If revenge is a dish best served cold, then regret is a dish always eaten in the cold. I refer, of course, to the chilled, lonely nights when couples lay side-by-side longing for those initial torrid nights filled with sin and sweat.
And so it is with Brothers and Sisters and me. I treasure those early memories -- the butterflies in my stomach as you coyly lured me into your world. We shared misery (the loss of both Norah's William and Julia's little William) and joy (Kevin's and Kitty's not-so-private lives, not to mention a memorable dinner or two).
You introduced us to interesting characters in entertaining predicaments. You provided your actors with scenes that showed their talent without ever being show-off-y. You held all 12 million of us in the palm of your hand -- making us laugh in one moment and cry in the next. You gave us clearly flawed characters who were, if not always loveable, then at least likeable; if not always captivating, then at least intriguing.
And then came Season Three and a ratings slump due to such stellar stories as:
The Nora Improbably Takes a (Semi-) Married Lover Fumble,
The Dark but Ultimately Not Terribly Interesting Deconstruction of Kitty-and-Robert,
The Let's Stick Balthazar-I-Mean-Tommy in a Mexican Commune Follies, and
The Ryan Debacle.
And so it was with trepidation that I watched the first episode of the fourth season. Predictably, I was on pins-and-needles waiting to see if it would be Justin or Rebecca who would be wounded/killed by The Evil Speeding Blue Car of Doom and Destruction. Instead, dear writers, you gave us your version of the Sopranos finale -- the moment when millions of Sunday night television viewers across the country shout at their television sets: WTF??!!
You have pointedly positioned R&J as the Bridge o' Peace and Harmony between the two families ... or at least between Nora and Holly. It might have been Great Drama to watch these formidable women working together toward helping R&J through a devastating ordeal -- sometimes fighting, sometimes play-fighting and mugging for a smile from their destroyed kids, but clinging desperately to one another throughout the pain, fear, loss, and grief. You might have given both of these great actresses some seriously great scenery-chewing storyline.
But maybe good drama is too much to ask for? Yes, far better to give us the 18,000,000th iteration of The Dinner Party Gone Wrong during which Nora and Holly eviscerate one another. I no longer believe that the other actors in these scenes are in character when they roll their eyes. They're all wearing Been-There-Done-This tee shirts beneath their costumes.
If I'm honestly to believe that two reasonably intelligent, relatively "together" women like Holly and Nora can't have managed to move on a bit more than this retread, then William Walker was glad to take that eternal plunge into the Great Blue Swimming Pool in the Sky. He had clearly recognized that both women he loved had the capacity for emotional growth of a gnat.
Writers, you have one of the best ensemble casts ever assembled. Use Them or Lose Them. It's a brand new season, so put The Season of Craptastic Television behind you to write funny, tragic, compelling, entertaining scenes. Force the actors to bring their A-game every day. Bring back the B&S I once loved because, dammit, I've lost those lovin' feelin's. Help me to once again enjoy those it's-Sunday-night-wonder-what's-gonna-happen tremors of excitement, the half-thrilling and half-sickening anxiety of panting puppy love. We do still love you, B&S, but you've gotta show us a little love, too. I hear your competition, two little shows you might have heard of called House and Mad Men show their viewers lots of love!
Cordially,
Tess
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Morning mayhem
by tess
3:29 Wellington kneads the bedspread, clawing the seams out, trying to awaken her brother.
3:31 Irritated, Welli's mother kicks the bed (NOT THE CAT!) to make her stop.
3:34 Wellington plays with a binder clip on the dresser, successfully awakening her brother.
3:47 Quintus trounces across his mother's chest for the third time.
4:13 A thunderstorm rolls in and the cat flap shoots open as Quinty sprints away from The Rainforest (aka the screened porch) to dry off in his mother's loving embrace.
4:14 Quinty wakes up Welli.
4:36 Having knocked her glasses, watch, and wedding ring to the floor, Quintus leaps, claws first, from the dresser onto his mother's legs.
4:44 Welli climbs to her mother's pillow requesting a belly massage.
5:02 Choir practice begins. After three choruses of the Whutchuduin-Now-Ma-How-About-a-Little-Breakfast-Here blues, Quinty's mother glares at him and informs him that it's not time yet.
5:13 Quintus leaps to the 2" wide headboard, scrambles, and falls onto his father's still-snoring head.
5:26 Quinty returns to the headboard and attempts to climb the frame of the extremely heavy, glass-fronted print hanging above his parents' heads. For the first time in his short life he is told NO, BAD BOY and is thrown/falls unceremoniously from the headboard to the floor.
5:27 His mother feels guilty for yelling and is now two hours past any hope of sleep. Still, she knows better than to reward the bad behavior by feeding him right away.
5:32 Certain that he's forgotten The Picture-Climbing Incident, she slogs out of bed to feed The Monsters.
5:39 She returns to bed, praying for just 20 minutes of sleep before her alarm rings.
6:01 The litter box digging-and-chasing ritual begins.
6:17 Yawning, Wellington returns to bed.
6:23 Quinty cuddles snoozily between his parents for a little nap.
6:29 The alarm rings and the day begins.
Considering that I can just barely survive my mornings, I have tremendous respect for parents who manage to deal with crying babies, whining toddlers, and sullen teens in those precious pre-dawn until office-drone hours. I simply cannot fathom how one wakes, dresses, and feeds children while simultaneously signing homework, making lunches, defrosting dinner, and (occasionally) smiling. Only to be told that four dozen cupcakes are due to the principal's office by 9 AM and that a forgotten Science Fair project is due by third period OR ELSE. Parents of the world, I salute you. I'm exhausted just thinking about your mornings!
3:29 Wellington kneads the bedspread, clawing the seams out, trying to awaken her brother.
3:31 Irritated, Welli's mother kicks the bed (NOT THE CAT!) to make her stop.
3:34 Wellington plays with a binder clip on the dresser, successfully awakening her brother.
3:47 Quintus trounces across his mother's chest for the third time.
4:13 A thunderstorm rolls in and the cat flap shoots open as Quinty sprints away from The Rainforest (aka the screened porch) to dry off in his mother's loving embrace.
4:14 Quinty wakes up Welli.
4:36 Having knocked her glasses, watch, and wedding ring to the floor, Quintus leaps, claws first, from the dresser onto his mother's legs.
4:44 Welli climbs to her mother's pillow requesting a belly massage.
5:02 Choir practice begins. After three choruses of the Whutchuduin-Now-Ma-How-About-a-Little-Breakfast-Here blues, Quinty's mother glares at him and informs him that it's not time yet.
5:13 Quintus leaps to the 2" wide headboard, scrambles, and falls onto his father's still-snoring head.
5:26 Quinty returns to the headboard and attempts to climb the frame of the extremely heavy, glass-fronted print hanging above his parents' heads. For the first time in his short life he is told NO, BAD BOY and is thrown/falls unceremoniously from the headboard to the floor.
5:27 His mother feels guilty for yelling and is now two hours past any hope of sleep. Still, she knows better than to reward the bad behavior by feeding him right away.
5:32 Certain that he's forgotten The Picture-Climbing Incident, she slogs out of bed to feed The Monsters.
5:39 She returns to bed, praying for just 20 minutes of sleep before her alarm rings.
6:01 The litter box digging-and-chasing ritual begins.
6:17 Yawning, Wellington returns to bed.
6:23 Quinty cuddles snoozily between his parents for a little nap.
6:29 The alarm rings and the day begins.
Considering that I can just barely survive my mornings, I have tremendous respect for parents who manage to deal with crying babies, whining toddlers, and sullen teens in those precious pre-dawn until office-drone hours. I simply cannot fathom how one wakes, dresses, and feeds children while simultaneously signing homework, making lunches, defrosting dinner, and (occasionally) smiling. Only to be told that four dozen cupcakes are due to the principal's office by 9 AM and that a forgotten Science Fair project is due by third period OR ELSE. Parents of the world, I salute you. I'm exhausted just thinking about your mornings!
Why Your Brain Has Atrophied.
It's becuase you are too dependant on directions. You need to rise above directions.
Seriously. Stop it. Figure it out on your own.
Directions should be used to get you back on track, as guidelines. We should look upon everything as a chance to use our problem-solving skills. Additionally, we need to develop those critical thinking skills. Do you need to be told the coffee in your coffee cup is hot and will burn if you spill it on your lap? Apparently, you do. But I'm here to help, with a wee list of areas that you can easily change from mind-numbing experiences to opportunities to beef up those brain cells. Break away from the herd. Do it your way. (But do consider wearing a helmet).
Meat Thermometers.
My mother never had one and I'm still alive. My husband used to insist on using one and was a salve to it. The result? Food was never cooked properly because he would not use common sense (i.e., a knife cutting through the middle) to determine if the food was done. I've finally convinced him to throw that stupid thing out.
Cooking Instructions.
Again. GUIDELINES. You know when something is done. And maybe you like your Lean Cuisine frozen in the middle because you don't have more than 2:30 to wait for lunch. And maybe you don't need to stop and stir. Maybe you know exactly how to cook your burrito.
Sizing Charts.
These are liars, anyway, so I don't know why you read them. Pick the size you think will fit and the size above it. Take both into the dressing room (or, if you ordered online, your bedroom) and try them on. Then return the smaller one that should -- according to the chart--,but doesn't, fit. And remember that for next time.
Test Directions.
If you can't figure out how to take a test, you have no idea how to get to my blog, so I can't possibly make any recommendations that will yield fruit. Suffice to say, test directions are totally useless. If you need the directions, you aren't smart enough for the test. Period. END OF STORY.
The Weather Forecast.
Temperature? Rain Expectancy? It's all crap. To figure out what to wear, take the temperature listed on the Web or on TV, add in what it looks like outside your window, think about what is was like yesterday, factor in the month and the shoes you want to wear, and VOILA: Outfit. Has almost nothing to do with anything officially listed. Many a day I've missed out on wearing cute, open-toed shoes because some dufus on TV told me it was going to snow and it did NOT snow.
Shampoo Directions.
Please.
Owner's Manuals.
All you need are the Quick Start Guide (which is a page). Everything else you'll figure out as you go and when you break it, you'll be online searching for an answer anyway. Waste of paper.
IKEA Assembly Instructions.
Read them. Re-read them. Study them. Memorize them. And even then, you'll make a mistake and have to go a few steps and start over. I cannot stress this enough. Assembling anything from IKEA is going to use your brain a-plenty even with the instructions.
The Oven-Is-Up-To-Temperature Light and Cooking Times.
First of all, who has time to wait for that? Turn the oven on, shove in your food, wait until you can smell your food cooking. That's when your food is done. However, this method does not work when you boil eggs and leave the room to write a paper for a few hours. See previous blog for the cautionary tale.
Seriously. Stop it. Figure it out on your own.
Directions should be used to get you back on track, as guidelines. We should look upon everything as a chance to use our problem-solving skills. Additionally, we need to develop those critical thinking skills. Do you need to be told the coffee in your coffee cup is hot and will burn if you spill it on your lap? Apparently, you do. But I'm here to help, with a wee list of areas that you can easily change from mind-numbing experiences to opportunities to beef up those brain cells. Break away from the herd. Do it your way. (But do consider wearing a helmet).
Meat Thermometers.
My mother never had one and I'm still alive. My husband used to insist on using one and was a salve to it. The result? Food was never cooked properly because he would not use common sense (i.e., a knife cutting through the middle) to determine if the food was done. I've finally convinced him to throw that stupid thing out.
Cooking Instructions.
Again. GUIDELINES. You know when something is done. And maybe you like your Lean Cuisine frozen in the middle because you don't have more than 2:30 to wait for lunch. And maybe you don't need to stop and stir. Maybe you know exactly how to cook your burrito.
Sizing Charts.
These are liars, anyway, so I don't know why you read them. Pick the size you think will fit and the size above it. Take both into the dressing room (or, if you ordered online, your bedroom) and try them on. Then return the smaller one that should -- according to the chart--,but doesn't, fit. And remember that for next time.
Test Directions.
If you can't figure out how to take a test, you have no idea how to get to my blog, so I can't possibly make any recommendations that will yield fruit. Suffice to say, test directions are totally useless. If you need the directions, you aren't smart enough for the test. Period. END OF STORY.
The Weather Forecast.
Temperature? Rain Expectancy? It's all crap. To figure out what to wear, take the temperature listed on the Web or on TV, add in what it looks like outside your window, think about what is was like yesterday, factor in the month and the shoes you want to wear, and VOILA: Outfit. Has almost nothing to do with anything officially listed. Many a day I've missed out on wearing cute, open-toed shoes because some dufus on TV told me it was going to snow and it did NOT snow.
Shampoo Directions.
Please.
Owner's Manuals.
All you need are the Quick Start Guide (which is a page). Everything else you'll figure out as you go and when you break it, you'll be online searching for an answer anyway. Waste of paper.
IKEA Assembly Instructions.
Read them. Re-read them. Study them. Memorize them. And even then, you'll make a mistake and have to go a few steps and start over. I cannot stress this enough. Assembling anything from IKEA is going to use your brain a-plenty even with the instructions.
The Oven-Is-Up-To-Temperature Light and Cooking Times.
First of all, who has time to wait for that? Turn the oven on, shove in your food, wait until you can smell your food cooking. That's when your food is done. However, this method does not work when you boil eggs and leave the room to write a paper for a few hours. See previous blog for the cautionary tale.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Another day, another dream
Shelly, Gertrude, and I were in what was clearly a very old car since all three of us were sitting comfortably in the front seat. Suddenly Shelly's brakes went out. She was driving down the center of the street -- only in movies and dreams would there be a center runaway car lane -- blowing her horn, cursing up a storm, and pounding on her useless brakes.
Just as a death-mobile drove straight toward me, Shelly managed to turn onto a slightly uphill side street. But what comes up certainly goes down, and the car is gaining crazy momentum.
Suddenly there's a nearly empty stripmall lot ahead and we circle around the cars to find a fairly steep upward climb. Finally, Shelly gets the car stopped.
Our reactions to this harrowing misadventure define us. Shelly wants to go inside to get some help. I'm hysterical and useless. Gertrude calls her husband (who strangely is her real-life boss) and starts screaming at him to pick up the cat from the vet.
Just as a death-mobile drove straight toward me, Shelly managed to turn onto a slightly uphill side street. But what comes up certainly goes down, and the car is gaining crazy momentum.
Suddenly there's a nearly empty stripmall lot ahead and we circle around the cars to find a fairly steep upward climb. Finally, Shelly gets the car stopped.
Our reactions to this harrowing misadventure define us. Shelly wants to go inside to get some help. I'm hysterical and useless. Gertrude calls her husband (who strangely is her real-life boss) and starts screaming at him to pick up the cat from the vet.
Definition of Wrong
by tess
She: Vikki cut the tree wrong.
He: By "wrong" you mean....
She: I mean that she did it in a manner inconsistent with how I would do it.
He: Ahhhh. I thought that's what you meant.
She: Vikki cut the tree wrong.
He: By "wrong" you mean....
She: I mean that she did it in a manner inconsistent with how I would do it.
He: Ahhhh. I thought that's what you meant.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Minutiae
I loathe ironing and don't know why anyone would subject her/himself to such intense suffering. Just buy stuff that doesn't need it! And if you're wearing something that needs to be ironed, just pretend it got wrinkled on the way to work. It's all about attitude.
I think my hot flashes have started. I spend half my life bathed in sweat. Or maybe I'm just so fat that I sweat all the time. Either way -- EEWWWWWW.
This morning when I was driving to work a napkin fell on my foot. Naturally I thought it was a humongous napkin-sized bug that was going to suck all the blood out of my body through my foot. Screaming, leaping, and lifting my knee closer to my ear than it's been in 15 years is quite a way to enter an intersection. You should try it sometime.
A friend of mine recently backed into her boyfriend's car. The Hubs thought that was the knee-slappinest thing he'd ever heard. When I accidentally downloaded a virus onto his brand new computer -- not so knee-slappin'. In fact, not really amused at all. Not that I confessed, btw, I just let him think it happened magically. Because that could totally happen. Honesty in relationships? Highly overrated.
Good Times in my little life revolve around plopping my butt on the sofa, watching HGTV, and washing down frozen blueberry waffles with light beer. I have no ambition to Be All That I Can Be or to help others embrace their secret Warrior Within. That's what made the dream really strange: I met Jessica Simpson at a fast food restaurant and we became great friends. Over time, she came to rely on me as a confidante, dietician, and mentor. That's some serious crazy.
Like the majority of Floridians, we live in a gated community. Sometimes I see the incoming gate open of its own accord without a car triggering it. That's how I know there are ghosts in our neighborhood. They drive ghost-mobiles that render the gate remotes invisible. I just can't figure out which houses they live in because I can't see which direction they go. Sooner or later I'll solve this mystery and know which houses are haunted.
I think my hot flashes have started. I spend half my life bathed in sweat. Or maybe I'm just so fat that I sweat all the time. Either way -- EEWWWWWW.
This morning when I was driving to work a napkin fell on my foot. Naturally I thought it was a humongous napkin-sized bug that was going to suck all the blood out of my body through my foot. Screaming, leaping, and lifting my knee closer to my ear than it's been in 15 years is quite a way to enter an intersection. You should try it sometime.
A friend of mine recently backed into her boyfriend's car. The Hubs thought that was the knee-slappinest thing he'd ever heard. When I accidentally downloaded a virus onto his brand new computer -- not so knee-slappin'. In fact, not really amused at all. Not that I confessed, btw, I just let him think it happened magically. Because that could totally happen. Honesty in relationships? Highly overrated.
Good Times in my little life revolve around plopping my butt on the sofa, watching HGTV, and washing down frozen blueberry waffles with light beer. I have no ambition to Be All That I Can Be or to help others embrace their secret Warrior Within. That's what made the dream really strange: I met Jessica Simpson at a fast food restaurant and we became great friends. Over time, she came to rely on me as a confidante, dietician, and mentor. That's some serious crazy.
Like the majority of Floridians, we live in a gated community. Sometimes I see the incoming gate open of its own accord without a car triggering it. That's how I know there are ghosts in our neighborhood. They drive ghost-mobiles that render the gate remotes invisible. I just can't figure out which houses they live in because I can't see which direction they go. Sooner or later I'll solve this mystery and know which houses are haunted.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
A few questions.
Why is it no one says "Write me" any more? Before we had email, I never once recall someone saying, "Mail me." You would ask people to write you letters while you were away. But now, even though the method of delivery has changed, we no longer say "Write me." We don't even say, "Type me," though we do say "Text me" which falls in line with "email me" and really both should be "type me." These things annoy me.
What happened to ring around the collar? I recall this was a major issue back in the 80's given the number of Era ads centered on this hideous affliction. And now, all I see are strikingly-uniform stains placed in convenient for TV but hardly apt to happen in real life locations. Can't remember the last time I had a circular grass stain on my Henley. Can't we show stray pen marks on pants, mustard stains in the center of the chest, or dirt/salts splatter on the hems of pants? And, unrelated to this, why is it that despite the number of large-breasted women on TV, I very rarely see any of them get up from eating a meal and wipe off the crumbs on the self? And if you get the joke, I bet I can guess your cup size -- Rock on, sister.
I hate ironing. And this post is an example of ironing procrastination.
Please type me your questions.
What happened to ring around the collar? I recall this was a major issue back in the 80's given the number of Era ads centered on this hideous affliction. And now, all I see are strikingly-uniform stains placed in convenient for TV but hardly apt to happen in real life locations. Can't remember the last time I had a circular grass stain on my Henley. Can't we show stray pen marks on pants, mustard stains in the center of the chest, or dirt/salts splatter on the hems of pants? And, unrelated to this, why is it that despite the number of large-breasted women on TV, I very rarely see any of them get up from eating a meal and wipe off the crumbs on the self? And if you get the joke, I bet I can guess your cup size -- Rock on, sister.
I hate ironing. And this post is an example of ironing procrastination.
Please type me your questions.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Things I have learned
- Frosting is the difference between a stomach ache and merely a sugar buzz. ONE piece of cake. Never two. Always two cookies.
- You know you're in it for the long haul when you're cleaning up dog pooh together in the backyard.
- Figure out if you are a morning person and then communicate this to those who regularly encounter you in the morning. Better to firmly tell your coworkers not to set up meetings with you before 9am then to have them not understand why you've thrown a tantrum about the way the bagels were cut.
- Stay at a hotel. Staying with family/friends sounds like a good idea, but it's not.
- You gotta have one friend who totally gets you, makes you laugh, and will actually tell you you're being a jackass when you need to be told you are being a jackass.
- Men are not mind-readers. Tell them what you want. It dramatically increases your chances of getting it.
- Talking doesn't necessarily mean you are communicating.
- Make sure your mate finds your oddities to be imperfections which add to your charm (most of the time; because let's face it: we are all annoying some of the time and someone who doesn't see that isn't being honest with you).
- If you weren't gawky and nerdy in high school, I am not interested in being your friend. I prefer my friends with interesting histories, a good story about the cruelty of the cool kids, and a general disposition of knowing what it's like to be very imperfect and working with that.
- A good cookie can always improve a situation.
- Make friends with the UPS man. If you do, he'll leave your packages better protected. Additionally, he knows a great deal about you, from where you shop, to how frequently you shop (indicative of your financial situation), your name, the names of others in your house, how well you park, when you are home from work, how rude your dogs are, and (for those of us who work from home at times) the rigs you wear when you think you won't see anyone.
- Spend most of your time with people who share your values. For example, Jamie and I both value cheese, cookies, wine, and pizza. And that is why we are happy.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
We don't all end up with our fathers....
"Your tool chest is all wrong."
"Wrong how?"
"You have all the wrong stuff in the wrong drawers and you have put them in those drawers in the wrong way."
"I have the stuff I need in the drawers I want, thrown in randomly for my convenience. How is that wrong?"
"My dad has the exact same tool chest and you haven't done it that way."
"That's Art's way."
"No, that's the RIGHT way. I can fix it for you.... And your peg board is all wrong as well. As is the way you've arranged the garage. I can draw you a map of the right way."
"Your dad's way."
"Like I said, THE RIGHT WAY."
"Wrong how?"
"You have all the wrong stuff in the wrong drawers and you have put them in those drawers in the wrong way."
"I have the stuff I need in the drawers I want, thrown in randomly for my convenience. How is that wrong?"
"My dad has the exact same tool chest and you haven't done it that way."
"That's Art's way."
"No, that's the RIGHT way. I can fix it for you.... And your peg board is all wrong as well. As is the way you've arranged the garage. I can draw you a map of the right way."
"Your dad's way."
"Like I said, THE RIGHT WAY."
Milk and honey
by tess
Gretchen and I don't shop together. And it's not just the 1,000 miles that currently separate us. No. It started long ago and far away.
I arrived at work wearing my old blue shirt, the one I had pledged never to wear again.
G: (glaring at the frayed, stained shmata I called work-wear) I thought you were going shopping this weekend.
T: I did.
G: And?
T: It's a bad story.
G: (with a this-is-gonna-be-good grin) Oohhhh?
T: Okay, so I went to Bon Ton and I was looking at the shirts and this total beeeeyotch came over with this face like hello-you're-too-fat-we-have-nothing-for-you and asked if I needed HELP WITH A SIZE.
G: (now grimacing) And?
T: And I told her that yes, I did need help with a size. I needed to know where they kept the XLs that were meant for HUMANS NOT FOR FREAKIN' BARBIE DOLLS.
Gretchen closed her eyes, humiliated to be associated with me in any way, and walked to the other end of the conference table, pretending that she'd never met me.
And so it was that I thought of her this morning at the grocery store. I turned the corner from Produce and headed toward the Fish counter. I could hear them before I saw them. It sounded like strip-canasta night at an AARP convention. I looked up and there had to be at least 50 graysters standing there chattering away. And as much as I don't like people, that wasn't the problem. It was the clusterf*ck of shopping carts behind them. It was a veritable Cart Party. Carts Gone Wild! Here, there, everywhere, willy-nilly, and piggly-wiggly. Carts, carts, everywhere freakin' carts.
And standing between Produce and the Cart Convention, stood 20 more boomers, their own carts replete with prunes, matzoh, and Efferdent, seeking a path past Meat toward Dairy but unsure how to get there.
Suddenly I heard a voice, strangely like my own, grinding out: "Are You Freakin' Kidding Me. Jeeeeeeezus Keeeeriiist." And then a woman, who looked shocking like me, started ramming carts out of the way, claring a path for myself and the scores of oldsters who had been standing there waiting for the Congregation o' Carts to disperse.
I didn't bother to glare at the shocked faces of the snarling Seafood squawkers. I had embodied my inner Moses, dammit, and I was leading my parade of blue-hairs across the Red Sea of Cart Anarchy and into the Promised Land of Dairy.
Gretchen and I don't shop together. And it's not just the 1,000 miles that currently separate us. No. It started long ago and far away.
I arrived at work wearing my old blue shirt, the one I had pledged never to wear again.
G: (glaring at the frayed, stained shmata I called work-wear) I thought you were going shopping this weekend.
T: I did.
G: And?
T: It's a bad story.
G: (with a this-is-gonna-be-good grin) Oohhhh?
T: Okay, so I went to Bon Ton and I was looking at the shirts and this total beeeeyotch came over with this face like hello-you're-too-fat-we-have-nothing-for-you and asked if I needed HELP WITH A SIZE.
G: (now grimacing) And?
T: And I told her that yes, I did need help with a size. I needed to know where they kept the XLs that were meant for HUMANS NOT FOR FREAKIN' BARBIE DOLLS.
Gretchen closed her eyes, humiliated to be associated with me in any way, and walked to the other end of the conference table, pretending that she'd never met me.
And so it was that I thought of her this morning at the grocery store. I turned the corner from Produce and headed toward the Fish counter. I could hear them before I saw them. It sounded like strip-canasta night at an AARP convention. I looked up and there had to be at least 50 graysters standing there chattering away. And as much as I don't like people, that wasn't the problem. It was the clusterf*ck of shopping carts behind them. It was a veritable Cart Party. Carts Gone Wild! Here, there, everywhere, willy-nilly, and piggly-wiggly. Carts, carts, everywhere freakin' carts.
And standing between Produce and the Cart Convention, stood 20 more boomers, their own carts replete with prunes, matzoh, and Efferdent, seeking a path past Meat toward Dairy but unsure how to get there.
Suddenly I heard a voice, strangely like my own, grinding out: "Are You Freakin' Kidding Me. Jeeeeeeezus Keeeeriiist." And then a woman, who looked shocking like me, started ramming carts out of the way, claring a path for myself and the scores of oldsters who had been standing there waiting for the Congregation o' Carts to disperse.
I didn't bother to glare at the shocked faces of the snarling Seafood squawkers. I had embodied my inner Moses, dammit, and I was leading my parade of blue-hairs across the Red Sea of Cart Anarchy and into the Promised Land of Dairy.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
The Evolution of the Remote
This story will mean nothing to those under 32.
The Bit TV was in our finished basement, a large room with brown carpeting, a pair of beige corduroy couches, and a big coffee table made from a giant piece of driftwood. In a family of 5 everyone has their preferred place in the room and mine was lying on the floor in front of the TV mostly because I had bad eyes from the start and didn't always wear my glasses. It think this also because as the youngest, I was lowest on the totem pole and, therefore, the the human remote control.
The first TV remember had a knob. In the beginning, I would sit up and twist the sticky knob to the right channel. As I got older, I learned to change it with my foot. Because I sat the closest, I was often in control, unless my brother was there in which case, changing the channel with our prior authorization would result in being pummeled. It was my sister, however, who learned how to trump my control. She walked over, stepped on my leg, put the channel on the station she wanted and then, to my absolute astonishment, pulled out the knob and walked back to the couch.
Check mate.
Smart girl, that Michelle.
This basically resulting in wrestling matches for the knob (and she's go the ripped earlobe to prove it). Then the knob would be hidden in order to avoid such brutal confrontations.
Problem here is that you did not want to A. Forget where the knob was or B. Not have the knob in it's proper place when Dad came down to watch TV. STRESS ON B.
Eventually, I started steal the knob and thought I was pretty smart. But she trumped me again. She stole into my father's workshop and took his pliers and changed the channel by using those. And then, of course, you had to sit on or hide the pliers. Which resulted in Dad getting pissed off at us not only for stealing his navy-blue socks (we needed them for our school uniforms and were forever losing ours) but for his pliers as well.
After a few years of this, the knob was long gone, and the pliers were permanently attached to the TV set.
He finally bought us a new TV set: with a remote. A new battle ensued: I sat close to the TV and changed the channel with my toes (even though I was NOT supposed to be barefoot) and my sister sat on the couch behind me and changed the channel back with the remote. When the positions were reversed and I was on the couch with the remote and she on the floor, my sister, STILL smarter than me, learned how to cover up the remote receiver with her foot so I was powerless. I had to watch a lot of Solid Gold and no Smurfs.
My best friend at the time, Christine Wolford, had CABLE. And in the beginning cable came with a long, low box with all of the stations laid out left to right. There was a metal switch that you would drag to the right channel. The fun part of this was to zip that switch from one end to another and see if you could pick out anything on the way -- no remote would ever change channels faster than this thing. My parents didn't get cable until well after Thriller was showing at 9PM every night on MTV, a fact which rendered our house uncool for playtime. Unless you were interested in making mud pies in the woods.
When I was living alone in Virginia, I lost my remote. Sitting four feet from the TV, I was disinclined to get up and change the channel by hand, so I taped together a series of straws in an attempt to created an giant, extended finger to press the Channel Up button. I quickly accepted it was fine to watch the same channel, which is how the Law & Order addiction started. I blame the USA network.
I won't start on the number of remotes we have today -- enough jokes have been told about the idiotic complexity involved in turning on the television. All I'm saying is that wrestling for the remote has eliminated an artform because now there is no other way to change the channel and therefore there is but two options to gain control: negotiation or brute force. And I can tell you which would have ruled in our house growing up.
The Bit TV was in our finished basement, a large room with brown carpeting, a pair of beige corduroy couches, and a big coffee table made from a giant piece of driftwood. In a family of 5 everyone has their preferred place in the room and mine was lying on the floor in front of the TV mostly because I had bad eyes from the start and didn't always wear my glasses. It think this also because as the youngest, I was lowest on the totem pole and, therefore, the the human remote control.
The first TV remember had a knob. In the beginning, I would sit up and twist the sticky knob to the right channel. As I got older, I learned to change it with my foot. Because I sat the closest, I was often in control, unless my brother was there in which case, changing the channel with our prior authorization would result in being pummeled. It was my sister, however, who learned how to trump my control. She walked over, stepped on my leg, put the channel on the station she wanted and then, to my absolute astonishment, pulled out the knob and walked back to the couch.
Check mate.
Smart girl, that Michelle.
This basically resulting in wrestling matches for the knob (and she's go the ripped earlobe to prove it). Then the knob would be hidden in order to avoid such brutal confrontations.
Problem here is that you did not want to A. Forget where the knob was or B. Not have the knob in it's proper place when Dad came down to watch TV. STRESS ON B.
Eventually, I started steal the knob and thought I was pretty smart. But she trumped me again. She stole into my father's workshop and took his pliers and changed the channel by using those. And then, of course, you had to sit on or hide the pliers. Which resulted in Dad getting pissed off at us not only for stealing his navy-blue socks (we needed them for our school uniforms and were forever losing ours) but for his pliers as well.
After a few years of this, the knob was long gone, and the pliers were permanently attached to the TV set.
He finally bought us a new TV set: with a remote. A new battle ensued: I sat close to the TV and changed the channel with my toes (even though I was NOT supposed to be barefoot) and my sister sat on the couch behind me and changed the channel back with the remote. When the positions were reversed and I was on the couch with the remote and she on the floor, my sister, STILL smarter than me, learned how to cover up the remote receiver with her foot so I was powerless. I had to watch a lot of Solid Gold and no Smurfs.
My best friend at the time, Christine Wolford, had CABLE. And in the beginning cable came with a long, low box with all of the stations laid out left to right. There was a metal switch that you would drag to the right channel. The fun part of this was to zip that switch from one end to another and see if you could pick out anything on the way -- no remote would ever change channels faster than this thing. My parents didn't get cable until well after Thriller was showing at 9PM every night on MTV, a fact which rendered our house uncool for playtime. Unless you were interested in making mud pies in the woods.
When I was living alone in Virginia, I lost my remote. Sitting four feet from the TV, I was disinclined to get up and change the channel by hand, so I taped together a series of straws in an attempt to created an giant, extended finger to press the Channel Up button. I quickly accepted it was fine to watch the same channel, which is how the Law & Order addiction started. I blame the USA network.
I won't start on the number of remotes we have today -- enough jokes have been told about the idiotic complexity involved in turning on the television. All I'm saying is that wrestling for the remote has eliminated an artform because now there is no other way to change the channel and therefore there is but two options to gain control: negotiation or brute force. And I can tell you which would have ruled in our house growing up.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
The Horror of School: Part I
School has started and, as if on cue, it's suddenly turned cooler and darker. Such is the way in Rochester. As I watch the kids get on their buses, I start to remember those years -- and the dreams about those years which still plague me (can't find my locker; forgot my combination; am late for school; missed the bus; am sitting in Dr. Thibodeau' s Western Civ class and haven't studied for the test and he KNOWS it).
But instead of dwelling on the common nightmares which chase all of us (you are all intimidated by Thibodeau, you just don't know it), let's stroll down the special, scarring, experiences particular to Miss Gretchen.
I was deeply disappointed in Kindergarten when I realized that my snowflake costume for our little performance of The Nutcracker was not something akin to The Good Witch of the North with sparkles and tulle and a wand, but a sad little men's oxford over white tights and NO SHOES. I never got over it.
In first grade, we had a wall of addition tables. You had to go up and do them in front of your teacher, Mrs. Kukucha, who had a long pointer with a black tip. She would point to each card and you would give her the answer. Working on my 6's addition table, she noticed I was using my fingers because I hadn't studied, she made me sit down. I still hate adding anything to 6.
In second grade, I stumbled in my reading group. I decided to sound out the word, slowly... you try sounding out "the" and see how it works out for you.
In third grade, after deciding that I "needed God," my parents transferred me to Catholic school. Shortly into my long stay there (which ultimately led to the exact opposite of becoming a dedicated Catholic), my teacher gave me a lunchtime detention for digging the top of my eraserless pencil into the wood desk. As if that weren't enough, she felt the need to tell the whole class about it. Instead of getting a rep as a rule-breaking trouble-maker, I think I was seen merely as the freaky new girl with the cowlicks.
Every single dress-down day for the 9 years I was held hostage in blue and white uniforms (this will only mean something to other private school prisoners) was preceded by days and days of angst and stress. This was due in part to the pressure to know how to dress "cool" when you have worn blue and white every dang day of your school life since age 7 and in part to having a mom who (though well-meaning) was a child of Camelot/Kennedy Era and believed that you should always dress up and that jeans were "out." I never looked right, no matter how hard I tried.
Did you know there is such a thing as a cool lunch and a geek lunch? I didn't, but I learned. After realizing I was hauling the latter and powerless to change it.
My mother believed in makeovers. No. My mother believed she could cut hair and yet there was this phenomenon about her being left-handed which, not only enabled her to explain why she needed any seat in the house, (I have to sit on the left side; I'm left-handed; I have to sit on the right side; I'm left-handed; ?), it also explained our haircuts which were, without fail, crooked in the back and yielded frighteningly short bangs due to the fact that she had to cut them shorter and shorter to get them even. Becuase she was left-handed. I remember running downstairs to my father in tears becuase she wanted at me with those scissors. Which was pointless. Every haircut was met with much screaming and then mockery at school. "What is wrong with your hair, Gretchen?" And then I came home and yelled at my mom for ruining my life.
Every year I had two halloween costumes: something I hated that my mom made me wear to school (which was never a princess costume) and then whatever I ended up wearing out to trick or treat (which was a sad, pathetic attempt at a princess costume or a ruined version of what I wore to school). (Seriously, how bad are you feeling for my mom right now?)
When they split us up into a boys' group and a girls' group, we immediately knew they were going to have "the talk" with us. "The Talk" in a Catholic School is pretty useless, as you can imagine. The girls left thinking that our periods were going to spontaneously start one day (probably when we were wearing white) and we would be immediately awash in blood and need to run to the nurse's office to get a maxi pad that had STRAPS. After that, each one of us because paralyzed with fear about when this horrible plight would strike us. The boys refused to tell us what they were taught. Seeing as they were taught it by the 70-year-old priest, I suspect very little.
And those are just the high-points from grammar school....
But instead of dwelling on the common nightmares which chase all of us (you are all intimidated by Thibodeau, you just don't know it), let's stroll down the special, scarring, experiences particular to Miss Gretchen.
I was deeply disappointed in Kindergarten when I realized that my snowflake costume for our little performance of The Nutcracker was not something akin to The Good Witch of the North with sparkles and tulle and a wand, but a sad little men's oxford over white tights and NO SHOES. I never got over it.
In first grade, we had a wall of addition tables. You had to go up and do them in front of your teacher, Mrs. Kukucha, who had a long pointer with a black tip. She would point to each card and you would give her the answer. Working on my 6's addition table, she noticed I was using my fingers because I hadn't studied, she made me sit down. I still hate adding anything to 6.
In second grade, I stumbled in my reading group. I decided to sound out the word, slowly... you try sounding out "the" and see how it works out for you.
In third grade, after deciding that I "needed God," my parents transferred me to Catholic school. Shortly into my long stay there (which ultimately led to the exact opposite of becoming a dedicated Catholic), my teacher gave me a lunchtime detention for digging the top of my eraserless pencil into the wood desk. As if that weren't enough, she felt the need to tell the whole class about it. Instead of getting a rep as a rule-breaking trouble-maker, I think I was seen merely as the freaky new girl with the cowlicks.
Every single dress-down day for the 9 years I was held hostage in blue and white uniforms (this will only mean something to other private school prisoners) was preceded by days and days of angst and stress. This was due in part to the pressure to know how to dress "cool" when you have worn blue and white every dang day of your school life since age 7 and in part to having a mom who (though well-meaning) was a child of Camelot/Kennedy Era and believed that you should always dress up and that jeans were "out." I never looked right, no matter how hard I tried.
Did you know there is such a thing as a cool lunch and a geek lunch? I didn't, but I learned. After realizing I was hauling the latter and powerless to change it.
My mother believed in makeovers. No. My mother believed she could cut hair and yet there was this phenomenon about her being left-handed which, not only enabled her to explain why she needed any seat in the house, (I have to sit on the left side; I'm left-handed; I have to sit on the right side; I'm left-handed; ?), it also explained our haircuts which were, without fail, crooked in the back and yielded frighteningly short bangs due to the fact that she had to cut them shorter and shorter to get them even. Becuase she was left-handed. I remember running downstairs to my father in tears becuase she wanted at me with those scissors. Which was pointless. Every haircut was met with much screaming and then mockery at school. "What is wrong with your hair, Gretchen?" And then I came home and yelled at my mom for ruining my life.
Every year I had two halloween costumes: something I hated that my mom made me wear to school (which was never a princess costume) and then whatever I ended up wearing out to trick or treat (which was a sad, pathetic attempt at a princess costume or a ruined version of what I wore to school). (Seriously, how bad are you feeling for my mom right now?)
When they split us up into a boys' group and a girls' group, we immediately knew they were going to have "the talk" with us. "The Talk" in a Catholic School is pretty useless, as you can imagine. The girls left thinking that our periods were going to spontaneously start one day (probably when we were wearing white) and we would be immediately awash in blood and need to run to the nurse's office to get a maxi pad that had STRAPS. After that, each one of us because paralyzed with fear about when this horrible plight would strike us. The boys refused to tell us what they were taught. Seeing as they were taught it by the 70-year-old priest, I suspect very little.
And those are just the high-points from grammar school....
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
HUH?
by tess
The Hubs and I have been together for a long, long, long, long time. For better or for worse, we know one another very well. He knows my stories. I complete his sentences. He knows when to give up and I know when to give in.
And so it stunned me when he suggested that we scrap our plans for Madrid and rent an RV to visit The Great Southwest.
In the style of my mentor Lewis Black, let me repeat that so you can be sure to understand its significance: He Suggested that We Rent an RV to Visit the Southwest.
He actually sent me a website that extolled the many virtues of RVing one’s way across this beautiful country of ours.
**In an RV you have the flexibility to see it all!
**Cost effective! Save countless dollars and experience true value!
**Dine in and save money!
**No early checkout!
**Fun for the entire family!
**Grill your own steaks and take in the beautiful surroundings!
**No packing and unpacking!
**Settle in and relax at your leisure!
**Enjoy the comforts of home!
Apparently exclamation marks create an Atmosphere of Awesomeness unrivaled by mere commas! semi-colons! and periods!
Having thoroughly studied the FAQ, ROI, and F&Bs of RVing, I shared a few of my questions with The Hubs.
**SERIOUSLY?
**An RV?
**The SOUTHWEST?
**Who are you and what have you done with My Hubs?
** DRIVING and PASSENGERING in hot, boring, dry NATURE while SWEATING?
**Really?
**Are HIKING and TREKKING part of this not-at-all spa-like wonderland of a vacation?
**Which part of this HELL ON EARTH sounded awesome to you?
**Have we met?
**Which part of this HORROR SHOW sounded like ANYTHING I would like?
**Have you suffered BLUNT TRAUMA to the head?
**Would you LIKE to suffer blunt trauma to the head?
We leave for Madrid on April 3rd.
The Hubs and I have been together for a long, long, long, long time. For better or for worse, we know one another very well. He knows my stories. I complete his sentences. He knows when to give up and I know when to give in.
And so it stunned me when he suggested that we scrap our plans for Madrid and rent an RV to visit The Great Southwest.
In the style of my mentor Lewis Black, let me repeat that so you can be sure to understand its significance: He Suggested that We Rent an RV to Visit the Southwest.
He actually sent me a website that extolled the many virtues of RVing one’s way across this beautiful country of ours.
**In an RV you have the flexibility to see it all!
**Cost effective! Save countless dollars and experience true value!
**Dine in and save money!
**No early checkout!
**Fun for the entire family!
**Grill your own steaks and take in the beautiful surroundings!
**No packing and unpacking!
**Settle in and relax at your leisure!
**Enjoy the comforts of home!
Apparently exclamation marks create an Atmosphere of Awesomeness unrivaled by mere commas! semi-colons! and periods!
Having thoroughly studied the FAQ, ROI, and F&Bs of RVing, I shared a few of my questions with The Hubs.
**SERIOUSLY?
**An RV?
**The SOUTHWEST?
**Who are you and what have you done with My Hubs?
** DRIVING and PASSENGERING in hot, boring, dry NATURE while SWEATING?
**Really?
**Are HIKING and TREKKING part of this not-at-all spa-like wonderland of a vacation?
**Which part of this HELL ON EARTH sounded awesome to you?
**Have we met?
**Which part of this HORROR SHOW sounded like ANYTHING I would like?
**Have you suffered BLUNT TRAUMA to the head?
**Would you LIKE to suffer blunt trauma to the head?
We leave for Madrid on April 3rd.
As seen online
by tess
Having denigrated Antonio’s personality, tattoos, hair, and clothing, Brain Surgeon ... errr ... Nurse Judy commented:
“And standing with his legs spread wide. People do that who have brain damage. I know, I was a nurse in neurology.”
- A short excerpt from Ms. McIntyre’s lengthy diatribe opposing the physical features of an HGTV Design Star-testant while extolling the on-air strip-tease of another Star-testant
Having denigrated Antonio’s personality, tattoos, hair, and clothing, Brain Surgeon ... errr ... Nurse Judy commented:
“And standing with his legs spread wide. People do that who have brain damage. I know, I was a nurse in neurology.”
- A short excerpt from Ms. McIntyre’s lengthy diatribe opposing the physical features of an HGTV Design Star-testant while extolling the on-air strip-tease of another Star-testant
A world of hate
by tess
Our mothers taught us not to use the word “hate.” I must have suffered a temporary bout of hearing loss that day. Apparently there’s an endless supply of things that I absolutely abhor but in the old making-lemons-into-lemonade spirit, I’ve found that I quite enjoy sharing my pet peeves with you. Today you may recognize some old favorites but please welcome any newcomers.
**I hate being told how to do something.
**I hate the description “… and wacky hijinks ensue.” It’s a lazy description provided by a lazy reviewer traveling from Lazytown to Lazyville via Lazyland Express.
**I hate to sweat, and I hate it when other people sweat, too. It’s ugly, it smells, and it’s disgusting.
**I hate driving. And riding. I’ve imposed a twenty-nine minute limit on all excursions whether as driver or passenger.
**I hate the office toilet which is broken. Again.
**I hate that Some People think dusting requires moving tchochkes, and vacuuming requires moving furniture. Isn’t that the purpose of covering every horizontal surface with stuff – less cleaning is required?
**I hate doing something twice when once was all that was required.
**I hate hearing the word “laxey-daisey” in lieu of “lackadaisical.”
**I hate it when someone brings in day-old fish for lunch then stinks up the office with it.
**I hate my office chair which would be so much better if it reclined like a super-premium first-class airline seat. A flight attendant serving me drinks and snacks throughout the day would be nice, too.
Our mothers taught us not to use the word “hate.” I must have suffered a temporary bout of hearing loss that day. Apparently there’s an endless supply of things that I absolutely abhor but in the old making-lemons-into-lemonade spirit, I’ve found that I quite enjoy sharing my pet peeves with you. Today you may recognize some old favorites but please welcome any newcomers.
**I hate being told how to do something.
**I hate the description “… and wacky hijinks ensue.” It’s a lazy description provided by a lazy reviewer traveling from Lazytown to Lazyville via Lazyland Express.
**I hate to sweat, and I hate it when other people sweat, too. It’s ugly, it smells, and it’s disgusting.
**I hate driving. And riding. I’ve imposed a twenty-nine minute limit on all excursions whether as driver or passenger.
**I hate the office toilet which is broken. Again.
**I hate that Some People think dusting requires moving tchochkes, and vacuuming requires moving furniture. Isn’t that the purpose of covering every horizontal surface with stuff – less cleaning is required?
**I hate doing something twice when once was all that was required.
**I hate hearing the word “laxey-daisey” in lieu of “lackadaisical.”
**I hate it when someone brings in day-old fish for lunch then stinks up the office with it.
**I hate my office chair which would be so much better if it reclined like a super-premium first-class airline seat. A flight attendant serving me drinks and snacks throughout the day would be nice, too.
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