And They Call it . . . Puppy Love

No, I didn't get a puppy, however much The Boy might want one. My sister, however, added to her family this weekend. In addition to Sophie, the four-year-old French Mastiff, my sister now has Stella, the fifteen-week-old Bulldog.



I've never seen a sweeter, more patient and mild-tempered dog than the gigantic Sophie. She's fiercely protective of my nephew and The Boy (whom everyone refers to as her boyfriend), but otherwise, she lolls around like a kindly stuffed animal, allowing my nephew to sleep on her, play with her ears, and even give her an elaborate haircut with safety scissors. (My sister: "I knew things were too quiet!") Sophie is no less patient with her new little sister, regarding the rambunctious ball of love that is Stella with a look that says, "What is this little weirdo doing," even as Stella attempts to gnaw on her ears, paws, or tail. Aw!

***

I am in a compete and utter fiction slump. In the last weeks I've read Lizzie Skurnik's Shelf Discoviery: The Teen Classics We Never Stopped Reading, which is excellent, Carrie Fisher's Wishful Drinking, which is sad and funny and fun, a collection of essay's about Firefly (thanks, P!) called Finding Serenity: Anti-Heroes, Lost Shepherds, and Space Hookers in Joss Whedon's Firefly, which is awesome (I ordered the sequel and can't wait for it to get here), Nina Planck's Real Food: What to Eat and Why (who knew I could be persuaded to drink raw milk?), and Susannah Gora's fun and interesting You Couldn't Ignore Me if You Tried: The Brat Pack, John Huges, and Their Impact on a Generation.

I have about a chapter to go in that last one, and aside from some things about the writer's style that kind of annoy me, such as referring to Sixteen Candles as Candles and The Breakfast Club as Breakfast--like she's best pals with these movies or something--it drives me MAD . . . anyway, aside from that, it's an interesting look at some movies I loved back in the day but hadn't thought of in a long time.

I graduated from high school in 1989, so I was pretty much the prime target for these movies, and I love some of them deeply. I could recite from Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club line for line, and still use many of the lines as short hand to communicate with my sister. I don't know that I loved the things about those movies that I should have--I did not have a crush on Jake Ryan, for instance (I preferred the nerdy Farmer Ted character, who seemed a lot more fun), but I did love Sam's family and the other parts of the story.

I loved pretty much everything about The Breakfast Club, and wanted to be Ally Sheedy's character. I wasn't anything like her (or Molly Ringwald's character for that matter, though I did love her boots), but I wanted to be just like her--until the make-over scene. It bummed me out that she had to get "pretty" for Emilio. Sigh.

Anyway, I wasn't a big fan of most of the other movies of that style/genre/ilk. Pretty in Pink bummed me out. I despised everyone in Less than Zero and St. Elmo's Fire. I liked Some Kind of Wonderful well enough, but I didn't love it. The only one I really, really loved was Say Anything. Chuck Klosterman once said that Lloyd Dobbler ruined a generation of women, and I admit that's true for me. I loved his character with all my heart. Sigh. I always wonder if Lloyd and I would like each other now that we're grown-ups.

So yes, these movies were a part of my life, and shaped me in ways I couldn't have known. I didn't know any adults who'd gone to college when I was growing up, for example, so what did I think like should have been like in college and just after? Why, like St. Elmo's Fire, of course, only with people who weren't a bunch of hateful, whiny douche bags. Turns out that I most certainly could NOT afford an apartment like Judd Nelson shared with Ally Sheedy, or like Demi Moore's. Nor did I have a glamorous and/or important job. Therefore: Fail. Sigh.

I'm getting off track here, though. Sorry. The book is good, and if you're around my age it will make you think about a lot of things that may never have occurred to you. Give it a go.

So that's my big list of non-fiction. I bought the new Nick Hornby last week, Juliet, Naked, which I know I will like once I get to it, and also picked up Frank Portman's new book, Andromeda Klein. Portman wrote King Dork, which I really enjoyed, so I'm excited for this, and yet . . . I can't wait for the new Firefly book to show up so I can continue to immerse myself in the geekdom.

What's up with me?

Spoke Too Soon

Remember how I was just all proud of The Boy? Well . . . he and his best friend are here, and we've been watching America's Funniest Home Videos (we have 9,000) channels, and this is what they want to see). They decided they should make their own video, so now they're recording one another while artfully botching slam dunks into a nerf hoop, smashing into the front door and collapsing to the floor, writhing in fake pain.

Weirdos.

Teach Your Children Well

As a proud feminist since I learned such a thing existed, even going so far as to have earned an undergraduate certificate in Women's Studies, I am extremely gratified to announce that The Boy passes all gender awareness/sexism exams with flying colors. He recently observed while watching idiots on TV attempt all manner of Hilarious Schemes in hopes of wooing a pretty girl, "They must not know girls aren't people," and while watching the latest deluge of Barbie's "I Can Be Anything" campaign ads, "Yes, as long as it's a teacher, nurse, or secretary--or something else that involves little kids." I know it should be a no-brainer, but I can't tell you how proud it makes me to see that he's noticed my bitter feminist sarcasm all this time, and that he seems to have absorbed it!

Thus concludes my patting myself on the back.

Hermit the Hog

See what I did up there? I'm not fair to myself, because while it's true that I'm overweight, the last few days have presented me with major workouts, so I'm probably lighter despite all the eating I've done over the last few days. Lasagna. Real pudding with real whipped cream. Apple cake. Pizza. And breakfasts of the lumberjack variety.

Why so much food? We're a little but snowed in. Record-setting snows and all that. My driveway was filled with more than two feet of snow, and it took hours and hours and hours of digging. My arms and shoulders ought to be buff any minute now. Like Venus Williams buff. My hands ache from gripping the shovel and the hammer, which I had to employ to chip away at the ton of snow and ice left banked up in front of the driveway. Thanks for that, Mr. Plow. There is snow EVERYWHERE, and not a place to put it.

Those aren't bushes covered in snow--that's ivy ground cover hanging over a retaining wall; the snow is that deep on the ground. And it's still snowing!

The city is a total mess, and people are apoplectic because they can't get out of their homes. I'm lucky, in that I can leave if I need to--and I can walk to the grocery store --but I haven't had to leave because the city requested that the university where I work REMAIN CLOSED. I haven't been to work since I left early Friday afternoon, and I am enjoying the hell out of this unexpected vacation. Books, DVDs, baking, playing Nerf basketball in the living room . . . I seriously don't care if I never leave the house again. The Boy's school has already canceled for tomorrow, but I haven't heard anything yet. It's snowing again, so my fingers are crossed.

I was born to be a hermit. Truly.

Middle Age: Come Over Here So I Can Embrace You

I was born a little old lady, and now that I’m a scant year away from 40, I am really starting to embrace it.

While I’m not ready to stop coloring my hair, which has been graying since I was nineteen or so, nor am I ready to put a cut-glass bowl of hard candy on a doily any time soon, I am getting more comfortable with being angry and annoyed; I won’t say I’m turning crochety, but I’m willing to back off when the Muppets in my head do battle, and maybe let Kermit and Ernie take it easy when Oscar and Bert want to be heard. (As a lifelong Doormat and People Pleaser, this is a huge step toward maturation, even considering the Muppet metaphor.)

I am also feeling my age when it comes to music. Not in the, “Kids these days, with their hippity-hoppity pants on the ground,” kind of way—though I still can’t help but focus on lyrics and want to kick ass when I hear Kanye say he’d “do anything for a blonde dyke,” (too bad, Kanye, because LESBIANS AREN’T INTERESTED IN YOU), or that guy who’s, “trying to find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful,” (I don’t think he knows what that actually means). No, I’m still plenty troubled by stupid lyrics and sexist sentiments. Here’s one more: “Before I leave, brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack.” WHAT? You got 1500 on your SATs, Ke$ha—I heard you tell Scott Simon on NPR. Why in the WORLD would you say something so stupid and gross?

Sigh. Here’s what I mean about being an old lady when it comes to music: You know that song Low, where someone (maybe Flo-rida?) sings, “She got them baggy sweatpants, and the Reeboks with the straps . . . She hit the floor, next thing you know, shorty get low, low, low, low, low, low , low, low.” I love this song. I love it. And I am now old enough that if I were to hear this song at a wedding (because god knows I won’t be going to a club to hear it), I would dance to it with abandon, not caring at all how stupid I would look. There are a bunch of middle-aged people cutting rugs on my wedding video, and now, fifteen years later, I would join their frumpy ranks with pleasure. (And I think I'd also enjoy the fact that it would mortify The Boy.)

Youth? Suck it. Middle-age may come with a degree of invisibility, which can be disconcerting, but OH the freedom!