I don't have too much to say when it comes to politics or politicians.
But I do have a lot to say about just about everything else, so I'd like to comment on an article I saw today about John and Elizabeth Edwards celebrating their anniversary at Wendy's.
As the story goes, the couple was so busy on their one-year anniversary that they didn't have time to eat a proper meal, so they went to Wendy's and decided to make it a tradition. Now, every year on their anniversary, they celebrate with a Wendy's meal.
I don't pay all that much attention to politics or politicians most of the time, but this is the second time I've heard a story about these two that just leaves me smiling. The other time was when someone told me that Elizabeth Edwards still wears the modest (read: cheap) ring her husband gave her 30 years ago when they married, rather than trading it in for a flashier piece once they had some money in the bank.
When I hear things like that about people, I just feel good. It's sweet. I once knew a woman who, even after a couple of decades of marriage, still celebrated with her husband the anniversary of their first date. I wonder if most couples married that long even remember the anniversary of their first date, let alone recognize it in any meaningful way.
In the thick of the early days of marriage myself, I find in these stories hope for the future. It's nice to know that couples married for many years can still enjoy the simple pleasures they did in their early days. And I have no doubt in my mind that someday, my husband and I will be one of those couples.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
An Open Letter To My Tummy
Dear Tummy,
For the sake of those reading this blog, I won't go into details about what you've done to me over the past 18 hours, but I wanted to take this opportunity to publicly implore you to stop.
I've been good to you. I haven't eaten any greasy or spicy foods, or dairy. I haven't been consuming alcohol. I haven't taken you on any rollercoasters. And when you started to feel woogly yesterday, I was good to you. I gave you Pepto, I gave you water and I gave you rest. Yet today, you continue, even after that lovely cup of peppermint tea I sent down to you.
It's time to stop, Friend Tummy. You and I both love our new couch, but this isn't the way to get more time on it.
Sincerely,
Erika
For the sake of those reading this blog, I won't go into details about what you've done to me over the past 18 hours, but I wanted to take this opportunity to publicly implore you to stop.
I've been good to you. I haven't eaten any greasy or spicy foods, or dairy. I haven't been consuming alcohol. I haven't taken you on any rollercoasters. And when you started to feel woogly yesterday, I was good to you. I gave you Pepto, I gave you water and I gave you rest. Yet today, you continue, even after that lovely cup of peppermint tea I sent down to you.
It's time to stop, Friend Tummy. You and I both love our new couch, but this isn't the way to get more time on it.
Sincerely,
Erika
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Never Give Up On The Good Times
A few months ago, when I said I was happy about the news that the Spice Girls would reunite, I took some flack for it. I'm not surprised, really, and I'll admit that the Spice Girls are cheesy. Even so, every time I hear one of their songs, I can't help smiling.
My junior year of college, when the group was at the height of its popularity, a friend of mine decided to give her boyfriend (who was, like most guys our age, a fan of the scantily-clad ladies) a Spice Girls themed Valentine's Day gift. She dressed up as Ginger Spice and called upon four of her friends to play the parts of the other Girls and dance to "Spice Up Your Life" for him.
My roommate Miranda was chosen to play Scary Spice, and I was tapped to play Sporty Spice, which was funny because I was not at all sporty and she was not at all black. She did, however, have dark, curly hair, tons of leopard print clothing and access to plenty of theatre makeup to make herself look black. Luckily, we were "performing" at the guy's apartment, in the building right next to ours, so no one who might have been offended saw her -- not that anyone would have noticed anyway. She made a great looking black girl; even the guy whose gift this whole thing was didn't realize she was white for like a year after that.
Miranda, who recorded nearly every movie or special she watched on TV, had a video of a Spice Girls concert, and the two of us had nothing to do the day of the big performance, so we actually took the time to learn the "Spice Up Your Life" dance...alright, and maybe a few others too. At the time, we were making fun of it, but it was one of those things that's funnier if you do a good job. So we did.
The girl's boyfriend loved the dance -- or at least, loved the fact that five girls had dressed up to dance for him on Valentine's Day. The relationship didn't last, but the laughs we all had that night are something we aren't likely to forget.
About a year ago, during the run of "Grease," I was in the dressing room putting on my makeup, when someone popped in a CD with "Stop" on it. I hadn't heard the song in years but immediately started singing along, and somehow, I still knew the entire dance. Today, I was listening to a college-era mix tape (an actual tape, mind you) and heard "Stop" once again. And once again, I couldn't help singing and dancing along.
There's just something about the Spice Girls. Was their music groundbreaking? No. Did they inspire people to lead better lives and look inside themselves to find a deeper meaning? Um, probably not. But there was always a good beat and fun lyrics, and they didn't really take themselves too seriously (anyone who has seen Spice World -- and I have, thanks to Miranda -- can tell you that).
I doubt the Girls will go on to record umpteen more smash hit albums and achieve the fame and fortune they did in the 90s. I think their 15 minutes are pretty much over. But I'm glad they've returned for another fling.
Welcome back, Spice Girls.
My junior year of college, when the group was at the height of its popularity, a friend of mine decided to give her boyfriend (who was, like most guys our age, a fan of the scantily-clad ladies) a Spice Girls themed Valentine's Day gift. She dressed up as Ginger Spice and called upon four of her friends to play the parts of the other Girls and dance to "Spice Up Your Life" for him.
My roommate Miranda was chosen to play Scary Spice, and I was tapped to play Sporty Spice, which was funny because I was not at all sporty and she was not at all black. She did, however, have dark, curly hair, tons of leopard print clothing and access to plenty of theatre makeup to make herself look black. Luckily, we were "performing" at the guy's apartment, in the building right next to ours, so no one who might have been offended saw her -- not that anyone would have noticed anyway. She made a great looking black girl; even the guy whose gift this whole thing was didn't realize she was white for like a year after that.
Miranda, who recorded nearly every movie or special she watched on TV, had a video of a Spice Girls concert, and the two of us had nothing to do the day of the big performance, so we actually took the time to learn the "Spice Up Your Life" dance...alright, and maybe a few others too. At the time, we were making fun of it, but it was one of those things that's funnier if you do a good job. So we did.
The girl's boyfriend loved the dance -- or at least, loved the fact that five girls had dressed up to dance for him on Valentine's Day. The relationship didn't last, but the laughs we all had that night are something we aren't likely to forget.
About a year ago, during the run of "Grease," I was in the dressing room putting on my makeup, when someone popped in a CD with "Stop" on it. I hadn't heard the song in years but immediately started singing along, and somehow, I still knew the entire dance. Today, I was listening to a college-era mix tape (an actual tape, mind you) and heard "Stop" once again. And once again, I couldn't help singing and dancing along.
There's just something about the Spice Girls. Was their music groundbreaking? No. Did they inspire people to lead better lives and look inside themselves to find a deeper meaning? Um, probably not. But there was always a good beat and fun lyrics, and they didn't really take themselves too seriously (anyone who has seen Spice World -- and I have, thanks to Miranda -- can tell you that).
I doubt the Girls will go on to record umpteen more smash hit albums and achieve the fame and fortune they did in the 90s. I think their 15 minutes are pretty much over. But I'm glad they've returned for another fling.
Welcome back, Spice Girls.
Friday, July 27, 2007
You Don't Like The Sound of The Truth Coming From My Mouth
I heard a bit on the radio last week about some guy who is trying to start an honesty trend -- a total honesty trend in which even white lies are unacceptable. I've been pondering this for days now, and while I get where he's coming from, I just can't get on board to where he's going.
I didn't hear the whole bit, but from what I understand, the idea is to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, whether a person asks for your opinion or not. So if your friend's pants make her butt look fat, you're supposed to tell her, even if she hasn't asked what you think. In fact, the deejay who had read an article about this thing said the honesty guy had actually stopped his interviewer in the middle of the interview to say he was bored with the conversation.
I like the idea of being truthful, but only when it's my business to offer my opinion. If a friend asks, and her butt does indeed look big, I'm not going to lie and insist that any woman would be lucky to have a bottom so tiny as hers. But I won't be blunt and mean about it either. (A former coworker of mine used to say that when this happened with his wife, he'd tell her, "I think there's something else in your closet that would be more flattering." I think that's a good approach -- it's honest but has the least chance of hurting her feelings.)
But all truth, all the time sounds harsh to me. I get the idea that ultimately, your friend will be grateful that you made her go back and put on some more flattering pants, but I can't help feeling that people blurting out every opinion that they have, every moment that they have it is just going to make others think they're rude and too talkative to boot.
A few years ago, a woman I knew through work told me that a dress I'd been wearing the last time she'd seen me was a "granny dress" and that even she, a grandmother, wouldn't be caught dead wearing something like that. The funny thing was, I'd gotten the dress off the junior's rack and had worried that it was actually a little young for me. Even so, after she said that, I never wore the dress again.
The guy who is promoting this whole honesty thing thinks this will catch on in a domino effect fashion -- he starts it, others will join in and and pretty soon, everyone will be doing it and there won't be any more hurt feelings, because people will be used to hearing blunt truth. I get that too, on some level. There are certain people in my life who can blurt out most anything and not hurt my feelings. My mom, for example, in typical mom fashion, has always been pretty blunt with me. I'm used to hearing it from her, and I trust her opinion, so I'm not surprised or offended by things she says to me.
I'm pretty sure that the honesty promotion isn't going to go very far, given how easy it is to lie, or at least improve the truth. But because I do like the idea of being more honest than dishonest, I thought I'd share one small truth here.
Sometimes when I am in the middle of a conversation with someone I don't know all that well, especially in a situation in which one or both of us are trying to create a good impression, I can't help thinking to myself, how would this person react if I kicked her/him in the shin, as hard as I could? I believe this comes from Helen Hunt's line in 80s teen classic Girls Just Want To Have Fun, in which she shares that whenever she is alone in a room with a guy, she wonders if she would puke if he kissed her. This prospect is just too gross for me, and kicking would probably be more fun, so I go with that.
I hardly ever actually want to kick people; I think it's just my way of gauging how they act when not on their best behavior. Maybe I should just start telling them, "your ass looks big."
I didn't hear the whole bit, but from what I understand, the idea is to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, whether a person asks for your opinion or not. So if your friend's pants make her butt look fat, you're supposed to tell her, even if she hasn't asked what you think. In fact, the deejay who had read an article about this thing said the honesty guy had actually stopped his interviewer in the middle of the interview to say he was bored with the conversation.
I like the idea of being truthful, but only when it's my business to offer my opinion. If a friend asks, and her butt does indeed look big, I'm not going to lie and insist that any woman would be lucky to have a bottom so tiny as hers. But I won't be blunt and mean about it either. (A former coworker of mine used to say that when this happened with his wife, he'd tell her, "I think there's something else in your closet that would be more flattering." I think that's a good approach -- it's honest but has the least chance of hurting her feelings.)
But all truth, all the time sounds harsh to me. I get the idea that ultimately, your friend will be grateful that you made her go back and put on some more flattering pants, but I can't help feeling that people blurting out every opinion that they have, every moment that they have it is just going to make others think they're rude and too talkative to boot.
A few years ago, a woman I knew through work told me that a dress I'd been wearing the last time she'd seen me was a "granny dress" and that even she, a grandmother, wouldn't be caught dead wearing something like that. The funny thing was, I'd gotten the dress off the junior's rack and had worried that it was actually a little young for me. Even so, after she said that, I never wore the dress again.
The guy who is promoting this whole honesty thing thinks this will catch on in a domino effect fashion -- he starts it, others will join in and and pretty soon, everyone will be doing it and there won't be any more hurt feelings, because people will be used to hearing blunt truth. I get that too, on some level. There are certain people in my life who can blurt out most anything and not hurt my feelings. My mom, for example, in typical mom fashion, has always been pretty blunt with me. I'm used to hearing it from her, and I trust her opinion, so I'm not surprised or offended by things she says to me.
I'm pretty sure that the honesty promotion isn't going to go very far, given how easy it is to lie, or at least improve the truth. But because I do like the idea of being more honest than dishonest, I thought I'd share one small truth here.
Sometimes when I am in the middle of a conversation with someone I don't know all that well, especially in a situation in which one or both of us are trying to create a good impression, I can't help thinking to myself, how would this person react if I kicked her/him in the shin, as hard as I could? I believe this comes from Helen Hunt's line in 80s teen classic Girls Just Want To Have Fun, in which she shares that whenever she is alone in a room with a guy, she wonders if she would puke if he kissed her. This prospect is just too gross for me, and kicking would probably be more fun, so I go with that.
I hardly ever actually want to kick people; I think it's just my way of gauging how they act when not on their best behavior. Maybe I should just start telling them, "your ass looks big."
Simple Solutions
I'd heard good things about the magazine Real Simple but hadn't thought much about checking it out until today, when I stumbled on an online article from the magazine and subsequently went all over the Web site looking for more helpful tips.
I couldn't help thinking of time- or space-saving things I do already, or just small things that make my life easier.
To make sure I never lose a sock, I keep my socks safety pinned. When I put them on, the pin comes out, and when I take them off to throw in the laundry, the pin goes back in. My grandfather used to do this, and it's actually quite useful. I never have to worry about stray socks.
I keep my closet organized by hanging clothes by type of garment (going left to right, it's short-sleeved shirts, long-sleeved shirts, capri pants, long pants, short skirts, long skirts, dresses) hung from lightest to darkest. If I need a specific item, I always know right where to find it. It's also helpful when I'm considering a shopping trip, as I can look right in my closet and see what I have in abundance and what is lacking.
I don't like to take the time in the morning to make a lunch, so I've taken to making huge pots of chili or soup and freezing it in plastic single-serving containers. Each morning, I pull a container out, let it thaw throughout the morning and voila, I have a delicious lunch ready to go!
When I got my first apartment, I typed up all of my favorites of my mom's recipes and put them into a binder with clear protective covers on each page. Over the years, I've added, taken away and reorganized recipes, but it's always nice to have a handy book available with all of my favorite recipes. An added bonus is that my other recipe books don't get too greasy or messy, because after I've tried a recipe a few times and determined it a "keeper," it goes into my personal collection.
I'm a big fan of 100 calorie packs, and I always like to have a variety so I don't get tired of eating the same kind all the time. So instead of keeping four different boxes in the pantry, I put the little bags in a basket and recycle the boxes. It saves space, and when I just grab and go, the snack is always a surprise!
I couldn't help thinking of time- or space-saving things I do already, or just small things that make my life easier.
To make sure I never lose a sock, I keep my socks safety pinned. When I put them on, the pin comes out, and when I take them off to throw in the laundry, the pin goes back in. My grandfather used to do this, and it's actually quite useful. I never have to worry about stray socks.
I keep my closet organized by hanging clothes by type of garment (going left to right, it's short-sleeved shirts, long-sleeved shirts, capri pants, long pants, short skirts, long skirts, dresses) hung from lightest to darkest. If I need a specific item, I always know right where to find it. It's also helpful when I'm considering a shopping trip, as I can look right in my closet and see what I have in abundance and what is lacking.
I don't like to take the time in the morning to make a lunch, so I've taken to making huge pots of chili or soup and freezing it in plastic single-serving containers. Each morning, I pull a container out, let it thaw throughout the morning and voila, I have a delicious lunch ready to go!
When I got my first apartment, I typed up all of my favorites of my mom's recipes and put them into a binder with clear protective covers on each page. Over the years, I've added, taken away and reorganized recipes, but it's always nice to have a handy book available with all of my favorite recipes. An added bonus is that my other recipe books don't get too greasy or messy, because after I've tried a recipe a few times and determined it a "keeper," it goes into my personal collection.
I'm a big fan of 100 calorie packs, and I always like to have a variety so I don't get tired of eating the same kind all the time. So instead of keeping four different boxes in the pantry, I put the little bags in a basket and recycle the boxes. It saves space, and when I just grab and go, the snack is always a surprise!
The Pizza Night Bonus
Pizza night took a new nostalgic twist last night.
A friend of my husband's (and mine, but he was my husband's friend first) came down our place last night. He didn't care to share our pizza and picked up some dinner for himself at Long John Silver's. As soon as I caught a whiff of it, I was taken back in time.
My sister worked at Long John Silver's when she was in high school, and her managers were pretty generous with the leftovers at the end of the night. I loved it when she had to close, because she'd almost always come home with a couple of takeout boxes in tow. The first time she brought hush puppies, I was in heaven. Hush puppies had always been my favorite LJS food (deep fried dough -- who couldn't love it?), and having access to so many was a dream come true. I told her so, so the next night, she brought a box full of nothing but hush puppies. I gobbled them up (not all in one sitting, but you know), so the next time she closed, she brought another box. Then another, then another....
It didn't take too long for me to have had my fill. I thought I'd never want to look at another hush puppy again, and for awhile, I didn't have to. After awhile, she didn't bring so many leftovers (although she always brought the free-or-cheap tsotskes from their promotions -- we still use the LJS holiday crystal every Christmas) and eventually, she stopped working at Long John Silver's. I hardly ever eat fast food now, and I haven't been to LJS for several years. But the smell of those hush puppies last night took me back to those days.
"Have as many as you want," my friend said. "They were 12 for 99 cents, so I thought I'd just go ahead and get some in case you guys wanted any."
I knew I shouldn't, but I couldn't help it. I had one. Then another, then another. It was like tasting childhood. I hadn't enjoyed this deep fried bliss in so long that I just couldn't help myself. I didn't eat the whole box, but I probably could have if I'd really wanted.
I don't really need to gain 10 lbs., so I'm going to try to forget that Long John Silver's is offering such a killer deal on those deep fried bits of heaven. But after rediscovering just how wonderful they are, it's going to be tough.
A friend of my husband's (and mine, but he was my husband's friend first) came down our place last night. He didn't care to share our pizza and picked up some dinner for himself at Long John Silver's. As soon as I caught a whiff of it, I was taken back in time.
My sister worked at Long John Silver's when she was in high school, and her managers were pretty generous with the leftovers at the end of the night. I loved it when she had to close, because she'd almost always come home with a couple of takeout boxes in tow. The first time she brought hush puppies, I was in heaven. Hush puppies had always been my favorite LJS food (deep fried dough -- who couldn't love it?), and having access to so many was a dream come true. I told her so, so the next night, she brought a box full of nothing but hush puppies. I gobbled them up (not all in one sitting, but you know), so the next time she closed, she brought another box. Then another, then another....
It didn't take too long for me to have had my fill. I thought I'd never want to look at another hush puppy again, and for awhile, I didn't have to. After awhile, she didn't bring so many leftovers (although she always brought the free-or-cheap tsotskes from their promotions -- we still use the LJS holiday crystal every Christmas) and eventually, she stopped working at Long John Silver's. I hardly ever eat fast food now, and I haven't been to LJS for several years. But the smell of those hush puppies last night took me back to those days.
"Have as many as you want," my friend said. "They were 12 for 99 cents, so I thought I'd just go ahead and get some in case you guys wanted any."
I knew I shouldn't, but I couldn't help it. I had one. Then another, then another. It was like tasting childhood. I hadn't enjoyed this deep fried bliss in so long that I just couldn't help myself. I didn't eat the whole box, but I probably could have if I'd really wanted.
I don't really need to gain 10 lbs., so I'm going to try to forget that Long John Silver's is offering such a killer deal on those deep fried bits of heaven. But after rediscovering just how wonderful they are, it's going to be tough.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Viva La Holy Crap Like An Astronaut
In the past few days, I've read several blog entries about phrases various bloggers like to use.
My friend Marla wrote about her old favorite, "holy crap Batman" and new favorite, "crazy like an astronaut," which came from her friend Sam, who wrote about her friend Lisa's theory that you can't overuse the phrase, "viva la _____." She included a link to Lisa's blog with a post on this same theory.
Never wanting to be left out of the fun, I can't help jumping on the bandwagon here and sharing one of my favorite phrases.
Stupid stupid.
As one might guess, this phrase is best used to convey extreme displeasure. It's best if the emphasis is on the second "stupid," as if to say, this is so stupid that you just can't help saying the word twice. For example: I can't believe I have to work late tomorrow. Stupid stupid!
It's not a classic, like "holy crap Batman," and it lacks the current event-iness of "crazy like an astronaut" and the zing of "viva la _____." But I use it daily, and I like it.
My friend Marla wrote about her old favorite, "holy crap Batman" and new favorite, "crazy like an astronaut," which came from her friend Sam, who wrote about her friend Lisa's theory that you can't overuse the phrase, "viva la _____." She included a link to Lisa's blog with a post on this same theory.
Never wanting to be left out of the fun, I can't help jumping on the bandwagon here and sharing one of my favorite phrases.
Stupid stupid.
As one might guess, this phrase is best used to convey extreme displeasure. It's best if the emphasis is on the second "stupid," as if to say, this is so stupid that you just can't help saying the word twice. For example: I can't believe I have to work late tomorrow. Stupid stupid!
It's not a classic, like "holy crap Batman," and it lacks the current event-iness of "crazy like an astronaut" and the zing of "viva la _____." But I use it daily, and I like it.
My TV Pitch
Knowing that the Stapling Jello readership must include tons of television executives (or, at the very least, Marla, who watches television and who I think would get on board with this idea), I just had to share this.
I've been reading Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series for about a year now, and I can't help thinking what a great TV series it would make. I've read all but the latest in the series -- One for the Money all the way through Twelve Sharp, including two "between the numbers" holiday books -- and every time I crack one open, I think to myself how enjoyable the adventures of bounty hunter Stephanie Plum would be on the small screen. Feisty women are big on TV these days; just ask Kyra Sedgwick.
These are my casting suggestions:
Stephanie Plum: Laura Prepon from That 70s Show, but she'd have to dye her hair I think. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that Broadway leading lady Sutton Foster would be a viable candidate for the role as well. She's got star power, but she's also got that Everywoman look. If they want to go older, maybe Tracey Gold.
Lula, a former prostitute who becomes Stephanie's friend and coworker: Sherri Shepherd. I hear everything Lula says in her voice.
Vinnie, Stephanie's cousin and boss: I'm gonna go with the majority on the Janet Evanovich website here and go with Steve Buscemi.
Joe, Stephanie's on-again-off-again boyfriend: Fifteen years ago, I would have said Scott Baio (to Molly Ringwald's Stephanie Plum, no doubt). Today, I really have no idea. But I'm sure they'll find someone. Maybe Fred Savage. I don't know if he's tough enough, but I like him and would like to see him getting some more work.
Ranger, Stephanie's mentor and on-again-off-again object of lust: Benjamin Bratt. It's not a very creative choice, but he's easy on the eye and looks like he could kick some ass if needed.
Grandma Mazur, Stephanie's feisty grandmother: I like Estelle Getty, but I hear she's not well, so I'm gonna say let's just slap a ton of aging makeup on Marla's mom and let 'er rip.
Valerie, Stephanie's sister: Maybe Tracey Gold could play this part instead of playing Stephanie. It would be cool, too, if they could get Abigail Breslin to play Valerie's daughter who thinks she's a horse.
And here's my list of possible cameos, mostly as people Stephanie must apprehend:
Coreys Feldman and Haim, together again
Gary Coleman and Todd Bridges, together again
Danny DeVito
Jason Mewes
Bruce Springsteen, because he's from Jersey, just like Stephanie Plum
And just because we need a woman in there...Marla's mom, again. I just think there's a ton of potential there.
Final note: I think a good theme song would be an abbreviated version of "Head Over Heels" by the Go-Gos. But I might just think that because I read a lot of Plum books at the gym and listen to my iPod at the same time, and that song is one of my favorites in my workout mix.
I've been reading Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series for about a year now, and I can't help thinking what a great TV series it would make. I've read all but the latest in the series -- One for the Money all the way through Twelve Sharp, including two "between the numbers" holiday books -- and every time I crack one open, I think to myself how enjoyable the adventures of bounty hunter Stephanie Plum would be on the small screen. Feisty women are big on TV these days; just ask Kyra Sedgwick.
These are my casting suggestions:
Stephanie Plum: Laura Prepon from That 70s Show, but she'd have to dye her hair I think. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that Broadway leading lady Sutton Foster would be a viable candidate for the role as well. She's got star power, but she's also got that Everywoman look. If they want to go older, maybe Tracey Gold.
Lula, a former prostitute who becomes Stephanie's friend and coworker: Sherri Shepherd. I hear everything Lula says in her voice.
Vinnie, Stephanie's cousin and boss: I'm gonna go with the majority on the Janet Evanovich website here and go with Steve Buscemi.
Joe, Stephanie's on-again-off-again boyfriend: Fifteen years ago, I would have said Scott Baio (to Molly Ringwald's Stephanie Plum, no doubt). Today, I really have no idea. But I'm sure they'll find someone. Maybe Fred Savage. I don't know if he's tough enough, but I like him and would like to see him getting some more work.
Ranger, Stephanie's mentor and on-again-off-again object of lust: Benjamin Bratt. It's not a very creative choice, but he's easy on the eye and looks like he could kick some ass if needed.
Grandma Mazur, Stephanie's feisty grandmother: I like Estelle Getty, but I hear she's not well, so I'm gonna say let's just slap a ton of aging makeup on Marla's mom and let 'er rip.
Valerie, Stephanie's sister: Maybe Tracey Gold could play this part instead of playing Stephanie. It would be cool, too, if they could get Abigail Breslin to play Valerie's daughter who thinks she's a horse.
And here's my list of possible cameos, mostly as people Stephanie must apprehend:
Coreys Feldman and Haim, together again
Gary Coleman and Todd Bridges, together again
Danny DeVito
Jason Mewes
Bruce Springsteen, because he's from Jersey, just like Stephanie Plum
And just because we need a woman in there...Marla's mom, again. I just think there's a ton of potential there.
Final note: I think a good theme song would be an abbreviated version of "Head Over Heels" by the Go-Gos. But I might just think that because I read a lot of Plum books at the gym and listen to my iPod at the same time, and that song is one of my favorites in my workout mix.
It's Not Easy Being Dead
While perusing the entertainment section of my local newspaper (online, of course), I saw a headline that read, "Kermit and friends headed to Atlanta." Next to the story was a picture of Kermit with creator Jim Henson, who died 17 years ago.
I certainly hope he's not one of the friends Kermit is bringing to Atlanta with him. Even the most zealous of Muppet fans would probably be creeped out by that.
I certainly hope he's not one of the friends Kermit is bringing to Atlanta with him. Even the most zealous of Muppet fans would probably be creeped out by that.
It's Pizza Night!
When I was little, I thought of pizza as an extra special treat.
It's not like we only had it once a year or anything like that, but for a family that didn't go out to eat all that often, and never, ever, ever ate fast food, it was always a welcome break from the normal dinners my mom would cook (which were always fabulous, but let's be honest -- what sounds better -- pork chops and peas, or pizza?).
The added bonus was the beverage. We were a strictly water-with-dinner family. My sister and I never even drank milk with dinner; it was always water, except in the summer, when we occasionally drank iced tea. But on pizza night, we got to have soft drink.
I associated pizza with fun times. My friend Darcey's family got pizza every Friday night, when Little Caesar's did the two-for-one pizza deal, packaging their pies side-by-side on cardboard and wrapped in paper. Many a Friday night, I'd be invited to their house (many times, her three siblings would also have friends over) and life was a party. We played games, watched rented movies (also a special treat in those days) and had a wonderful time. I have so many great memories of time I spent at Darcey's, and pizza is somehow in the background of most of them.
Even though I'm grown up, I still think of pizza as a special treat. When a grocery store near me started promoting $5 pizza on Fridays a few years ago, I resurrected Darcey's family's tradition. Unfortunately, that ended when I moved and no longer went right by the place on my way home from work. But recently, I've felt the desire to bring it back once again.
A few weeks ago, I shared the story of the Friday night pizza tradition with my husband, who was all for the idea. It's tasty, inexpensive, can be reasonably healthy (depending where you go), and we wouldn't have to cook -- perfect! My sweetheart plays in a Friday night softball league, however, so we decided to make it a Thursday tradition instead. Tonight will be our second.
It's a small pleasure, but it's nice to be able to enjoy life's special treats now and then.
It's not like we only had it once a year or anything like that, but for a family that didn't go out to eat all that often, and never, ever, ever ate fast food, it was always a welcome break from the normal dinners my mom would cook (which were always fabulous, but let's be honest -- what sounds better -- pork chops and peas, or pizza?).
The added bonus was the beverage. We were a strictly water-with-dinner family. My sister and I never even drank milk with dinner; it was always water, except in the summer, when we occasionally drank iced tea. But on pizza night, we got to have soft drink.
I associated pizza with fun times. My friend Darcey's family got pizza every Friday night, when Little Caesar's did the two-for-one pizza deal, packaging their pies side-by-side on cardboard and wrapped in paper. Many a Friday night, I'd be invited to their house (many times, her three siblings would also have friends over) and life was a party. We played games, watched rented movies (also a special treat in those days) and had a wonderful time. I have so many great memories of time I spent at Darcey's, and pizza is somehow in the background of most of them.
Even though I'm grown up, I still think of pizza as a special treat. When a grocery store near me started promoting $5 pizza on Fridays a few years ago, I resurrected Darcey's family's tradition. Unfortunately, that ended when I moved and no longer went right by the place on my way home from work. But recently, I've felt the desire to bring it back once again.
A few weeks ago, I shared the story of the Friday night pizza tradition with my husband, who was all for the idea. It's tasty, inexpensive, can be reasonably healthy (depending where you go), and we wouldn't have to cook -- perfect! My sweetheart plays in a Friday night softball league, however, so we decided to make it a Thursday tradition instead. Tonight will be our second.
It's a small pleasure, but it's nice to be able to enjoy life's special treats now and then.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Songs I Could Listen To On Repeat, Over And Over And Over
"Brand New Key" by Melanie
"Karma Chameleon" by Culture Club
"You Are What You Love" by Jenny Lewis
"We Belong" by Pat Benetar
"Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash
"Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler
"The Sign" by Ace of Base
"Why Can't I" by Liz Phair
"Great" by Brownie Mary
"Truth No. 2" by Dixie Chicks
"Waterloo" by Abba
"Portions for Foxes" by Rilo Kiley
"Green Eyes" by Coldplay
"More Than A Woman" by Tavares
"Karma Chameleon" by Culture Club
"You Are What You Love" by Jenny Lewis
"We Belong" by Pat Benetar
"Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash
"Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler
"The Sign" by Ace of Base
"Why Can't I" by Liz Phair
"Great" by Brownie Mary
"Truth No. 2" by Dixie Chicks
"Waterloo" by Abba
"Portions for Foxes" by Rilo Kiley
"Green Eyes" by Coldplay
"More Than A Woman" by Tavares
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Seeking The Perfect Otis
For as long as we've lived together, my husband and I have talked about getting a dog.
Until recently, we weren't actually allowed to have one, due to the bylaws of our condo association. In February, however, we learned that the rules had changed and dogs were now allowed, although there's a weight limit. For months, we went back and forth about getting a dog; it's a big decision, after all. They're a big responsibility; they have to be groomed, walked, trained, etc., and making sure they're healthy can get expensive, fast. Ultimately, we decided to hold off for a little while, simply because it wouldn't be fair to leave the dog home during the day while we're at work.
We already have a fish, Ivan, and we (alright, I) probably love him way more than anyone should love a fish. Sure, he's not cuddly or anything, but he's very friendly; he swims right up to the side of his bowl when I say hello to him, and he watches TV with me (he likes dramas best).
A few weeks ago, my husband gave me a card with a picture of a dog looking at a fish in a fish bowl. It was very cute and friendly-like, and on the inside, he wrote that he thought Ivan would like a four-legged pal. I had to agree. After all, Ivan can't enjoy being left at home alone all day. It would be nice if he had a friend to keep him company.
After having the discussion once again, we (my husband and I -- Ivan didn't really participate) realized that, because of our work schedules, the dog would only be left alone (well, with Ivan) a few days out of the week. And yes, a dog is a big responsibility, but we just couldn't deny that the pros of having a little furry friend far outweighed the cons.
The only problem, was finding a breed that fits our lifestyle (and condo association rules) and that both of us will like. On Sunday, we visited a pet store and a shelter in our area to get a feel for what's out there. We didn't find much. The weight limit enforced by the association is only 30 lbs. or so, which severely limits our options. Most dogs small enough are stupid, ugly step-on dogs.
So on Sunday, we went out on a fact-finding mission at our local pet store. We're not likely to pay hundreds of dollars for a pet store puppy when we can get a dog who really needs a home by visiting a shelter, one who has already been given his or her shots and has likely been spayed or neutered. But we thought that seeing different breeds might help us choose better once we get to the shelter.
We weren't expecting to fall in love.
He was a bulldog/beagle mix, and he was white with brown spots. He was little and squdgy and cute and looked at us as if to say, yes, please, take me home and love me. I am the dog for you. We even named him, Otis, the perfect name for such an adorable, floppy-eared, friendly, sweet dog. I began to think that buying a pet store dog might not be such a bad thing.
Then I looked at the price tag and found out that Otis costs $800. That's a bit steep for a mixed breed dog, I think, and while you can't put a price on love, Ivan cost about five bucks and I love him dearly. And even if we were willing to pay that much, an employee at the pet store told us that Otis is likely to grow to at least 45 lbs., so the condo association wouldn't let us have him anyway.
But I still can't stop thinking about that dog. The past two mornings, I've woken up early and lain in bed till my alarm went off. And both days, I couldn't help thinking, I could be taking little Otis for a walk right now. And yesterday, when I came home from work, I half expected him to come scampering up to say hello.
We'll find our Otis someday, I just know it. We'll keep looking, and we'll find him. But until then, I can't help thinking about that cute little pet store puppy, and wondering if he's thinking about me too.
Until recently, we weren't actually allowed to have one, due to the bylaws of our condo association. In February, however, we learned that the rules had changed and dogs were now allowed, although there's a weight limit. For months, we went back and forth about getting a dog; it's a big decision, after all. They're a big responsibility; they have to be groomed, walked, trained, etc., and making sure they're healthy can get expensive, fast. Ultimately, we decided to hold off for a little while, simply because it wouldn't be fair to leave the dog home during the day while we're at work.
We already have a fish, Ivan, and we (alright, I) probably love him way more than anyone should love a fish. Sure, he's not cuddly or anything, but he's very friendly; he swims right up to the side of his bowl when I say hello to him, and he watches TV with me (he likes dramas best).
A few weeks ago, my husband gave me a card with a picture of a dog looking at a fish in a fish bowl. It was very cute and friendly-like, and on the inside, he wrote that he thought Ivan would like a four-legged pal. I had to agree. After all, Ivan can't enjoy being left at home alone all day. It would be nice if he had a friend to keep him company.
After having the discussion once again, we (my husband and I -- Ivan didn't really participate) realized that, because of our work schedules, the dog would only be left alone (well, with Ivan) a few days out of the week. And yes, a dog is a big responsibility, but we just couldn't deny that the pros of having a little furry friend far outweighed the cons.
The only problem, was finding a breed that fits our lifestyle (and condo association rules) and that both of us will like. On Sunday, we visited a pet store and a shelter in our area to get a feel for what's out there. We didn't find much. The weight limit enforced by the association is only 30 lbs. or so, which severely limits our options. Most dogs small enough are stupid, ugly step-on dogs.
So on Sunday, we went out on a fact-finding mission at our local pet store. We're not likely to pay hundreds of dollars for a pet store puppy when we can get a dog who really needs a home by visiting a shelter, one who has already been given his or her shots and has likely been spayed or neutered. But we thought that seeing different breeds might help us choose better once we get to the shelter.
We weren't expecting to fall in love.
He was a bulldog/beagle mix, and he was white with brown spots. He was little and squdgy and cute and looked at us as if to say, yes, please, take me home and love me. I am the dog for you. We even named him, Otis, the perfect name for such an adorable, floppy-eared, friendly, sweet dog. I began to think that buying a pet store dog might not be such a bad thing.
Then I looked at the price tag and found out that Otis costs $800. That's a bit steep for a mixed breed dog, I think, and while you can't put a price on love, Ivan cost about five bucks and I love him dearly. And even if we were willing to pay that much, an employee at the pet store told us that Otis is likely to grow to at least 45 lbs., so the condo association wouldn't let us have him anyway.
But I still can't stop thinking about that dog. The past two mornings, I've woken up early and lain in bed till my alarm went off. And both days, I couldn't help thinking, I could be taking little Otis for a walk right now. And yesterday, when I came home from work, I half expected him to come scampering up to say hello.
We'll find our Otis someday, I just know it. We'll keep looking, and we'll find him. But until then, I can't help thinking about that cute little pet store puppy, and wondering if he's thinking about me too.
Monday, July 23, 2007
The Boy Who Cried Gacy
Yesterday, I finished The Last Victim by Jason Moss, the supposedly true, autobiographical account of a young man's correspondence with famous criminals.
It was a very dramatic story -- but I'm not really buying that it's complete truth.
Moss, having a morbid fascination with criminals and a tendency to become obsessed with anything that interested him, began writing letters to John Wayne Gacy at age 18. In an effort to get Gacy to write back, he fashioned his letters to make it look like he was the murder's ideal victim -- young, sexually confused and vulnerable.
Gacy took the bait. He wrote back letter upon letter, usually about deviant sexual acts he thought Moss should try. Moss responded in character, telling Gacy he had tried this or that, making Gacy think himself a mentor for Moss's young mind. Eventually, the two began talking on the phone and developed a relationship with culminated in Moss visiting Gacy just a few weeks before he was executed.
High on his supposed easy manipulation of Gacy, Moss began writing to other famed criminals, including Night Stalker Richard Ramirez, Charles Manson and Jeffrey Dahmer. The aim, according to Moss, was to get inside the criminal mind, learn what made it tick. But of course, there was also the desire to manipulate, the desire to outwit the criminal mind. For Ramirez and Manson, he posed not as a victim but as a fan, someone on the outside who believed in the mission these men had begun and offering to help carry it out. For Dahmer, he made himself look like a lonely teen who thought the convicted murder might need a friend. They all wrote back, but the big one, the big prize, was always Gacy.
What Moss didn't realize was that Gacy was manipulating him just as much as he was manipulating Gacy, a fact that became crystal clear when, upon Gacy's invitation, he visited the clown killer in prison and, surprise, surprise, Gacy tried to kill him.
As I finished the book, I felt very much like Moss must have before he began his letter-writing project -- morbidly curious about what would make a person do such a thing, and simultaneously disgusted by what he did. But the overwhelming feeling is the urge to roll my eyes and say, "yeah right."
Moss boasts that he crafted the perfect stories to tell his victims, the serial killers, to make them interested enough to write back to him. He talks about things he told Gacy he had done, disgusting, unspeakable things, and in the next paragraph tells the reader a story about the day he and his brother narrowly escaped a kidnapper in a casino arcade. He tells the story of his visit with Gacy in intricate detail, including confession of his crimes and specific threats Gacy made to Moss. It's all very compelling, but I just don't buy it.
Did Gacy really threaten Moss? An admitted braggart and liar, Moss gives the reader reason to doubt his word. Conveniently, for the most dramatic events Moss describes, there was never anyone else around to corroborate his story. He claims he was left alone in an unguarded room with Gacy, and even in the casino kidnapping tale, his brother was too absorbed in a video game to know what was going on. And of course, he was always too scared to tell his parents, who he claims were unsupportive and teeters on the edge of saying they were emotionally abusive, but anecdotally, it sounds to me like they were ordinary parents. They just had an oddball kid.
Moss would have the reader believe that he could do no wrong. In every story he tells, he is the hero and never backs down. The one and only weakness he will admit is a weak stomach, which, of course, anyone could forgive of someone who has done such incredible things and shown such strength and fortitude. Give me a break.
Moss admits in his telling of the story that it was his own odd psychology that drove him to do what he did, and he even goes so far as to say that it's made him paranoid about trusting people. I believe that. Because after reading his tale of manipulation, I feel as if he's made a victim of me too. He tells his readers the most interesting story he could think to tell, expecting them to buy it, hook, line and sinker.
What's the truth? Moss made sure we'll never know; he shot and killed himself in the bathroom of his Nevada home on June 6, 2006 (6-6-06 -- coincidence? Again, we'll never know). It's a tragic end, certainly, and it's a shame that he was never able to come to terms with his actions, and that his friends and family were unable to help him.
Moss said in the book that Gacy had told him that one day, he'd take his own life, that he would know when the time was right. Did he think of that as he pulled the trigger? Had Gacy finally won the battle of manipulation? No one can be sure, but whatever Moss was thinking in those last few moments of his life, I can't help thinking he felt he was getting the last word.
It was a very dramatic story -- but I'm not really buying that it's complete truth.
Moss, having a morbid fascination with criminals and a tendency to become obsessed with anything that interested him, began writing letters to John Wayne Gacy at age 18. In an effort to get Gacy to write back, he fashioned his letters to make it look like he was the murder's ideal victim -- young, sexually confused and vulnerable.
Gacy took the bait. He wrote back letter upon letter, usually about deviant sexual acts he thought Moss should try. Moss responded in character, telling Gacy he had tried this or that, making Gacy think himself a mentor for Moss's young mind. Eventually, the two began talking on the phone and developed a relationship with culminated in Moss visiting Gacy just a few weeks before he was executed.
High on his supposed easy manipulation of Gacy, Moss began writing to other famed criminals, including Night Stalker Richard Ramirez, Charles Manson and Jeffrey Dahmer. The aim, according to Moss, was to get inside the criminal mind, learn what made it tick. But of course, there was also the desire to manipulate, the desire to outwit the criminal mind. For Ramirez and Manson, he posed not as a victim but as a fan, someone on the outside who believed in the mission these men had begun and offering to help carry it out. For Dahmer, he made himself look like a lonely teen who thought the convicted murder might need a friend. They all wrote back, but the big one, the big prize, was always Gacy.
What Moss didn't realize was that Gacy was manipulating him just as much as he was manipulating Gacy, a fact that became crystal clear when, upon Gacy's invitation, he visited the clown killer in prison and, surprise, surprise, Gacy tried to kill him.
As I finished the book, I felt very much like Moss must have before he began his letter-writing project -- morbidly curious about what would make a person do such a thing, and simultaneously disgusted by what he did. But the overwhelming feeling is the urge to roll my eyes and say, "yeah right."
Moss boasts that he crafted the perfect stories to tell his victims, the serial killers, to make them interested enough to write back to him. He talks about things he told Gacy he had done, disgusting, unspeakable things, and in the next paragraph tells the reader a story about the day he and his brother narrowly escaped a kidnapper in a casino arcade. He tells the story of his visit with Gacy in intricate detail, including confession of his crimes and specific threats Gacy made to Moss. It's all very compelling, but I just don't buy it.
Did Gacy really threaten Moss? An admitted braggart and liar, Moss gives the reader reason to doubt his word. Conveniently, for the most dramatic events Moss describes, there was never anyone else around to corroborate his story. He claims he was left alone in an unguarded room with Gacy, and even in the casino kidnapping tale, his brother was too absorbed in a video game to know what was going on. And of course, he was always too scared to tell his parents, who he claims were unsupportive and teeters on the edge of saying they were emotionally abusive, but anecdotally, it sounds to me like they were ordinary parents. They just had an oddball kid.
Moss would have the reader believe that he could do no wrong. In every story he tells, he is the hero and never backs down. The one and only weakness he will admit is a weak stomach, which, of course, anyone could forgive of someone who has done such incredible things and shown such strength and fortitude. Give me a break.
Moss admits in his telling of the story that it was his own odd psychology that drove him to do what he did, and he even goes so far as to say that it's made him paranoid about trusting people. I believe that. Because after reading his tale of manipulation, I feel as if he's made a victim of me too. He tells his readers the most interesting story he could think to tell, expecting them to buy it, hook, line and sinker.
What's the truth? Moss made sure we'll never know; he shot and killed himself in the bathroom of his Nevada home on June 6, 2006 (6-6-06 -- coincidence? Again, we'll never know). It's a tragic end, certainly, and it's a shame that he was never able to come to terms with his actions, and that his friends and family were unable to help him.
Moss said in the book that Gacy had told him that one day, he'd take his own life, that he would know when the time was right. Did he think of that as he pulled the trigger? Had Gacy finally won the battle of manipulation? No one can be sure, but whatever Moss was thinking in those last few moments of his life, I can't help thinking he felt he was getting the last word.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
My Buddies and Mii
After an exhaustive search, we finally found one.
Three nights ago, my husband announced to me that he had, that day, purchased a Wii. The next night, we hooked it up, and the fun began.
I hadn't actually played any Wii games before, because the only time I'd had an opportunity was when I was with my husband's family, and I have a strict rule not to play games with them. (They're ultra competitive. Monica Gellar has nothing on my family-in-law.) But I'd watched them play, and it looked like fun, so I was excited to try out the new system.
It was fun; for the past few days, I've really enjoyed playing the Wii Sports, which is the only game disk we have so far. I'm getting pretty good at the bowling (my personal best -- 194) and even though I've never played a real-life game, my Wii tennis skills aren't half bad. Indeed, this is probably the most sporty I've ever been.
But the most fun, at least in this beginning stage, is making Miis. For those who haven't seen the commercials, Miis are little characters you can make to look like yourself or your friends or anyone you want playing with you. My Mii is my favorite, because she's wearing makeup and has perfect hair, even after three innings of baseball. (I took a few liberties on the hair, though; I couldn't bring myself to subject my Mii to my current soccer mom cut.) But once I got started, I couldn't stop.
In the bowling game, the Miis you make show up to cheer you on, and in the baseball game, they play on your team. It's more fun to see your friends and family in your games than the default Wii Miis (although there is a great one who looks just like Rick James; I wouldn't mind seeing him more), so after my husband and I made ours, we proceeded to begin to make Miis of our families and friends. It's pretty fun seeing my sister's husband jump up and down when I get a strike in bowling, and it's even cooler seeing my mom hit a three-run homer in baseball.
But if I start talking about what the Miis are doing as if it's actually the real people doing these things, I hope someone will intervene and take me back out into the real world. Except for my perfect hair and makeup; I'd like to keep that. I need to look good in case Rick James ever wants to play baseball.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
At Least My Mom Thinks I'm Hot
I know that with my hair cut short I look like a soccer mom, and I'm alright with that for now, but I still haven't felt all that attractive lately. But apparently I have nothing to worry about.
Not only did the nice maintenance man at my office call me beautiful yesterday, but today, my mom e-mailed me that it's too bad I'm not around where she lives anymore, because Girls Gone Wild is doing some filming tonight at a local bar. Apparently she thinks this could have been my big break.
With endorsements like that, I don't know how I couldn't feel like the most gorgeous woman in the world.
Not only did the nice maintenance man at my office call me beautiful yesterday, but today, my mom e-mailed me that it's too bad I'm not around where she lives anymore, because Girls Gone Wild is doing some filming tonight at a local bar. Apparently she thinks this could have been my big break.
With endorsements like that, I don't know how I couldn't feel like the most gorgeous woman in the world.
Notes From My World
Someone actually complained to me last week that I don't post enough on my blog. He was right; I've written a paltry four posts for the month of July so far, and the month is all but over.
So just to let my loyal readers (both of them) know that I have not abandoned my blogging duties, here's what's going on with me.
Aw, Nuts
In my never-ending quest to fool myself into thinking that I'm eating healthy, I decided to buy some almonds to snack on. Almonds are high in protein, fiber, calcium, magnesium, potassium, vitamin E, and other antioxidants, and they help prevent osteoporosis, which is particularly important to me, as I am lactose intolerant and don't get much calcium in my diet. However, I don't like regular almonds that much, so I bought ones that are covered in sesame seeds, which are held on by a glue of honey. Sesame seeds are also a good source of calcium, which is good, but I don't know if sesame seed and honey covered almonds could really be considered a health food.
But I like the way the sesame seeds do a little mini-crunch in my mouth before we move onto the big crunch of the almond.
The Great Tropical Punch Dive
Last night, I was sitting at the dining room table typing away on my laptop, when for some reason (it all happened very fast), my arm flew out and knocked over an entire glass of Kool-Aid. By some miracle, it went in the opposite direction of my computer (although that didn't stop my husband from giving me a lecture about how the warranty doesn't cover spilled drinks). It also didn't get on the carpet at all; the entire contents landed on a throw rug we have under the dining room table -- a rug which, incidentally, I have never liked.
When all was said and done, I was actually a little proud that if I had to spill, I spilled cleverly.
Thou Watchest The Latest Oozings, Hours by Hours
My local library has a decent selection, but there are several books I've been wanting to read lately that they either don't have, or the books are always out, so I've been reserving them. Once or twice a week, I'll get a call that a book has come in for me, and it's always a great surprise which book it is.
The latest, which arrived for me yesterday, is called The Last Victim, and it's the true story of a college student who corresponded with serial killers. The most notable of these was John Wayne Gacy, who ultimately invited the author to visit him in prison and subsequently tried to murder him.
I'm sure I'll have plenty to say once I've finished the book, but I very nearly didn't start, thanks to the asinine first sentence of the prologue, which was written by a former professor of the author's. I don't remember the exact wording, but it said something like, "it was autumn, but not the kind of autumn you would expect for that time of year."
When the hell else would you expect autumn but in autumn? What kind of autumn would you expect in another time of year? I have half a mind to write a letter to the man who wrote the prologue and complain, but he's actually written dozens of books and probably doesn't care what I think about his horribly written sentence, especially when I wasn't likely to read anything else he's written anyway.
So just to let my loyal readers (both of them) know that I have not abandoned my blogging duties, here's what's going on with me.
Aw, Nuts
In my never-ending quest to fool myself into thinking that I'm eating healthy, I decided to buy some almonds to snack on. Almonds are high in protein, fiber, calcium, magnesium, potassium, vitamin E, and other antioxidants, and they help prevent osteoporosis, which is particularly important to me, as I am lactose intolerant and don't get much calcium in my diet. However, I don't like regular almonds that much, so I bought ones that are covered in sesame seeds, which are held on by a glue of honey. Sesame seeds are also a good source of calcium, which is good, but I don't know if sesame seed and honey covered almonds could really be considered a health food.
But I like the way the sesame seeds do a little mini-crunch in my mouth before we move onto the big crunch of the almond.
The Great Tropical Punch Dive
Last night, I was sitting at the dining room table typing away on my laptop, when for some reason (it all happened very fast), my arm flew out and knocked over an entire glass of Kool-Aid. By some miracle, it went in the opposite direction of my computer (although that didn't stop my husband from giving me a lecture about how the warranty doesn't cover spilled drinks). It also didn't get on the carpet at all; the entire contents landed on a throw rug we have under the dining room table -- a rug which, incidentally, I have never liked.
When all was said and done, I was actually a little proud that if I had to spill, I spilled cleverly.
Thou Watchest The Latest Oozings, Hours by Hours
My local library has a decent selection, but there are several books I've been wanting to read lately that they either don't have, or the books are always out, so I've been reserving them. Once or twice a week, I'll get a call that a book has come in for me, and it's always a great surprise which book it is.
The latest, which arrived for me yesterday, is called The Last Victim, and it's the true story of a college student who corresponded with serial killers. The most notable of these was John Wayne Gacy, who ultimately invited the author to visit him in prison and subsequently tried to murder him.
I'm sure I'll have plenty to say once I've finished the book, but I very nearly didn't start, thanks to the asinine first sentence of the prologue, which was written by a former professor of the author's. I don't remember the exact wording, but it said something like, "it was autumn, but not the kind of autumn you would expect for that time of year."
When the hell else would you expect autumn but in autumn? What kind of autumn would you expect in another time of year? I have half a mind to write a letter to the man who wrote the prologue and complain, but he's actually written dozens of books and probably doesn't care what I think about his horribly written sentence, especially when I wasn't likely to read anything else he's written anyway.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Terrific If I'm Even Good
Now that I'm a glamorous would-be movie actress, I've been thinking about ways to capitalize on what I'm sure will become a hot streak in show business. So I've come up with some guest roles I could play on popular television shows. I figure it's inevitable that the phone calls will begin pouring in, if I actually get to be in Batman, and if I actually get to do something on camera.
Heroes -- I got into this show last year and can't wait for the new season to begin. When they come calling, I'd like to be a guest star hero. I don't really care what kind of power they want to give me, as long as I get to do a naked scene or two with Sendhil Ramamurthy.
Flight of the Conchords -- This is my new favorite TV show, about two guys from New Zealand who come to New York to make it big on the music scene with their two-man band. On the show, the guys have only one fan, this dorky girl/crazed lunatic (who reminds me of a girl I went to high school with, except she wasn't a crazed lunatic, but in case she grew up to become a crazed lunatic, I won't mention her name). Anyway, I figure when I do my guest spot on that show, I'll play the crazed lunatic's also crazed but much hotter cousin. Of course, I'll have to work on getting hot first, but I have a little time.
The Simpsons -- No star such as myself could pass up a chance to be on this hit show! I think for this one I'd probably pull out the voice formerly reserved for my stuffed pig friends. I'm sure my good pal Wayne Hamm would expect me to use that voice to play Barry White, but honestly,with that voice, I think I'd probably play one of Krusty the Clown's cartoon friends.
Alright, Hollywood. I await your call.
Heroes -- I got into this show last year and can't wait for the new season to begin. When they come calling, I'd like to be a guest star hero. I don't really care what kind of power they want to give me, as long as I get to do a naked scene or two with Sendhil Ramamurthy.
Flight of the Conchords -- This is my new favorite TV show, about two guys from New Zealand who come to New York to make it big on the music scene with their two-man band. On the show, the guys have only one fan, this dorky girl/crazed lunatic (who reminds me of a girl I went to high school with, except she wasn't a crazed lunatic, but in case she grew up to become a crazed lunatic, I won't mention her name). Anyway, I figure when I do my guest spot on that show, I'll play the crazed lunatic's also crazed but much hotter cousin. Of course, I'll have to work on getting hot first, but I have a little time.
The Simpsons -- No star such as myself could pass up a chance to be on this hit show! I think for this one I'd probably pull out the voice formerly reserved for my stuffed pig friends. I'm sure my good pal Wayne Hamm would expect me to use that voice to play Barry White, but honestly,with that voice, I think I'd probably play one of Krusty the Clown's cartoon friends.
Alright, Hollywood. I await your call.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Rory's First Casting Call
Today, I entered the glamorous world of professional film acting.
Thirty seconds later, I exited. No word yet on whether I'll be back.
Until September, Warner Brothers is filming the new Batman movie in downtown Chicago, and a few days ago, I heard about a special casting call going on today. Having been in love with Christian Bale since I first saw his red hot dance moves in Newsies, I had to go. They were only casting extras, but if standing on the street for 10 hours doing nothing meant I might catch a glimpse of my favorite actor and maybe even see him act, in person, it would be totally worth it.
Side note: I won't tell the whole story of my love for Christian Bale, lest I look like an obsessed loon, but I will say that if I somehow manage to marry him before I turn 40, there's an ice cream maker in it for me, thanks to a bet I made with my college roommate.
Anyway, last night, I had my husband take a head shot of me, and this morning, I headed into the city to seek my fortune in the film industry. Armed with our photos and pens (the two required items listed on the casting call annoncement), two pals and I reported to the call, where we were welcomed by a casting agent who announced that we were here for the film Rory's First Kiss. He explained that Rory's First Kiss was a Warner Brothers film starring Christian Bale and directed by Christopher Nolan, whose other credits include Batman Begins.
Um...of course they do; this was a casting call for a new Batman movie.
I don't understand why they insisted on calling the movie by a fake name. It's been announced on the news for weeks now that they're filming Batman downtown, and it's even been announced that they're calling it Rory's First Kiss. So who they think they're fooling -- or who they're even trying to fool at this point, since they haven't really tried up to now -- I'm not entirely sure. Even as he made the announcement, the casting guy told us to talk to others in line with us to get the scoop on what was going on. It was all very strange.
After a few minutes in line, we filled out our forms and filed into a room where we handed our papers to people who took digital headshots of us and sent us on our way. I know it was just extras casting, but I was kind of hoping for more, since I could have just mailed in my headshot and contact information from home and not wasted the entire morning driving in the city.
So now I'm just waiting to see if they'll call. This post-audition waiting period is always hard, but I think this time, it will be even harder -- not only because this is a feature film starring my favorite actor of all time, but because they're looking for thousands of people for crowd scenes, and if they don't call, that means there must be something really wrong with me. Or it means that they've read this blog entry and are afraid that my standing within 100 feet of Mr. Bale will result in troublesome legal action.
In any case, I think it would be wonderfully fun to be a part of a major motion picture being filmed in my town. I'd be a part of history -- even if I was just a speck on the screen, it would be cool to say I was there.
Thirty seconds later, I exited. No word yet on whether I'll be back.
Until September, Warner Brothers is filming the new Batman movie in downtown Chicago, and a few days ago, I heard about a special casting call going on today. Having been in love with Christian Bale since I first saw his red hot dance moves in Newsies, I had to go. They were only casting extras, but if standing on the street for 10 hours doing nothing meant I might catch a glimpse of my favorite actor and maybe even see him act, in person, it would be totally worth it.
Side note: I won't tell the whole story of my love for Christian Bale, lest I look like an obsessed loon, but I will say that if I somehow manage to marry him before I turn 40, there's an ice cream maker in it for me, thanks to a bet I made with my college roommate.
Anyway, last night, I had my husband take a head shot of me, and this morning, I headed into the city to seek my fortune in the film industry. Armed with our photos and pens (the two required items listed on the casting call annoncement), two pals and I reported to the call, where we were welcomed by a casting agent who announced that we were here for the film Rory's First Kiss. He explained that Rory's First Kiss was a Warner Brothers film starring Christian Bale and directed by Christopher Nolan, whose other credits include Batman Begins.
Um...of course they do; this was a casting call for a new Batman movie.
I don't understand why they insisted on calling the movie by a fake name. It's been announced on the news for weeks now that they're filming Batman downtown, and it's even been announced that they're calling it Rory's First Kiss. So who they think they're fooling -- or who they're even trying to fool at this point, since they haven't really tried up to now -- I'm not entirely sure. Even as he made the announcement, the casting guy told us to talk to others in line with us to get the scoop on what was going on. It was all very strange.
After a few minutes in line, we filled out our forms and filed into a room where we handed our papers to people who took digital headshots of us and sent us on our way. I know it was just extras casting, but I was kind of hoping for more, since I could have just mailed in my headshot and contact information from home and not wasted the entire morning driving in the city.
So now I'm just waiting to see if they'll call. This post-audition waiting period is always hard, but I think this time, it will be even harder -- not only because this is a feature film starring my favorite actor of all time, but because they're looking for thousands of people for crowd scenes, and if they don't call, that means there must be something really wrong with me. Or it means that they've read this blog entry and are afraid that my standing within 100 feet of Mr. Bale will result in troublesome legal action.
In any case, I think it would be wonderfully fun to be a part of a major motion picture being filmed in my town. I'd be a part of history -- even if I was just a speck on the screen, it would be cool to say I was there.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Call Me Any Anytime
On a gym visit last week, I scanned my membership card and the computer told me to see a staff member before working out. The girl at the front desk looked up my file and saw that for some reason, my account was showing that I owed five dollars for something or other. She wrote down a phone number for me to call to get it straightened out.
When I called the number, an enthusiastic sounding recording informed me, "exciting local people want to talk to you!"
I hope that's not what the five bucks is supposed to be for.
When I called the number, an enthusiastic sounding recording informed me, "exciting local people want to talk to you!"
I hope that's not what the five bucks is supposed to be for.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Happy Birthday, Stapling Jello! Here's Your Present!
Today is the one year anniversary of Stapling Jello, and although it wasn't planned that way, I got a present for it!
When I got home from work today, I was walking into my building when my husband came bounding down the stairs.
"Honey," he said, "I couldn't get my car into the garage. Could you check it out for me; there's something in the way."
I had absolutely no idea what to expect. Obviously, there was some sort of a surprise in the garage for me, but what in the world could it be? I thought it might be the bicycle my sweetheart told me he wanted to get me for a wedding present, but I didn't think he'd actually buy me one without my picking it out. I thought it might be a Wii, because we'd been looking for one ever since my sister-in-law and her fiance brought theirs to a family get-together.
I was kind of right, but not really.
In the garage sat a small cardboard box. On it, my husband had taped a piece of paper with a drawing of a bicycle. (This is the part I was right about). Still thinking a Wii was inside, I carried the box upstairs, opened it and could not believe my eyes. It wasn't a Wii.
My husband had bought me a laptop. A beautiful, brand new MacBook.
I'd been wanting a laptop; I'd been talking about it, and saving for it, for a few months now. But never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine my husband would buy one for me.
I'm still in shock. It's such a thoughtful, generous gift -- then again, I guess in that case, I shouldn't be surprised. My husband is the most thoughtful, generous man I know. Except, of course, my dad, whose generosity knows no bounds, given the fact that he raised me. Or maybe that's patience, I don't know.
It's not even so much that he bought me a nice present -- it's the fact that he got me something he knew I really, really wanted, something it would take awhile for me to get on my own. It was a wonderful surprise, from a wonderful, wonderful man.
"Honey," he said, "I couldn't get my car into the garage. Could you check it out for me; there's something in the way."
I had absolutely no idea what to expect. Obviously, there was some sort of a surprise in the garage for me, but what in the world could it be? I thought it might be the bicycle my sweetheart told me he wanted to get me for a wedding present, but I didn't think he'd actually buy me one without my picking it out. I thought it might be a Wii, because we'd been looking for one ever since my sister-in-law and her fiance brought theirs to a family get-together.
I was kind of right, but not really.
In the garage sat a small cardboard box. On it, my husband had taped a piece of paper with a drawing of a bicycle. (This is the part I was right about). Still thinking a Wii was inside, I carried the box upstairs, opened it and could not believe my eyes. It wasn't a Wii.
My husband had bought me a laptop. A beautiful, brand new MacBook.
I'd been wanting a laptop; I'd been talking about it, and saving for it, for a few months now. But never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine my husband would buy one for me.
I'm still in shock. It's such a thoughtful, generous gift -- then again, I guess in that case, I shouldn't be surprised. My husband is the most thoughtful, generous man I know. Except, of course, my dad, whose generosity knows no bounds, given the fact that he raised me. Or maybe that's patience, I don't know.
It's not even so much that he bought me a nice present -- it's the fact that he got me something he knew I really, really wanted, something it would take awhile for me to get on my own. It was a wonderful surprise, from a wonderful, wonderful man.
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