, which makes for some busy times, but this is a mercifully short drive for us, so everyone remains rather un-frazzled.

I'm making some progress knitting my first sock. I misjudged my gauge, so it's going to be bigger than I'd planned, but I will be satisfied as long as it ends up looking like an actual sock--even if for a giant. Behold:



Also, like BB, I was hit hard by the suicide of David Foster Wallace, so much so that I realized I needed to do something about my ever-worsening panic attacks and the depression they inevitably bring. I'm not saying I'm ever suicidal, but the panic and anxiety that plague me limit my life in a way that, when I'm in the throes of it all, makes me wonder if the strained, sick, half-life is worth living. I'm back on my Zoloft and can now drive the car without tears or fears. I'm not quite back to "normal," but I'm on my way to being able to stand myself again, which is very, very good. So thanks again, DFW. You've contributed to my life yet again.

This Creeps Me the Hell Out

via videosift.com

Fever All Through the Night

It has been a week of viral happenings at Chez Shirty, let me tell you. I got a call on my cell phone Monday morning at around 9:30, informing me that The Boy had barfed on the school bus just as his class was pulling into the parking lot of their field trip destination. I knew I shouldn’t have let him go to school, because he felt a little warm and didn’t look right in the morning, but he wanted to go so badly and kept insisting he felt fine . . . thankfully he didn’t barf on anyone. And he was sitting way in the front of the bus, so everyone else got to use the emergency exit in the back, which amused and excited him even in his compromised state.

I got him home and into clean pajamas and bed, where he slept for a little while and woke in a panic, thinking he’d slept through to the next day and missed Monday Night Football (even with a raging fever, The Boy has priorities). And boy, did the fever rage, up to about 103-degrees (not all that dreadful, I know, but anything over 102 makes me nervous). I spent the next several days doing the Advil/Tylenol tag team, wiping him down with cool wash cloths, reminding him to drink more water, coating him with Vicks to ease his cough, and generally fussing and fretting and babying him.

We watched the Weather Channel (which he finds soothing), read, listened to the classical radio station (he has a crush on his music teacher), watched Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (one of his favorite RiffTrax offerings) and Edward Scissorhands (do you know that I’d forgotten Johnny Depp and Winona Ryder were a couple?!?), and dozed. He’s never been sick for this long, and he absolutely never been so still for so ling.

He’s back at school today, finally, because the fever is gone, but he looks like a heroin addict. He has a soccer game after school in which he is not playing, and a dance tonight that I am betting he won’t feel like going to. In fact, I’ll be surprised if he makes it through the school day.

And how am I? Tired, lightly feverish, and utterly unable to eat. And I have a bonus breakout of pimples, the likes of which I haven’t seen since high school. My house is a disaster (not to mention filled with noxious germs), I have laundry piled to the ceiling, I’m out of library books and won’t be able to go until tomorrow at the earliest, and my knitting project isn’t working.

The end of this day—and this week—can’t come soon enough.

So This Was Weird

The Boy's friend A's mom, J, who I am friendly with but never actually thought of as a friend, if you know what I mean, called me Saturday morning. I was assuming A wanted to invite The Boy to do something, but it turned out that J wanted me to GO WITH HER TO LOOK AT A HOUSE, in a ritzy suburb.

J & R (A’s dad, and a complete asshole to the extent that I truly can’t stand to be around him and will avoid him at all costs) were considering buying this house, which is a foreclosure. It was listed for $X million, but R had it under agreement for $X hundred thousand. J wasn't sure about it, though, and wanted MY opinion.

So I went (despite my bemusement at being asked to go—which turned into a sort of pity for J, because I started to assume that she must not have many friends, if she were calling on me to serve in this capacity). I’m not sure why, but I was more honest (and bitchy) with her than I've been about anything I felt negatively about in a very long time. This is a five-bedroom McMansion with eight bathrooms, a four-car garage, and an indoor pool in a housing development filled with expensive cars. THEY ARE A FAMILY OF THREE.

I bitched about the house’s carbon footprint (believe it or not, J has an erstwhile-hippie aspect about her to which I was trying to appeal), the amount of gas/power it would cost to heat the gigantic house and pool all winter (“Do you really want to pay all that money to keep the pool open all winter, when you know you’d only use it, like, twice?”), and to keep it cool in the summer. I bitched about the shoddy building and materials, pointing out that the doors were hollow, doorknobs were loose, particle board was rampant, the “multi-paned” windows were actually just normal windows with plastic dividers that were popping out everywhere, cupboards were crooked, "oak" paneling was actually crappy veneer, the decking was a mess of poisonous splinters, and in one classic moment, was able to show her that even though a window in the master bath was closed and locked, there was a gap that allowed a clear view to the outside.

She complained about how R wasn't taking care of things in the house they live in now (a great old house with brick, stone, plaster, wood, and a terra cotta roof), and I said, "J, do you really think he's going to be any better here? He'll just say, ‘I gave you this beautiful house, and you're complaining about it!’" (See? I was even bitchy about their relationship! I NEVER DO THAT!)

She remarked on how safe the neighborhood seemed, and that she'd be able to let A go out on his own. I said, "Where's he going to go? There's nothing here in walking distance, and besides, there are NO SIDEWALKS."

I told her it was lovely to look at, and that it would make for great pictures, but that it was only a shallow beauty.

In short, I was a total bitch about the place. I kept apologizing, and telling her how I felt terrible saying such mean things, and that it was really pretty but just felt BAD . . . and she kept saying, "No, you're right—you're telling me what I need to hear."

She called me later that night and told me they'd faxed a letter saying they didn't want the house, and thanking me again for being so honest.

The whole thing is just SO WEIRD. WHY ME?!?!?!?

I have to say, though, that now that it’s over, I’m pleased with myself for being so forthright about my feelings. Normally I would have held her (emotional) hand and looked for positive things to say, because I wouldn’t have wanted to hurt her feelings, but I didn’t do that. I was honest about my bitchy feelings, and I didn’t suffer any terrible consequences because of it. Maybe I am growing up. Maybe I’m finally on my way to being more true to myself, which might help me in the self-esteem department. Which might help me in the panic/anxiety department.

Maybe. I hope.

Presenting . . . The Arthritis Scarf!

My sweet, sweet Aunt N--who is only 57--has arthritis in her neck, so I made her this scarf.



It's from the same Malabrigo yarn as the hat I made a while ago, and it's sort of short, so she can put her hands in the pockets.



And she can warm up the little heat pack in the microwave, and slide it into the pocket on the back of the neck.



I hope it helps. If nothing else, it might make her glad to know someone's thinking of her.

Punched in the Gut

Ever late to the party, I just heard that the most brilliant of my secret boyfriends, David Foster Wallace, killed himself on Friday.

I am shocked and sad, and will miss him and his wonderful footnotes, those flirtatious whispering asides, very much.

I hope he's at peace.

Padding with Pictures

I had a busy weekend, filled with movies and soccer games and football games and a matinee performance of Wicked and board games with my nephew and a Super Sweet Sixteen party, but . . . instead of writing about all of them, I'll just show you some pics.



Okay, so I've seen The Simpsons episode where Marge joins the Cheery Red Tomatoes, but I didn't realize these red hat women were for real. There was a whole gaggle of them at the Wicked show I saw with my mom and sister this weekend, but these two were the only ones I could snap without being conspicuous.

Wicked was good, by the way. I had no desire at all to see it, because I'd tried to read the book a few years ago and found that I just didn't care. The musical, though, was fun and funny. The story was decent and clever, the songs were fun, the sets and costumes were great, and the two leads were bursting with talent and personality. The only thing I didn't like was the choreography, which I thought was odd and ugly.

My mom, who loves the books, had a great time and insisted on buying us all shirts, and . . . I'll never wear the shirt, because I'm not that kind of girl, but I'm glad we went.




The Boy and I went with my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew to an old friend's son's 16th birthday party last night. My sister, the friend, and I are from a very small town where even the "rich" people honestly didn't have much money, and I think our friend was pretty excited to be able to blow out her oldest kid's birthday in swank(ish) suburban style. There was a limo for the birthday boy (who is now six-foot-one and nearly 200 pounds) and his closest buddies, a DJ and a buffet dinner, and then a rapper later in the evening. The birthday boy has a sister who is The Boy's age, and she had a table filled with her friends, but The Boy wouldn't get anywhere near them. In fact, he seemed to try to keep his back to them as much as possible. He would have died of a cross between boredom and mortification if my brother-in-law hadn't taken pity on him and sneaked him off to watch football in the bar.



And here's how we spent our Sunday evening. Look at his face! That smile! That's what it's like when you love what you do. Sigh. Anyway, the Steelers beat the Browns, our division rivals, and all is right with the world. Except: Either the NFL or the NFL/NBC seems to have co-opted Morrisey's Every Day is Like Sunday to use as a music bed under their Sunday Night Football bumper things. Does anyone else find this weird? I consider Morrisey and football to be two great tastes, but unlike chocolate and peanut butter, I wouldn't have thought them to be two great tastes that taste great together. I would have thought, in fact, that John Madden (and certainly that jerk Chris Collinsworth) would have wanted to beat up on Morrisey fans . . . but maybe the world is a kinder, gentler place now, where Madden and Moz can share a pizza and their feelings?



My neighbor left this pin stuck to my door last night, which sort of sums up things nicely for now.

Clay Animation

The Boy went to a clay animation camp at the Center for the Arts last month, and he loved it. They gave them the basics and the equipment and turned them loose the very first day, and The Boy and his friend got so into it that they were never ready to leave when I picked them up at noon--they would have been happy to hang around and work on their films all day.

We just got the DVD of all the finished projects, and I can't post all of them because there are credits with names and stuff involved, I can show you this one, which is what The Boy and his friend came up with on the first day. It's very, very short, but what it lacks in length it makes up for in cute.

Weird Song Lyrics

Some songs are brilliant; some songs are stupid. Some express your feelings in ways that make you think the songwriter's heart must be exactly like yours, and some just miss the mark. Some are supposed to be complimentary, but come off as insulting or creepy. Let's have a look at some of those, shall we?

Nina Simone is awesome*, but this song bums me out:



My Baby Just Cares for Me

My baby don't care for shows
My baby don't care for clothes
My baby just cares for me
My baby don't care for cars and races
My baby don't care for high-tone places

Liz Taylor is not his style
And even Lana Turner's smile
Is somethin' he can't see
My baby don't care who knows
My baby just cares for me

Baby, my baby don't care for shows
And he don't even care for clothes
He cares for me
My baby don't care
For cars and races
My baby don't care for
He don't care for high-tone places

Liz Taylor is not his style
And even Liberace's smile
Is something he can't see
Is something he can't see
I wonder what's wrong with baby
My baby just cares for
My baby just cares for
My baby just cares for me

Is it me, or is her baby either mentally deficient and without any interests, or is he a stalker? Seriously. I like the sentiment, but this doubt ruins things for me.

And speaking of stalkers and other bad types:



I chose this version because I like Ella, but let's look at the lyrics:

Baby It's Cold Outside

I really can't stay - Baby it's cold outside
I've got to go away - Baby it's cold outside
This evening has been - Been hoping that you'd drop in
So very nice - I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice
My mother will start to worry - Beautiful, what's your hurry
My father will be pacing the floor - Listen to the fireplace roar
So really I'd better scurry - Beautiful, please don't hurry
well Maybe just a half a drink more - Put some music on while I pour

The neighbors might think - Baby, it's bad out there
Say, what's in this drink - No cabs to be had out there
I wish I knew how - Your eyes are like starlight now
To break this spell - I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell
I ought to say no, no, no, sir - Mind if I move a little closer
At least I'm gonna say that I tried - What's the sense in hurting my pride
I really can't stay - Baby don't hold out
Ahh, but it's cold outside

C'mon baby

I simply must go - Baby, it's cold outside
The answer is no - Ooh baby, it's cold outside
This welcome has been - I'm lucky that you dropped in
So nice and warm -- Look out the window at that storm
My sister will be suspicious - Man, your lips look so delicious
My brother will be there at the door - Waves upon a tropical shore
My maiden aunt's mind is vicious - Gosh your lips look delicious
Well maybe just a half a drink more - Never such a blizzard before

I've got to go home - Oh, baby, you'll freeze out there
Say, lend me your comb - It's up to your knees out there
You've really been grand - Your eyes are like starlight now
But don't you see - How can you do this thing to me
There's bound to be talk tomorrow - Making my life long sorrow
At least there will be plenty implied - If you caught pneumonia and died
I really can't stay - Get over that old out
Ahh, but it's cold outside

Baby it's cold outside

Brr its cold….
It's cold out there
Cant you stay awhile longer baby
Well…..I really shouldn't...alright

Make it worth your while baby
Ahh, do that again…

I added the bold to some of the female lines up there. Nothing like a little Christmas date rape to warm your heart.

And finally, let's turn to Jack Wagner for a classic insult from the 80's:



And the lyrics:

All I Need

Kissing you is not what I had planned
And now I'm not so sure just where I stand
I wasn't looking for true love
But now you're looking at me
You're the only one I can think of
You're the only one I see

CHORUS:
All I need
Is just a little more time
To be sure what I feel
Is it all in my mind
Cause it seems so hard to believe
That you're all I need

Yes it's true we've all been hurt before
But it doesn't seem to matter anymore
It may be a chance we're taking
But it always comes to this
If this isn't love we're making
Then I don't know what it is

All I need
Is just a little more time
To be sure what I feel
Is it all in my mind
Cause it seems so hard to believe

CHORUS

No stars are out tonight
But we're shining our own light
And it's never felt so bright
Cause girl the way I'm feeling
It's easy to believe
That you're all I need

Ahhhh
You're all I need
Oooooh ahhhh

It's the chorus that kills me here. "It seems SO HARD to believe that YOU'RE all I need. Because, frankly, I'm fabulous and you're kind of average."

Screw you, Jack Wagner!

Anyway, there's a little look into my head. As much as I want to enjoy things, I can't. I am bugged, man. Bugged!



*Nina Simone is awesome, but her daughter sings like a Disney Princess. That's a fine thing in and of itself, but not so fine when you've recorded an album full of covers of classic, Nina Simone, gritty songs. Disney Princesses are decidedly not gritty.

Rufus Xavier Sarsaparilla

You know that new Woody Alan movie, Vicky Christina Barcelona? It's playing at one of the little movie theaters I pass all the time, and every time I do, I sing the title of the movie to the tune of that School House Rock song about pronouns, Rufus Xavier Sarsaparilla. This probably isn't what Woody was hoping for, but I think he's lucky to get that much of a positive reaction out of me. I will admit a fondness for Annie Hall, but beyond that I think he's a perv and a dirty old man, and no thank you.

In other news, here's a very bad photo of my finished hat, modeled by The Boy. I keep taking pics with my phone despite its less-than-stellar-for-posting results, because the phone is there, whereas the actual camera is put away. I'm lazy, and my blog pictures prove it. But here it is, anyway:



It's not perfect by any means, but it is clearly a hat, and I'm pleased. I'm trying to learn how to knit ribbing, with the hope of making a hat for The Boy. I'll keep you posted on that.

Finally, a public service announcement: If you haven't tried Fage yogurt, run to the store and get some as soon as you can. It's thick and creamy and delicious, and kicks other yogurts' collective asses. I've been mixing it with strawberry preserves and walnuts for my new favorite breakfast, and indeed wish I were eating it right now. Yum!

Facing Intimidation (and Doing Sort of Okay)

I know how to knit a little. I can knit and purl, and have made several nice scarves and a lumpy but serviceable poncho. I've been wanting to make hats, though, but haven't had the courage. Until now.

I present . . . my first hat, hours away from its completion:



I don't know if this photo (taken with my phone, of course) shows off the yarn, but it's hand-dyed, and is a gorgeous plummy color, and so soft! It's going to be a lumpy hat, and more than a little uneven, but I think it's going to fit. And I can't *wait* to wear it.

I picked up this yarn when I was out getting those double-pointed needles. It's either a gray that looks blue or a blue that looks gray, and I love it. Plus: On sale!



It's Shetland wool, and I've been hearing Mike Myers as his character's dad in So I Married an Axe Murderer ever since I picked it up. "Head! Pants, now!"

What? Oh, Hi There.

I've been absent a while, playing the role of the stay-at-home mom, which is not for the faint of heart. (Although now that school has started, it might be a nice gig. I could see myself staying home alone all day, cleaning, cooking, running, baking, knitting, and reading, and then shuffling off to pick up The Boy from soccer practice at 4:30. And if I ever find myself independently wealthy, that's exactly what I'll do.)

I won't bore you with my activities of the last week and a half, but I will tell you a few things:

The Boy is in middle school, with a crazy schedule of rotating A-Weeks and B-Weeks, and a locker, and all kinds of grown-up(ish) stuff. I'm excited, interested, proud, and nervous about all of this cusp-of-adolescence business. AND his picture is on the school's new website, which is cool. He's in profile, and he's not in uniform, because the photo was taken on an Own Clothes Day, but he's reading to his Kindergarten Buddy, and it's too cute. If you already know what school he goes to, and you know him, and you want to see, let me know and I'll send you a link. (If you're a weird stalker pedophile, go to hell.)

I am still running (plodding), and am on the part of the plan where I run (plod) for 25-minutes straight. I've lost about fifteen pounds, I think. I only have one more week on this program, and once it's finished I'll go back to the beginning and actually RUN. Not fast--I'm never fast--but fast enough that toddlers and people with walkers won't be able to lap me.

Jennifer Haigh's new book, The Condition, is very, very good. I got it from the library (they sent me a large print copy, which was VERY difficult to read), but I will buy it when I can afford to. Haigh is a wonderful writer with a connection to western PA, and there's always at least a little piece of that in her novels.

Tropic Thunder is very, very funny.

I got my hair cut and colored last week, and while the color is awesome, the cut is leaving me cold. I told the woman who cuts it that I wanted to be able to NOT DO ANYTHING TO IT. Technically, I don't have to do anything, but . . . it needs to be chopped shorter. Next time.

And that's it for me. I'll be in my corner napping if you need me.

Good News and Bad News

First the bad news: I am at home, weathering the perfect storm of stomach, anxiety, and menstrual issues. I will be fine, and am hoping to be able to go into work this afternoon, but for now I am sticking near the bathroom.

The good news, however, is really good . . . at least if you're a Jasper Fforde fan. I picked up the audiobook for The Fourth Bear, just because it caught my eye at the library, and listening to it made me wonder what Fforde is up to. According to his website, we can look forward to a new book next summer, Shades of Grey, which is neither a Thursday Next book NOR a Nursery Crime book! It looks like we're going to get a whole new Fforde universe!

But wait--there's more! From the website:

"If you want to know what's happening after that, it will either be the sixth in the Thursday Next series One of Our Thursdays is Missing or the third in the NCD trilogy, entitled The Last Great Tortoise Race."

How's THAT for good news?

And now I'm off to sip Coke and nibble on an English muffin.

Headlines

Public Service Announcement: I have read the first two books in the Twilight series, and I must insist that you read them ONLY if you have a girl in your life who has read or may read them. The books are crap of the highest order, and the feature one of the worst, most drippy, dreadful protagonists I have ever encountered. Avoid these books at all costs, unless—as I said—you know a young fan. If you do, please read them immediately and initiate a discussion so as to ascertain whether fan in question thinks it’s normal for girls to completely sublimate themselves to their overbearing boyfriends, and whether she thinks it’s okay for female sexuality to be portrayed as something that literally threatens her life unless it remains totally passive, and controlled by said boyfriend.

That concludes this public service message. Thank you.

*

Back to the Lab Again: I have been serving as the de facto music librarian here at my station, and have been cataloging the tens of thousands of CDs in the music library. (Believe it or not, there is no formal catalog or database in existence.) I couldn’t help but notice, as I cataloged, that there is a real dearth of women in jazz; unless they’re vocalists, women are few and far between. Intrigued, I started gathering information about the women who did/do have more of a role—women musicians, arrangers, and composers, and I thought . . . I THOUGHT . . . I might be able to come up with a small book about these women, and what made them succeed in the dark, seedy man’s world of jazz. I mean, I have all kinds of resources at my fingertips, Pittsburgh is a jazz hub, and I have a master’s degree in what is essentially research, so I figured a publisher might actually take a proposal from me seriously. Right?

But it turns out that the people I was most interested in, like Marylou Williams, have been covered pretty thoroughly. And guess what: If I’m not completely captivated by a subject, I can’t give it enough of my energy to come up with a decent scholarly article, much less an entire book.

As Beck sang: “Soy un perdidor. I’m loser, Baby, so why don’t you kill me?”

So while there is not a book in my immediate future, it looks like an exam will be: I’m going to retake the GRE because my old scores (from back when I was SMART) have expired. Why am I doing this? So I can get another master’s degree, of course. Because I’m having a terrible time finding a library job in a university library (and once you work for a university, the perks are impossible to give up, let me tell you), and I think having a second master’s will be a big help there. So . . . time to remember my geometry and brush up on my vocabulary, because I have to pin my self-worth to a standardized test score. Woo!

*

I Have Pretty Fingernails: I don’t do anything to deserve them, and I only really notice them when they need trimming, like now, but . . . as I am fairly light on the natural beauty assets, I thought I would take a moment to publicly appreciate them. And, you know, take a picture of my fingers while I’m supposed to be working.

Three Books and Two Movies

I am reading William Sutcliffe’s Whatever Makes You Happy, which I picked up on the New Books shelf at the library this weekend, based solely on the title. I started it last night after having a lovely visit and book exchange on my porch with Babel Babe, and I couldn’t put it down.

It’s about three mothers and their sons—the sons are all in their 30s and haven’t amounted to much. The mothers have been friends since the sons were toddlers, and have decided that each one of them is going to show up unannounced on her son’s doorstep and stay with him for a week, in a final and forceful attempt to figure out why the sons are unhappy, unfulfilled, disappointed, and disappointing. Granted, much of the mothers’ concerns have to do with why their sons haven’t married and produced some grandchildren, but there’s also a deeper concern, about the roles mothers and adult sons are supposed to have in each other’s lives. It’s a fun and thoughtful story along the lines of something from Nick Hornby, and definitely worth a look.

I’ve done some lovely girly reading lately, too. I tore through Maria Beaumont’s 37, which is a typical story of a depressed, middle-class, stay-at-home-mom who finally figures out why she’s so unhappy and finally gets her shit together and realizes what it is she needs to do to be happier. It’s good in the way those books are good.

I also tore through The Joys of Love, which is the “new” Madeleine L’Engle novel. She wrote it in the 40s and never published it, and it is sweet and comfortable and filled with shades of characters and stories that show up in her later writing. It’s a YA novel, and I’d love to know if any twelve-year-old girls will actually read it, and what they will think if they do.

I stopped in the middle of The Joys of Love to watch Secretary, which I wanted to watch while The Boy wasn’t home. It’s a great movie, a very dark yet hopeful story very well told. What does it say about me, though, that I put down the L’Engle to watch James Spader administer spanking to Maggie Gyllenhaal, and then picked up the MLE to finish before bed? Psychotic? Manic? Or just nicely complex? I probably don’t want to know.

I also watched most of the hot, hot Steve McQueen in Papillon this weekend. (I say most of it, because the library’s copy of the DVD was too scratched up for it to play the last twenty minutes.) This is a weird movie, because Super Ultra Mega American Man Steve McQueen plays Papillon, who is a French mobster guy of sorts. (It’s based on what is claimed to be a true story.) Anyway, Steve McQueen is Papillon, which means butterfly. Steve McQueen. Butterfly. It just doesn’t compute. He’s French, but he doesn’t speak with an accent. Neither does Dustin Hoffman, who I think is supposed to be French as well. And they’re sent to a prison camp in South America, where no one has any sort of accent. It’s all very disconcerting, and if it weren't for the fact that Steve McQueen's Papillon looked like this, I don't know if I'd have watched.



Anyway, since I watched it Sunday night, I’ve been singing the Counting Crows song Mr. Jones in my head, substituting Papillon for Mr. Jones. “Pap-ee-own, and me/ tell each other fairy tales . . .”

And you thought I couldn’t get any weirder.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

The Boy caught a foul ball at the Pirate game last night!

Movies for Girls Who Like Guy Movies

If you were to look at my recent movie requests from the library, you would probably think I’m a 75-year-old man. My boss talked me into watching Judgment at Nuremberg, and then The Great Escape. (Okay, Eddie Izzard helped with the latter, with his talk about Steve McQueen’s motorcycle ride across Europe by way of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.) Papillon, The Dirty Dozen, and Von Ryan’s Express are all still on the list.

I’ve been missing out on a lot of hotness with my old movie eyes for only Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart, and I have a lot of catching up to do. Just look!


Here you see Maximilian Schell, whose turn in Judgment at Nuremberg offers up the first and only hot Nazi since Summer of My German Soldier.


And here's Steve McQueen in all his tough, manly glory.



So, um, yeah. Lots to look forward to.

Incoherent Babbling

The Boy is in the final days of a two-week camp called Amusement Park Physics, which he seems to be enjoying very much. I'm pleased that he's enjoying something educational--despite the fact that he's had homework every night--and I'm also pleased that he's having a good time even though he didn't know any of the other kids in the camp. He used to be so shy and reluctant about that kind of thing, but now he's fine with it. Nice to see the little ways in which he's growing up.

The camp has been mostly about Newton's laws and force and inertia and all of that very basic stuff, and the kids have made accelerometers (which I keep calling alethiometers, much to The Boy's chagrin and eye-rolling) from paint sticks, BBs, and rubber tubing. They've been doing various experiments with these homemade accelerometers, and creating makeshift break-away straps for them (The Boy's strap consists of two magnetic strips and lots and lots of duct tape). The straps are for today's excursion to Kennywood Park, where the accelerometers will be put to some serious work.

Imagine a group of about 20 kids wandering around an amusement park in matching purple C-MITES t-shirts, all with alethiometers dangling from their wrists. Dork much? :-) But it's all about making physics phun, and I think it's awesome.

Next week he's going to River Camp, through an organization called RiverQuest. He's doing this one with a friend from school, and they'll spend mornings on a boat taking water samples from the rivers, and then afternoons using microscopes at the Science Center and learning about what they find in the samples. So cool!

Then he's off for two weeks, and can get back to doing nothing.

I've pretty much just been working. Oh, and walking. And sort of walking/running (shuffling). One of the cats wakes me up at about 5:45 every single morning, so I decided that instead of lying in bed seething, I should get up and take a walk. I've gone every weekday in July aside from the 4th, and it's been good. I'm doing the walk/run program I used the first time I learned to run, so it'll be a while until I'm actually running for any length of time or distance, but it will come. My neighborhood does a 5K race on every August, and I may see if I can be ready for that. It's not until August 23, so it's very possible. We'll see.

Even if I can't manage the 5K, I'm pleased with this cat-inspired fitness program. I wore a pair of jeans yesterday that had been too tight for a while, and that's always exciting.

The only other thing of note I have has to do with my cats. Remember the Pee Cat? Well, the change in diet to wet-food only seems to have solved his problem with the crystals in his pee. He's no longer straining and/or leaving bloody pee patches on my carpets. He is, however, still peeing in my living and dining rooms (as well as using the litter box). AND THE OTHER CAT HAS PICKED UP THE HABIT! I have been through gallons and gallons of Nature's Miracle, and have used my steam cleaner to shampoo the carpets twice in the last few weeks, but it doesn't matter. The smell goes away until one of the little fu$%*rs pees again.

I am SO TIRED of coming home to a house that smells like ammonia! SO TIRED! And I'm so tired of spending money on the cats! I've been trolling the Internet in search of ideas and solutions, and haven't come up with anything new. I ordered a black light and something called SCOE 10X last night, and if that doesn't work, I don't know what I will do. I really like the cats--they're affectionate and fun, and I love snuggling on the couch with a book and two kitties. The Boy loves the cats; getting rid of them is really not an option. But I don't know what to do.

Any suggestions? I'll try anything. I'm quickly turning into this:



And I don't like it one bit.

Now Accepting the Traditional GIfts of Lace & Lingerie

I got married thirteen years ago today. The day was hot and kind of overcast, and I felt like a big dork in the dress I caved and let my mother choose (she paid for it, so I felt obligated—it made her SO HAPPY), but I had done my own hair and make-up and at least felt like myself from the neck up. I am lucky enough to be on the busty side, so I was able to pack my sunglasses, keys, gum, lipstick, and cigarettes (yes, I smoked then) right into my bra. (What do flat-chested women do in this situation? Do you carry a little bag AND a bouquet?) I was excited (I was about to marry my best friend and was assuming I would magically turn into a fabulous grown-up) and nervous (I’d been having problems with panic and anxiety for more than two years at that point—but hadn’t yet realized those were my problems, so I basically felt like I was kind of crazy and might throw up or die at any given moment).

I remember that C didn’t get that mushy look on his face when he first saw me (I hadn’t expected him to, really, because I knew I looked like a dork, but still . . . I’m as conditioned to expect romance as the next woman, I guess), but he did have to fight to not crack up when he looked down (he’s a foot taller than I am) and saw all of the items stashed in my bra.

The wedding was outside (C is an atheist and was therefore dead set against getting married in my childhood Catholic church, but my parents would have died if I hadn’t involved God in one way or another, so we compromised and got married outside, by a woman who was a nurse with my mom and also a Lutheran minister—I didn’t really care one way or another but was made happy by the bit about the minister’s being a woman) at a small place that billed itself as a resort, and the reception was in a room at the same place. I’m pretty sure there was a sit-down dinner rather than a buffet, as C and I were both snotty brats at the time and were hoping to show our friends and relatives that we could do one better than the traditional wedding in our area, riggity-chiggity-piggity (rigatoni, fried chicken, pigs in a blanket buffet) in a fire hall, and I know we played jazz during dinner. (As we wanted to class things up but were clueless as to how [snotty AND stupid—nice!], we turned to our friend B for musical help and he suggested Thelonius Monk. C’s aunt complained about the terrible music all through dinner, which convinced us that B’s suggestion was a good one.)

C and I had borrowed video tapes from the library in hopes of learning to dance (again with the classy), and a German woman did indeed teach us to waltz, foxtrot, and swing. Her “slow, slow; quick-quick” sounded like, “slow (rhymed with plow), slow; ka-wick-ka-wick,” but it did the trick. We had chosen Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic as our wedding song (and I’m not sure why—neither of us felt very strongly about it, but it’s a nice enough song), and C counted steps and nodded his head as we danced our first dance. It was nice despite the DJ’s bubbles, which started to fall all over us as we danced, totally sabotaging any efforts we’d made to class things up.

We had a chocolate wedding cake, which was one of the only things I’d felt strongly about. I didn’t eat any, of course, because of the whole panic thing, but it was pretty and people seemed to like it.

There was lots of dancing. My sister and maid of honor (not 21 for another month) was nicely toasted. My parents were cute and my mother cried. A good time was had by all.

I’ve been officially divorced for just under three years. I didn’t want to be divorced, but it was the right thing. I was justly miserable for a period around the end of my marriage, and may have wished C would have had the decency to have been hit by a bus so I could have been a rich widow rather than a poor divorcee, but I got over that pretty quickly. And I’ll never regret the marriage, because without it, The Boy wouldn’t have been born. And The Boy really is the best thing, well, EVER.

All in all, I look at July 8 very fondly. It is truly a happy anniversary.