Being the mature adult that I am, I recently dared an eight-year-old buddy to bring my children's Elmo anthology into class for his next book report. Always one to counter-dare, he upped the ante by telling me to go to a college and read said book aloud to the students. Little did he know where I attended school.
I went to an art school. I had an acquaintance papier-mache herself from the waist down and sit in a courtyard giving shoulder massages while drinking juice, so a grown woman casually reading about Elmo going to the pool would have been nothing of note. Another thing about art school is, well, it's kind of the opposite of medical school. Or at least I'm kind of the opposite of a doctor.
The other day, after wrestling my one-year-old daughter into her car seat (it's a good thing car seats save young lives, because otherwise they are the bane of my existence), I began to feel a shooting pain through the left side of my neck. It quickly began to spread to my shoulder and down the left side of my upper back and arm. It came on very suddenly, and when I looked in the mirror I noticed my left, eh, let's say deltoid was swollen. I also noticed two suspicious bites on the other side of my neck.
Curse you, art school (not to mention WebMd and the Twilight series) for stoking my creativity and putting oh-so-many worst case scenarios in a brain already filled with too much knowledge about celebrity divorces and Saved by the Bell. As the pain began to spread down my left arm, I resigned myself to the fact that I was no doubt having a combination heart attack-stroke-poisonous spider allergic reaction-vampire conversion.
I called my doctor and they decided it was best if I came in, even though it was the close of the day. I quickly made arrangements and hopped in the car with my daughter during rush hour in the suburbs of DC. My husband and son were out of town, so while in traffic I entertained myself with stories of what the paramedics might say when they inevitably found me on the side of the road.
"Sir, your wife appears to be suffering from the bite of a brown recluse spider. If she had only paid attention in all those First Aid classes. The damage is done, I'm afraid."
"Sir, your wife is having a stroke that was brought on from an encounter with a vampire bat."
"Sir, your wife's last use of the internet was to look up directions to her own doctor. How has she even made it this far?"
Anyhow, imagine my surprise when the doctor didn't send for a gurney and yell "CLEAR!" but simply chuckled when she saw my robust daughter running around the office. Turns out this type of injury is quite common for a parent lifting and chasing their youngsters. Though I tried to repeat that my left arm was hurting (I think I learned something about the link between arm pain and spontaneous cardiac explosions on Grey's Anatomy), a couple shots in the neck later and I was sent home.
I guess, much like an adult reading an Elmo book on the campus of an art school, my case wasn't that special after all.
")
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Drinking In the Woods
Today as I checked Facebook for the thirty-eighth time this morning, I noticed my good friend's mom (Sue) wishing a happy birthday to her husband, Jimmy, and it brought back a few memories of my reckless childhood.
Jimmy is the step-father of my close friend, Lyn, and I've known him since I was a kid. Lyn's entire family put up with her and me hanging out in their homes and acting like idiots for many years, and I love them all to this day. But I'll never forget ol' Jimmy's thinly-veiled disappointment with how we were living out our teen years.
One Saturday night, probably when we were about fifteen or sixteen, we were hanging out at Sue and Jimmy's house. Jimmy, most likely hoping we would take our two-girl teenage geek party elsewhere, asked us what our plans were for the evening. We shrugged. We just weren't up for our usual activities of thumbing through Tiger Beat, writing plays about the elderly, or purposefully trying on hideous outfits at our local Marshall's. We just wanted to veg out in the center of their home and watch Nick at Nite (if that was okay with them).
Jimmy had had it. It's not that he minded us being there; he was just crestfallen* with how we were choosing to play out the clock on our youth. He took a deep breath and put his hand to his temple. He wasn't sure how to best express himself, so he just came out with it: "Why don't you guys go out and DO something? I mean, when I was your age we used to go drinkin' in the woods!" Sometimes it's hard to tell if you're a loser. But if your friend's parent is virtually begging you to go out and get drunk like any normal teenage American, you can take that to the bank.
Looking back, I now know what painfully squeaky clean kids we were. We would spend many weekend nights hanging out in the fully furnished basement of Lyn's grandparents' lovely home, watching Daria or analyzing if Chris Cornell was indeed hotter than Eddie Vedder. The kicker of this was twofold: not only did Lyn's grandparents trust us unconditionally and never come downstairs, but there was literally a refrigerator of booze in the basement and it never ONCE occurred to us to sneak any. We would simply reach past the beer and wine coolers and procure an IBC rootbeer or Mountain Dew. Then we would stay up past midnight drinking soda and think ourselves loose cannons with no disregard for the laws of caffeinated beverages.
Bigger parties for our posse consisted of going over to our friend, Ben's, house on a Friday night from 7-11pm and breaking out the cheese curls, soda, and RISK BOARD. If we were feeling extra rebellious, we would take our cool kid party outside to the nearby cul-de-sac and hang. Nary an alcoholic beverage was consumed, and I think it goes without saying that illegal substances were also scarce. Some heated philosophical discussions would break out, though, and I think I also remember a few girls sitting on laps (WILD times). Later in high school, our social activities expanded to youth conferences, walks for charity, and weekend Student Council sleepovers in the school library (because what's more fun than spending an entire Saturday night at your school?)
I thought we were most likely a parent's dream come true, but upon further reflection I can't help but wonder if we let our folks down and Jimmy was the only one man enough to come forward and suggest more appropriate activities for us to pursue. Anyhow, Happy Birthday James Brown (yes, that's his real name). In honor of your day, I plan to put my two children to bed and get rip-roaring drunk in our backyard.
")
*thesaurus.com
Jimmy is the step-father of my close friend, Lyn, and I've known him since I was a kid. Lyn's entire family put up with her and me hanging out in their homes and acting like idiots for many years, and I love them all to this day. But I'll never forget ol' Jimmy's thinly-veiled disappointment with how we were living out our teen years.
One Saturday night, probably when we were about fifteen or sixteen, we were hanging out at Sue and Jimmy's house. Jimmy, most likely hoping we would take our two-girl teenage geek party elsewhere, asked us what our plans were for the evening. We shrugged. We just weren't up for our usual activities of thumbing through Tiger Beat, writing plays about the elderly, or purposefully trying on hideous outfits at our local Marshall's. We just wanted to veg out in the center of their home and watch Nick at Nite (if that was okay with them).
Jimmy had had it. It's not that he minded us being there; he was just crestfallen* with how we were choosing to play out the clock on our youth. He took a deep breath and put his hand to his temple. He wasn't sure how to best express himself, so he just came out with it: "Why don't you guys go out and DO something? I mean, when I was your age we used to go drinkin' in the woods!" Sometimes it's hard to tell if you're a loser. But if your friend's parent is virtually begging you to go out and get drunk like any normal teenage American, you can take that to the bank.
Looking back, I now know what painfully squeaky clean kids we were. We would spend many weekend nights hanging out in the fully furnished basement of Lyn's grandparents' lovely home, watching Daria or analyzing if Chris Cornell was indeed hotter than Eddie Vedder. The kicker of this was twofold: not only did Lyn's grandparents trust us unconditionally and never come downstairs, but there was literally a refrigerator of booze in the basement and it never ONCE occurred to us to sneak any. We would simply reach past the beer and wine coolers and procure an IBC rootbeer or Mountain Dew. Then we would stay up past midnight drinking soda and think ourselves loose cannons with no disregard for the laws of caffeinated beverages.
Bigger parties for our posse consisted of going over to our friend, Ben's, house on a Friday night from 7-11pm and breaking out the cheese curls, soda, and RISK BOARD. If we were feeling extra rebellious, we would take our cool kid party outside to the nearby cul-de-sac and hang. Nary an alcoholic beverage was consumed, and I think it goes without saying that illegal substances were also scarce. Some heated philosophical discussions would break out, though, and I think I also remember a few girls sitting on laps (WILD times). Later in high school, our social activities expanded to youth conferences, walks for charity, and weekend Student Council sleepovers in the school library (because what's more fun than spending an entire Saturday night at your school?)
I thought we were most likely a parent's dream come true, but upon further reflection I can't help but wonder if we let our folks down and Jimmy was the only one man enough to come forward and suggest more appropriate activities for us to pursue. Anyhow, Happy Birthday James Brown (yes, that's his real name). In honor of your day, I plan to put my two children to bed and get rip-roaring drunk in our backyard.
")
*thesaurus.com
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
To Ski or Not to Ski
Despite being raised in New England with parents who also grew up in New England, I somehow managed to avoid skiing until I was seventeen. We just weren't a "ski family," maybe because my 6'4" father preferred not to strap himself to things and hurtle down icy slopes, and my mom just had the good sense to realize that we owned a house with heat.
But I think by 1998 my mom began to question her sound judgement.
To this day, I still don't know what made my mother wake up one winter day after 42+ years of Massachusetts residency and decide, "Hey! Let's all drive up to New Hampshire and go skiing!" Maybe she saw how my brothers enjoyed going with friends, or maybe she just wanted to be an open-minded, adventurous mother who planned nice things for her children. Excuses, excuses.
I should point out that I was a senior in high school and dating a college boy at the time. I think that sentence is technically true. "Lester" had everything I looked for in guy: a pulse, a face, and a mild interest in me. He had also dated one or two of my friends, which just made it all the more classy.
"Lester" and I had been friends for a year or so and began dating on his first visit back from college that fall. Despite not having a dictionary within arm's reach, I'm going to define "dating" as "occasionally talking on the phone, exchanging letters (1998, ladies and gentlemen), and maybe going to the movies once in awhile." That said, Lester's and my correspondance began to dwindle quite a bit in the month or two before he returned home for winter break. Having only had one boyfriend before him (whose sexual orientation was suspect, even to me), I didn't really know that it wasn't "normal" to not hear from your significant other for long stretches of time. I also didn't recognize that when someone you're dating comes home from college but "doesn't have time" to see you for a few days... well, not a great sign. An even worse sign is when he does see you, he invites another female friend to join. But still, I remained optimistic! Clearly the first semester of art school had taxed Lester to the point that, when home for a month with no job or schoolwork, he couldn't make time to see his girlfriend.
One day, Lester and I were making small talk on the phone when I mentioned my mother's grand plan of taking us all skiing the next day.
"Skiing?! I LOVE skiing!" he exclaimed. "I'll come with you guys!"
I'm not going to lie, I was a bit puzzled. This was a guy who had barely committed to a movie date with me since he had been home, and now he was inviting himself to drive 3+ hours and spend the entire day with my family? Whatever, I'll take it.
The next day we left bright and early: It was me, my mom, my two brothers, Heidi (my visiting childhood friend from Martha's Vineyard), Nora (her mother), and Heidi's little sister. Oh, and Lester, who showed up smiling like a kid on Christmas morning, dressed in a head-to-toe green ski-suit which was later complemented with a coordinating hat and ski mask. He looked like he was about to rob an arboretum.
At sunrise, Lester graciously drove our '86 Volvo with me, Heidi, and my brother Trev while the others drove in what was probably a much cooler car. We went up to Bretton Woods in the Live Free or Die State and at some point during the ride it crossed my mind that I had no idea how to ski. Sweet sixteen-year-old Heidi, who lived on a freakin' ISLAND, knew how; as did my eleven-year-old brother. And off course Lester was a few slopes away from being an expert, as his cool green suit would corroborate.
Can I mention here that my mother and Nora had absolutely no intention of actually GOING skiing with us? They were just there to watch, mostly from the comfort of the lodge. I really wish I had stayed with them...
After we got to Bretton Woods and the ridiculousness of getting suited up was over, Lester and Heidi kindly took me to the Bunny Slope to help introduce me to this terrible, pointless sport. I fell a few times (watching children a quarter of my size glide by with ease), but eventually I felt comfortable "upgrading" to a green... pentagon (or whatever the heck the next level up is called).
Lester, Heidi, and I hopped on the ski lift and at no point during our ascent did ANYONE think to tell me that there weren't Swiss male ski instructors waiting to escort me off once we got to the top. The ski lift banged to a brief halt, Heidi and Lester glided off, and I promptly fell into a mound of New Hampshire snow. Off to a great start, you can see.
After Heidi and Lester assisted me on a couple runs, I gave them the go-ahead to enjoy some runs on their own without a human crutch whose knees were pointed at each other to ensure a speed of no more than half a mile per hour. I did some runs on my own, and, believe it or not, started to get the hang of it and DARE I SAY enjoy myself for a moment or two. Naturally, a stop had to be put to said enjoyment.
Lester found me and offered to stop at intervals down the mountain and wait for me to catch up (read: make sure I hadn't falled off a cliff), which I thought was very sweet of him. After each small slope, there he was: A 6'2" 140lb teenager dressed like a piece of asparagus.
About halfway down one of our romantic runs, Lester motioned for me to shussh over to him. I obliged, wondering what sweet nothing he was about to relay. He smiled.
"Hey, Sam! So... how do you think this relationship is going?"
I smiled back. "Pretty good!"
More smiling, then a shrug. "I kind of liked it better when we were just friends..."
Me, without really hearing: "OKAY!"
"Cool."
He then skied off into the proverbial sunset. I was still smiling as I turned to follow, and then it hit me: Wait a minute... did I just get DUMPED? On a SKI SLOPE?!
I barely made it to the bottom of the hill, and there was Lester, Heidi, and my family. My mom and Nora had picked the perfect time to emerge from the lounge, cameras in hand and pointed at me and Lester.
"You two are so cute! SMILE!"
A photo was taken, and I remained in a trance for the rest of the afternoon. Because Lester was always nearby, I never had the chance to tell Heidi or my mom what had happened and we left with them assuming that my sour mood was caused by a hatred of skiing (which was becoming an accurate assessment).
After the longest drive of my life, we returned to my house. My mom ran up to the car before we had the chance to get out and enthusiastically announced plans of hot chocolate inside.
"GREAT!" shouted Lester, beating me to my own front door. I wanted to strangle him with any article of tacky ski clothing I could find.
A couple hours later, after he FINALLY left, I was able to tell my family that I was broken up with halfway down a ski slope. My mom was sympathetic and comforting, as was Heidi. I'm pretty sure everybody else nearly had aneurysms trying to hold back their laughter. My brothers could not have cared less, as they figured Lester was gay anyhow. This was their go-to remark on anyone I dated from 1997-2007. I finally knew I had found the man I was meant to marry when my brothers acknowledged he was straight.
To this day, my husband and I have never been skiing together.
")
But I think by 1998 my mom began to question her sound judgement.
To this day, I still don't know what made my mother wake up one winter day after 42+ years of Massachusetts residency and decide, "Hey! Let's all drive up to New Hampshire and go skiing!" Maybe she saw how my brothers enjoyed going with friends, or maybe she just wanted to be an open-minded, adventurous mother who planned nice things for her children. Excuses, excuses.
I should point out that I was a senior in high school and dating a college boy at the time. I think that sentence is technically true. "Lester" had everything I looked for in guy: a pulse, a face, and a mild interest in me. He had also dated one or two of my friends, which just made it all the more classy.
"Lester" and I had been friends for a year or so and began dating on his first visit back from college that fall. Despite not having a dictionary within arm's reach, I'm going to define "dating" as "occasionally talking on the phone, exchanging letters (1998, ladies and gentlemen), and maybe going to the movies once in awhile." That said, Lester's and my correspondance began to dwindle quite a bit in the month or two before he returned home for winter break. Having only had one boyfriend before him (whose sexual orientation was suspect, even to me), I didn't really know that it wasn't "normal" to not hear from your significant other for long stretches of time. I also didn't recognize that when someone you're dating comes home from college but "doesn't have time" to see you for a few days... well, not a great sign. An even worse sign is when he does see you, he invites another female friend to join. But still, I remained optimistic! Clearly the first semester of art school had taxed Lester to the point that, when home for a month with no job or schoolwork, he couldn't make time to see his girlfriend.
One day, Lester and I were making small talk on the phone when I mentioned my mother's grand plan of taking us all skiing the next day.
"Skiing?! I LOVE skiing!" he exclaimed. "I'll come with you guys!"
I'm not going to lie, I was a bit puzzled. This was a guy who had barely committed to a movie date with me since he had been home, and now he was inviting himself to drive 3+ hours and spend the entire day with my family? Whatever, I'll take it.
The next day we left bright and early: It was me, my mom, my two brothers, Heidi (my visiting childhood friend from Martha's Vineyard), Nora (her mother), and Heidi's little sister. Oh, and Lester, who showed up smiling like a kid on Christmas morning, dressed in a head-to-toe green ski-suit which was later complemented with a coordinating hat and ski mask. He looked like he was about to rob an arboretum.
At sunrise, Lester graciously drove our '86 Volvo with me, Heidi, and my brother Trev while the others drove in what was probably a much cooler car. We went up to Bretton Woods in the Live Free or Die State and at some point during the ride it crossed my mind that I had no idea how to ski. Sweet sixteen-year-old Heidi, who lived on a freakin' ISLAND, knew how; as did my eleven-year-old brother. And off course Lester was a few slopes away from being an expert, as his cool green suit would corroborate.
Can I mention here that my mother and Nora had absolutely no intention of actually GOING skiing with us? They were just there to watch, mostly from the comfort of the lodge. I really wish I had stayed with them...
After we got to Bretton Woods and the ridiculousness of getting suited up was over, Lester and Heidi kindly took me to the Bunny Slope to help introduce me to this terrible, pointless sport. I fell a few times (watching children a quarter of my size glide by with ease), but eventually I felt comfortable "upgrading" to a green... pentagon (or whatever the heck the next level up is called).
Lester, Heidi, and I hopped on the ski lift and at no point during our ascent did ANYONE think to tell me that there weren't Swiss male ski instructors waiting to escort me off once we got to the top. The ski lift banged to a brief halt, Heidi and Lester glided off, and I promptly fell into a mound of New Hampshire snow. Off to a great start, you can see.
After Heidi and Lester assisted me on a couple runs, I gave them the go-ahead to enjoy some runs on their own without a human crutch whose knees were pointed at each other to ensure a speed of no more than half a mile per hour. I did some runs on my own, and, believe it or not, started to get the hang of it and DARE I SAY enjoy myself for a moment or two. Naturally, a stop had to be put to said enjoyment.
Lester found me and offered to stop at intervals down the mountain and wait for me to catch up (read: make sure I hadn't falled off a cliff), which I thought was very sweet of him. After each small slope, there he was: A 6'2" 140lb teenager dressed like a piece of asparagus.
About halfway down one of our romantic runs, Lester motioned for me to shussh over to him. I obliged, wondering what sweet nothing he was about to relay. He smiled.
"Hey, Sam! So... how do you think this relationship is going?"
I smiled back. "Pretty good!"
More smiling, then a shrug. "I kind of liked it better when we were just friends..."
Me, without really hearing: "OKAY!"
"Cool."
He then skied off into the proverbial sunset. I was still smiling as I turned to follow, and then it hit me: Wait a minute... did I just get DUMPED? On a SKI SLOPE?!
I barely made it to the bottom of the hill, and there was Lester, Heidi, and my family. My mom and Nora had picked the perfect time to emerge from the lounge, cameras in hand and pointed at me and Lester.
"You two are so cute! SMILE!"
A photo was taken, and I remained in a trance for the rest of the afternoon. Because Lester was always nearby, I never had the chance to tell Heidi or my mom what had happened and we left with them assuming that my sour mood was caused by a hatred of skiing (which was becoming an accurate assessment).
After the longest drive of my life, we returned to my house. My mom ran up to the car before we had the chance to get out and enthusiastically announced plans of hot chocolate inside.
"GREAT!" shouted Lester, beating me to my own front door. I wanted to strangle him with any article of tacky ski clothing I could find.
A couple hours later, after he FINALLY left, I was able to tell my family that I was broken up with halfway down a ski slope. My mom was sympathetic and comforting, as was Heidi. I'm pretty sure everybody else nearly had aneurysms trying to hold back their laughter. My brothers could not have cared less, as they figured Lester was gay anyhow. This was their go-to remark on anyone I dated from 1997-2007. I finally knew I had found the man I was meant to marry when my brothers acknowledged he was straight.
To this day, my husband and I have never been skiing together.
")
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Goin' POSTAL
Yesterday I eagerly put my first batch of Christmas cards in the mail. I'm holiday decor-challenged, uncreative with gifts, and do not bake much for fear that I'll consume the fruits of my labor at an alarming rate. But I freakin' LOVE sending Christmas cards! So you can imagine my disappointment when I discovered that our weekend mailman simply shoved our incoming mail on top of my cards instead of taking them.
"But, Sam, what's the WORST that can happen when your mailman is a complete idiot?" OH, I don't know... intervention from a bomb squad?
Hear me out.
Some time last year, I had HAD it with the postman neglecting to take our mail, so we began leaving it conspicuously sticking out of our open mailbox. The good news is that he actual began to take it. The downside was that if it rained, our outgoing mail got soggy. Also, these ugly little beetles began crawling into our mailbox and dying. Yes, idiot-proofing our mail was beginning to have its downsides.
One week, my parents were visiting. We were playing with Grant in the living room when there was an unexpected knock on my door. It was a weekday morning, and I wasn't expecting anyone. I casually answered the door and was met with two burly gentlemen dressed in what looked like police-related uniforms. The expressions on their faces were full of caution as they leaned toward me and asked if my husband was home.
"Oh no," I thought. "I knew my spouse was too good to be true. What's he done? Am I going to be arrested? Thrown out of a plane, perhaps?" (Anyone ever see The Good Shepard?)
In my confused state, I explained that my husband was at work. The men, oddly enough, looked like they were now taking great pains to hold back laughter. The taller of the two reached into his bag and asked, "Did your husband recently send a letter to the US Department of Treasury?" I remembered that we had mailed some late tax-related stuff not too long ago and nodded. The man pulled out a large ziplock bag and pointed to it: "Is this the letter he sent?"
I examined the ominously torn, ink-stained letter. When I took a closer took, I noticed that it was also covered with dead beetles. The gears spun for a moment, then I put the pieces together. Mail + rain + dead beetles= poor, terrified individual at the Department of Treasury assuming we had sent a threatening letter containing some kind of deadly vermin. The officers had been sent to our house to investigate after their office had been evacuated and the bomb squad had examined the scene.
STUPID MAILMAN, THIS WAS ALL HIS FAULT!
Fortunately the officers did not feel that I, my parents, or my toddler son posed any threat. They also took my husband's clearly written name on the return address as a sign that maybe it was all just a big understanding. They began to laugh even harder than I was. When I asked if there was some kind of paperwork I needed to fill out, they laughed and said no. Which I took to mean: "No, but we will now have you and your family under cautionary surveillance for the next two decades."
So, yes, having a mailman who doesn't do his job can be a legitimate problem on occasion... But who do I send my letter of complaint to?!
")
"But, Sam, what's the WORST that can happen when your mailman is a complete idiot?" OH, I don't know... intervention from a bomb squad?
Hear me out.
Some time last year, I had HAD it with the postman neglecting to take our mail, so we began leaving it conspicuously sticking out of our open mailbox. The good news is that he actual began to take it. The downside was that if it rained, our outgoing mail got soggy. Also, these ugly little beetles began crawling into our mailbox and dying. Yes, idiot-proofing our mail was beginning to have its downsides.
One week, my parents were visiting. We were playing with Grant in the living room when there was an unexpected knock on my door. It was a weekday morning, and I wasn't expecting anyone. I casually answered the door and was met with two burly gentlemen dressed in what looked like police-related uniforms. The expressions on their faces were full of caution as they leaned toward me and asked if my husband was home.
"Oh no," I thought. "I knew my spouse was too good to be true. What's he done? Am I going to be arrested? Thrown out of a plane, perhaps?" (Anyone ever see The Good Shepard?)
In my confused state, I explained that my husband was at work. The men, oddly enough, looked like they were now taking great pains to hold back laughter. The taller of the two reached into his bag and asked, "Did your husband recently send a letter to the US Department of Treasury?" I remembered that we had mailed some late tax-related stuff not too long ago and nodded. The man pulled out a large ziplock bag and pointed to it: "Is this the letter he sent?"
I examined the ominously torn, ink-stained letter. When I took a closer took, I noticed that it was also covered with dead beetles. The gears spun for a moment, then I put the pieces together. Mail + rain + dead beetles= poor, terrified individual at the Department of Treasury assuming we had sent a threatening letter containing some kind of deadly vermin. The officers had been sent to our house to investigate after their office had been evacuated and the bomb squad had examined the scene.
STUPID MAILMAN, THIS WAS ALL HIS FAULT!
Fortunately the officers did not feel that I, my parents, or my toddler son posed any threat. They also took my husband's clearly written name on the return address as a sign that maybe it was all just a big understanding. They began to laugh even harder than I was. When I asked if there was some kind of paperwork I needed to fill out, they laughed and said no. Which I took to mean: "No, but we will now have you and your family under cautionary surveillance for the next two decades."
So, yes, having a mailman who doesn't do his job can be a legitimate problem on occasion... But who do I send my letter of complaint to?!
")
Friday, October 26, 2012
Reflections on The Wrath of Khan
The other night my husband eagerly asked if we could use our joint Netflix time to watch Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. He quickly added that I could veto his choice, but he looked so excited that I couldn't say no. I felt the nerd-mones in my blood rise... I'm enough of a dork without having seen any Star Trek movies, so I just prayed that viewing one wouldn't send me straight into a geek coma.
I think my agreeableness was quickly cancelled out by the fact that I had many questions to voice during the movie. Hey, I like to thoroughly understand everything I watch, and though it was no Inception, I still had some general inquiries about this 1982 cinematic gem. Here they are, in no particular order:
1. Halfway through the movie, Captain (I mean, Admiral) Kirk crosses paths with a former flame. He then discovers a blond, curly-haired young man who turns out to be (surprise!) his son. This may be presumptuous, but in the year 3 MILLION (or whatever year it's supposed to be), haven't people figured out how to prevent unplanned pregnancies? Furthermore, the son looked about fifteen years (at best) younger than his parents.
2. Why does one character have a Scottish accent and another one sound Russian? These people are routinely travelling all over the universe and probably have been for most of their lives... wouldn't they just sound neutral at this point?!
3. Please explain how the "beam me up" thing works. If people can just beam themselves places, why do they even need spaceships? I'm sure there's a detailed explanation for this, and I welcome it.
4. Kirstie Alley plays the steely female Vulcan ship commander. Whose casting choice was this? When I thoughtfully brought this up, Howard simply reasoned that "Kirstie Alley was hot **** in the eighties," and we moved on. I still wasn't convinced.
5. Let's talk about Khan and his so-called "wrath." First of all, "wrath" is a strong word to use when referring to an old man dressed like a ThunderCat. The guy had bangs, for heaven's sake! Not the most convincing movie villain I've ever seen... plus, his posse had supposedly been marooned on a desert planet for a couple decades and looked like they were one pair of legwarmers away from a Cats audition.
Yes, I know it was the frickin' EIGHTIES, but I'm not sure what the costume designers were thinking. The only, and I mean ONLY, time an antagonist has gotten away with a mullet and jumpsuit was in Labyrinth. And that was because David Bowie's incredible. Sorry, what was I talking about again?
6. The Enterprise had special shields that could be activated when the crew felt the ship was in danger. I'm no rocket scientist, but why wouldn't you just make that a default feature? Howard had a theory for this, and that was "Maybe flying around with the shields on would deplete too much power." Isn't it worth budgeting extra for that?
7. [spoiler alert] Spock DIED at the end! WHAT? I didn't even know that could happen! He's, like, the only character I could even name before watching the movie and they killed him off. Kind of harsh and, in retrospect, a poor choice for my first Star Trek experience*
Well, that about wraps up my most pressing inquiries. Feel free to enlighten me if there's anything I missed and or clearly don't understand. These are the things that keep me awake at night...
")
*This technically wasn't my "first" Star Trek experience. I tried to watch the more recent, high tech, polished version that came out staring some pretty boy whose name escapes me. I didn't even make it halfway through the movie because something was rubbing me the wrong way. Then I found out that the wicked JJ Abrams had laid his cursed hands upon the film, promptly shook my fist at the sky, and went and did something more productive with my day. Which isn't saying much.
I think my agreeableness was quickly cancelled out by the fact that I had many questions to voice during the movie. Hey, I like to thoroughly understand everything I watch, and though it was no Inception, I still had some general inquiries about this 1982 cinematic gem. Here they are, in no particular order:
1. Halfway through the movie, Captain (I mean, Admiral) Kirk crosses paths with a former flame. He then discovers a blond, curly-haired young man who turns out to be (surprise!) his son. This may be presumptuous, but in the year 3 MILLION (or whatever year it's supposed to be), haven't people figured out how to prevent unplanned pregnancies? Furthermore, the son looked about fifteen years (at best) younger than his parents.
2. Why does one character have a Scottish accent and another one sound Russian? These people are routinely travelling all over the universe and probably have been for most of their lives... wouldn't they just sound neutral at this point?!
3. Please explain how the "beam me up" thing works. If people can just beam themselves places, why do they even need spaceships? I'm sure there's a detailed explanation for this, and I welcome it.
4. Kirstie Alley plays the steely female Vulcan ship commander. Whose casting choice was this? When I thoughtfully brought this up, Howard simply reasoned that "Kirstie Alley was hot **** in the eighties," and we moved on. I still wasn't convinced.
5. Let's talk about Khan and his so-called "wrath." First of all, "wrath" is a strong word to use when referring to an old man dressed like a ThunderCat. The guy had bangs, for heaven's sake! Not the most convincing movie villain I've ever seen... plus, his posse had supposedly been marooned on a desert planet for a couple decades and looked like they were one pair of legwarmers away from a Cats audition.
Yes, I know it was the frickin' EIGHTIES, but I'm not sure what the costume designers were thinking. The only, and I mean ONLY, time an antagonist has gotten away with a mullet and jumpsuit was in Labyrinth. And that was because David Bowie's incredible. Sorry, what was I talking about again?
6. The Enterprise had special shields that could be activated when the crew felt the ship was in danger. I'm no rocket scientist, but why wouldn't you just make that a default feature? Howard had a theory for this, and that was "Maybe flying around with the shields on would deplete too much power." Isn't it worth budgeting extra for that?
7. [spoiler alert] Spock DIED at the end! WHAT? I didn't even know that could happen! He's, like, the only character I could even name before watching the movie and they killed him off. Kind of harsh and, in retrospect, a poor choice for my first Star Trek experience*
Well, that about wraps up my most pressing inquiries. Feel free to enlighten me if there's anything I missed and or clearly don't understand. These are the things that keep me awake at night...
")
*This technically wasn't my "first" Star Trek experience. I tried to watch the more recent, high tech, polished version that came out staring some pretty boy whose name escapes me. I didn't even make it halfway through the movie because something was rubbing me the wrong way. Then I found out that the wicked JJ Abrams had laid his cursed hands upon the film, promptly shook my fist at the sky, and went and did something more productive with my day. Which isn't saying much.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
A Dating Red Flag
After a failed relationship years ago I sent my older (younger) brother to Barnes and Noble to buy It's Called a Breakup Because It's Broken. Considering my brother went through great lengths for many years to deny any relation to me, it was pretty amazing that he marched into the SELF HELP section of a store and returned with this literary gem. If you have not heard of this book, it's by Sex and the City writer Greg Behrendt, also author of the classic He's Just Not That Into You. Both books are incredible and helped me avoid future mismatched relationships and land the man I'm lucky enough to now call my husband. But who wants to hear about lovey dovey fairy tales when there are more embarrassing stories to be told? ONWARD!
Let's go back to the year 2004. I had been dating... let's call him "Laser" just for kicks. Laser was (and still is) a nice guy, but it was clear early on that it wasn't an ideal match. He "lost" my number a couple times before we finally managed to arrange a first date, but eventually we began steadily seeing one another.
About five months went by, and he invited me to visit some friends in California with him. This was around the time the show the OC was pretty hip with the "kids," and since I had never been to the West Coast I was all in! The fact that we would be staying at his friend, a part-time model's, house didn't deter me enough to say no.
Laser offered to book the plane tickets and not-so-subtley hinted that his part-time model friend could teach me a thing or two about makeup and fashion sense (I'm pretty sure a crossing guard could do the same; that bar is pretty low). It's safe to say that a few red flags were being raised early on into this "relationship," but this next exchange was more of a red flag staple-gunned to a giant neon billboard that was then set on fire...
One evening a week before our trip, Laser called to confirm our travel arrangements. Flight times, airport, etc. And then he said, "I booked your ticket. Your last name is spelled B-U-S-W-E-L-L, right?" It's important to now note that my last name was BusFIELD. He did not just misspell it. He completely changed the second syllable. I cracked up, assuming he was joking (after all, his saving grace had been a sharp sense of humor). But when there was no laughter being returned on the other line, the harsh reality began to set in. My boyfriend of almost HALF A YEAR, who I also WORKED WITH, did not know my last name. I'm not sure if you need a book to tell you that that's a very, very, very, awful sign.
To add insult to injury (a prominent theme of most of my stories), his response was something along the lines of how hard it is for a busy guy like him to keep up with minutia like "last names." He also expressed annoyance at the fact that, what with new airline regulations, it would cost him about a hundred dollars to change the name on the ticket.
Ladies, there are lots of wonderful guys (and gals!) out there, but not everyone's compatible. Hold out for a partner who loves you the way you are, builds you up, makes you happy, and knows how to FREAKIN' SPELL YOUR FREAKIN' NAME! I'm happy to say that my husband fulfills all of these high-maintenance, pie-in-the-sky requirements.
")
Let's go back to the year 2004. I had been dating... let's call him "Laser" just for kicks. Laser was (and still is) a nice guy, but it was clear early on that it wasn't an ideal match. He "lost" my number a couple times before we finally managed to arrange a first date, but eventually we began steadily seeing one another.
About five months went by, and he invited me to visit some friends in California with him. This was around the time the show the OC was pretty hip with the "kids," and since I had never been to the West Coast I was all in! The fact that we would be staying at his friend, a part-time model's, house didn't deter me enough to say no.
Laser offered to book the plane tickets and not-so-subtley hinted that his part-time model friend could teach me a thing or two about makeup and fashion sense (I'm pretty sure a crossing guard could do the same; that bar is pretty low). It's safe to say that a few red flags were being raised early on into this "relationship," but this next exchange was more of a red flag staple-gunned to a giant neon billboard that was then set on fire...
One evening a week before our trip, Laser called to confirm our travel arrangements. Flight times, airport, etc. And then he said, "I booked your ticket. Your last name is spelled B-U-S-W-E-L-L, right?" It's important to now note that my last name was BusFIELD. He did not just misspell it. He completely changed the second syllable. I cracked up, assuming he was joking (after all, his saving grace had been a sharp sense of humor). But when there was no laughter being returned on the other line, the harsh reality began to set in. My boyfriend of almost HALF A YEAR, who I also WORKED WITH, did not know my last name. I'm not sure if you need a book to tell you that that's a very, very, very, awful sign.
To add insult to injury (a prominent theme of most of my stories), his response was something along the lines of how hard it is for a busy guy like him to keep up with minutia like "last names." He also expressed annoyance at the fact that, what with new airline regulations, it would cost him about a hundred dollars to change the name on the ticket.
Ladies, there are lots of wonderful guys (and gals!) out there, but not everyone's compatible. Hold out for a partner who loves you the way you are, builds you up, makes you happy, and knows how to FREAKIN' SPELL YOUR FREAKIN' NAME! I'm happy to say that my husband fulfills all of these high-maintenance, pie-in-the-sky requirements.
")
Monday, October 1, 2012
Ignore Grey and Call the Midwife
I'm in the throes of a new break-up with someone who's been close to me for over six years. Actually, more than one person... like, eight or nine. They are the cast of Grey's Anatomy.
When the show started in 2005, if I may be so bold, I believe 99% of all creatures with ovaries and a television were hooked. Gorgeous, emotionally-available male doctors; fierce, intelligent female med students with perfectly blown-out hair; stellar writing and plots so exciting you'd occasionally spill some Pinot Grigio onto your faded pajama pants... What was not to love?!
Sadly, I think Grey's has fallen into a predicament that many shows have also succumbed to: not knowing when to say when. Seinfeld is probably the only show I can name that avoided this: they recognized when they had reached their peak and bid audiences adieu, leaving us wanting more but sparing us the risk of additional, sub-par seasons. Unlike, oh, I don't know, LOST, which was all "Oh you like that? Plane crashes, islands, and polar bears? Well how about some time travel? Ancient folklore? Oh, keep going, you say? How about four more seasons and then we'll just end everything without explaining a thing?" In case I haven't said this already, A WAG OF MY FINGER, LOST! You should still be ashamed of yourself...
The Office, as much as I LOVE that show, should have gracefully given their curtain call when Steve Carrell left. I know some people would disagree, and that's fine. I just think the once laugh-until-your-intestines-hurt show is now just "amusing." Plus, it would have been a perfect ending: the staff of Dunder Mifflin finally appreciating Michael Scott and Michael Scott finally getting what he's always dreamed of: his perfect female match.
Sex And the City... PERFECT ending to an incredible series. And then some greedy jerks who saw how sad we were to say goodbye to Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte decided to make not ONE but TWO movies and capitalize on our unwillingness to let go. Was that really necessary? I know some people loved the movies (I found the first one depressing as heck and the second one funny but not show-quality), but if Kate Winslet can let a handsome young Leonardo DiCaprio sink below a frozen ocean, then we CAN let go of Sex And the City. It's time, ladies (and some gentlemen), and if you're looking for a good replacement then check out HBO's "Girls."
Back to my point. I think I had one... Grey's Anatomy has done EVERYTHING and needs to call it a series. Everyone's slept with everyone, everyone's been married and divorced, everyone's performed emergency surgery on everyone else, illegitimate babies have been birthed and adorable orphans have been adopted... not to mention a preview last week promised that the doctors would face THEIR GREATEST CHALLENGE EVER. Um... wasn't the hospital invaded by an insane gunman a couple seasons ago who KILLED half the staff?! Was that NOT their greatest challenge ever?
Plot desperation aside, that's not what made me finally decide to give up on the show. What made me say "STOP IT, GORGEOUS DOCTORS! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!" is when I was catching up on an episode from last season and a premature newborn was taken off life support and died in his mother's arms. Not cool, writers! NOT COOL! Everyone knows that a newborn on a show receives a last-minute miracle and LIVES. Those are the rules! Through my hot, angry tears I decided that we were THROUGH. I haven't been this angry since my rant at JJ Abrams...
I have traded Grey's for another show entitled "Call the Midwife." So far, so good... one close call with a premature baby appearing to be stillborn, but LO AND BEHOLD! A last minute miracle and the baby is healthy and cooing in his mother's arms. Now THAT'S how it's done, Hollywood. We could all take a nod from the BBC.
Have I mentioned I think I need to get out more?
")
When the show started in 2005, if I may be so bold, I believe 99% of all creatures with ovaries and a television were hooked. Gorgeous, emotionally-available male doctors; fierce, intelligent female med students with perfectly blown-out hair; stellar writing and plots so exciting you'd occasionally spill some Pinot Grigio onto your faded pajama pants... What was not to love?!
Sadly, I think Grey's has fallen into a predicament that many shows have also succumbed to: not knowing when to say when. Seinfeld is probably the only show I can name that avoided this: they recognized when they had reached their peak and bid audiences adieu, leaving us wanting more but sparing us the risk of additional, sub-par seasons. Unlike, oh, I don't know, LOST, which was all "Oh you like that? Plane crashes, islands, and polar bears? Well how about some time travel? Ancient folklore? Oh, keep going, you say? How about four more seasons and then we'll just end everything without explaining a thing?" In case I haven't said this already, A WAG OF MY FINGER, LOST! You should still be ashamed of yourself...
The Office, as much as I LOVE that show, should have gracefully given their curtain call when Steve Carrell left. I know some people would disagree, and that's fine. I just think the once laugh-until-your-intestines-hurt show is now just "amusing." Plus, it would have been a perfect ending: the staff of Dunder Mifflin finally appreciating Michael Scott and Michael Scott finally getting what he's always dreamed of: his perfect female match.
Sex And the City... PERFECT ending to an incredible series. And then some greedy jerks who saw how sad we were to say goodbye to Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte decided to make not ONE but TWO movies and capitalize on our unwillingness to let go. Was that really necessary? I know some people loved the movies (I found the first one depressing as heck and the second one funny but not show-quality), but if Kate Winslet can let a handsome young Leonardo DiCaprio sink below a frozen ocean, then we CAN let go of Sex And the City. It's time, ladies (and some gentlemen), and if you're looking for a good replacement then check out HBO's "Girls."
Back to my point. I think I had one... Grey's Anatomy has done EVERYTHING and needs to call it a series. Everyone's slept with everyone, everyone's been married and divorced, everyone's performed emergency surgery on everyone else, illegitimate babies have been birthed and adorable orphans have been adopted... not to mention a preview last week promised that the doctors would face THEIR GREATEST CHALLENGE EVER. Um... wasn't the hospital invaded by an insane gunman a couple seasons ago who KILLED half the staff?! Was that NOT their greatest challenge ever?
Plot desperation aside, that's not what made me finally decide to give up on the show. What made me say "STOP IT, GORGEOUS DOCTORS! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!" is when I was catching up on an episode from last season and a premature newborn was taken off life support and died in his mother's arms. Not cool, writers! NOT COOL! Everyone knows that a newborn on a show receives a last-minute miracle and LIVES. Those are the rules! Through my hot, angry tears I decided that we were THROUGH. I haven't been this angry since my rant at JJ Abrams...
I have traded Grey's for another show entitled "Call the Midwife." So far, so good... one close call with a premature baby appearing to be stillborn, but LO AND BEHOLD! A last minute miracle and the baby is healthy and cooing in his mother's arms. Now THAT'S how it's done, Hollywood. We could all take a nod from the BBC.
Have I mentioned I think I need to get out more?
")
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