You could say that Wednesday is my night of sinful television viewing: from 8:00 to 9:00, I switch back and forth between "Sex and the City" and "The Bachelor" (when either one gets too crass or ridiculous, I change to the other one), and from 9:00 to 10:00 my eyes are glued to "Wife Swap"--with titles like these, it's no wonder my husband refuses to be in the room while I watch, gasping and laughing, telling the women on "Wife Swap" that "you made your bed, honey, now you have to lie in it." But in reality (no pun intended...because we all know that reality TV is not all that close to reality), these shows are quite good and hilarious, and they provide good fodder for all the talks around the water cooler (or, in my case, the cyber-water-cooler-that-is-my-blog) the following day.
Okay, so "The Bachelor" is pretty stupid, but it comes as a relief when "Sex and the City" gets too kinky for me. Last night's highlights from these shows include that awful Jane woman freaking out YET AGAIN, and Byron giving her the shaft. "You liar," was all she said to him. Hahahaha. Now he gets to take the four remaining hopefuls on a "romantic overnight date." Isn't every date on The Bachelor a "romantic overnight date"? And on "Sex and the City" I was appalled at Miranda's callousness towards crying babies at restaurants: "don't get me wrong, I like babies," she said, "I just don't like them with my soup." This is the exact attitude that incites people to put "no strollers" signs in crafty-type store windows. But who shops at crafty-type stores??? Mothers with babies, people, mothers with babies. . .
But my favorite moments from last night had to be from "Wife Swap." This week, the Stallones (not Sylvester) swapped their mother/wife with this new-age, meditating, vegetarian family's lover/mother. I won't bore you with the details, but I will list some of my favorite quotes:
1. "I can't pick my own stinkin' clothes! I can't do my own stinkin' gel!" Said by 11-year-old Stallone boy upon hearing that his "new mom" would no longer lay out three outfits for him and do his hair before school every day. He said it with such fervor. I couldn't get over it.
2. "I won't let you go to school looking like an idiot. . . I won't let you go to school looking like an idiot, I promise you. I PROMISE YOU!" Said with gusto by teenage Stallone daughter after boy said he couldn't do his own stinkin' stuff.
3. "If he had been shorter, I would have grabbed his shoulders and shaken him!" Said by Stallone wife about her new "husband" after a particularly painful two-hour meditating session.
4. "Have a great day," clap, clap, "have a great day" clap, clap, clap. Chanted by aforementioned meditating husband while doing a patty-cake-type motion with each of his children. This caused them to be late for school. I don't know if they had a great day.
5. "And bless [Stallone wife], because of her intense spirit of the heart." Chanted by meditation man amid inane babble that sounded pretty much the same.
6."I just want to recognize you as a woman." Said by vegetarian wife to Stallone wife at the end of the show. What this means, no one knows. But I think more people should recognize other people for their gender. It takes a lot of work to have a gender.
I could go on, but I won't, because I've gotta gear up for "The Apprentice" in just three short hours. I hope you'll tune in next week, for what should be the most shocking "Wife Swap" ever (see http://mgp2.blogspot.com). There should be some men crying this time.
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Acceptable Public Scratching
There are two types of public sratching: acceptable and unacceptable. What deems public scratching unacceptable is both the location and the duration of the scratch. I don't need to tell you ALL of the unacceptable locations for a scratch (we all know this intuitively) but there are some grey areas, if you will, that I feel need to be addressed.
I discovered one particularly grey area today while wandering around UVSC, trying to find the library--and tarnation! It was near-impossible to locate. I was standing in the Computer Science Building (which, incidentally, is designed in the image of a computer chip) and I saw a man scratching his back. This was no ordinary scratch, however. This guy was standing against a stair rail, knees bent, back at a 45 degree angle from his legs, and scratchin' it up black bear style. He was moving up and down, up and down, rubbing that big back against the railing. I stood there staring for what seemed like a full minute. Then, he started to move side-to-side, scratching his way down the stairs. At this point, I couldn't contain myself: I burst out laughing. The man thought nothing of it, straightened up, and walked away.
Now, I ask you, is this acceptable public scratching? I think not. What made it so disgusting and off-putting was not only the interminable duration, but also the manner in which he scratched. Using public property to relieve your itching ought to be considered taboo, and boy was this guy taking full advantage of that stair rail--the same rail that hundreds of unsuspecting twenty-somethings will use today.
I thought long and hard about the location of the offending scratch: the back. Most people would say this is a fine place to scratch. I feel, however, that it is too personal, and too large an area for appropriate public scratching. My new rule of thumb is that if your clothes cover it, you shouldn't scratch it. This limits scratching locations to the hands and arms, the neck and head, and (in summer) the legs. I am conflicted about head-scratching, considering that some take it too far, causing flakes to rain onto their shoulders, and sometimes onto those around them. But the occasional one-second-long scratch can be very satisfying and is totally okay to do in public.
I finally found the library, and, luckily, no one was scratching on the stairs over there. Maybe it has to do with the type of student Computer Science attracts? Perhaps the more well-read know how wrong it is to scratch like that in a public forum? Maybe this man and I were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I discovered one particularly grey area today while wandering around UVSC, trying to find the library--and tarnation! It was near-impossible to locate. I was standing in the Computer Science Building (which, incidentally, is designed in the image of a computer chip) and I saw a man scratching his back. This was no ordinary scratch, however. This guy was standing against a stair rail, knees bent, back at a 45 degree angle from his legs, and scratchin' it up black bear style. He was moving up and down, up and down, rubbing that big back against the railing. I stood there staring for what seemed like a full minute. Then, he started to move side-to-side, scratching his way down the stairs. At this point, I couldn't contain myself: I burst out laughing. The man thought nothing of it, straightened up, and walked away.
Now, I ask you, is this acceptable public scratching? I think not. What made it so disgusting and off-putting was not only the interminable duration, but also the manner in which he scratched. Using public property to relieve your itching ought to be considered taboo, and boy was this guy taking full advantage of that stair rail--the same rail that hundreds of unsuspecting twenty-somethings will use today.
I thought long and hard about the location of the offending scratch: the back. Most people would say this is a fine place to scratch. I feel, however, that it is too personal, and too large an area for appropriate public scratching. My new rule of thumb is that if your clothes cover it, you shouldn't scratch it. This limits scratching locations to the hands and arms, the neck and head, and (in summer) the legs. I am conflicted about head-scratching, considering that some take it too far, causing flakes to rain onto their shoulders, and sometimes onto those around them. But the occasional one-second-long scratch can be very satisfying and is totally okay to do in public.
I finally found the library, and, luckily, no one was scratching on the stairs over there. Maybe it has to do with the type of student Computer Science attracts? Perhaps the more well-read know how wrong it is to scratch like that in a public forum? Maybe this man and I were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Blogs that Might Entice Me to Hug the PC.
Some of these blogs are imaginary, I-wish-they-existed types of blogs and some are real.
10. Saramarinara's, for obvious reasons.
9. KASM's "Every Day I write the Book" for its wit, relatability, and the fact that she is my sister.
8. Marcy Dibbleblotts' "How am I doin'?" because of her reference to old ladies' useful driving advice.
7. Heikaras' "People All Overthe World . . . Join Hands" because it is a feel-good blog and it offers all of us a chance for free deer hamburger.
6. Bono's blog about anything (we're talking his daily showering habits, what he ate for dinner, anything).
5. A blog that was dedicated entirely to complimenting my blog.
4. A blog that was nothing but pictures of Bono through ages, with insightful commentary.
3. The blog of Elvis--alive and well--in hiding.
2. Martha Stewart's Camp Cupcake blog--because I yearn for her well-being, not because I think it is funny that she is in prison.
1. A blog that is dedicated entirely to complimenting my blog (yes, I put it in here twice, this is no type-o)
10. Saramarinara's, for obvious reasons.
9. KASM's "Every Day I write the Book" for its wit, relatability, and the fact that she is my sister.
8. Marcy Dibbleblotts' "How am I doin'?" because of her reference to old ladies' useful driving advice.
7. Heikaras' "People All Overthe World . . . Join Hands" because it is a feel-good blog and it offers all of us a chance for free deer hamburger.
6. Bono's blog about anything (we're talking his daily showering habits, what he ate for dinner, anything).
5. A blog that was dedicated entirely to complimenting my blog.
4. A blog that was nothing but pictures of Bono through ages, with insightful commentary.
3. The blog of Elvis--alive and well--in hiding.
2. Martha Stewart's Camp Cupcake blog--because I yearn for her well-being, not because I think it is funny that she is in prison.
1. A blog that is dedicated entirely to complimenting my blog (yes, I put it in here twice, this is no type-o)
Monday, October 25, 2004
Ten Most Monumental Television-Hugging Moments in My Life
Television-Hugging Moment:(n) A moment of TV-viewing euphoria so intense that one is actually compelled to get out of her chair and hug the TV (often brought on by the image of Bono or the announcement of a U2 concert in the area).
10. Any time I see that new IPod commercial in which U2 is playing "Vertigo" and Bono is back in all his flowing-haired glory.
9. When Uncle Scrooge has a change of heart in "Mickey's Christmas Carrol" and Tiny Tim says his famous line. (This could also fit into my list of ten things I am ashamed to cry over).
8. Any time I see Craig Kilborn do or say anything on TV. He is so brilliant.
7. The time when I found out that U2 was coming to Utah on their Popmart Tour (1997) after a fifteen year hiatus.
6. That other time when I found out the U2 was coming to Utah on their Elevation Tour (2001). I went to this concert when I was 7 months pregnant. I had a ticket in the $80 seats and my husband sat in the cheap seats with his friend. I COULD have traded tickets with his friend, but there was no way I was going to sit in the cheap seats at a U2 concert--I have my standards.
5. 48 times during one viewing of "Rattle and Hum." Highlights include when Bono painstakingly plays guitar in "Running to Stand Still" and when he is so overcome with sweat and emotion in "Bad" that he just hugs Adam Clayton and walks off the stage mid-song.
4. 27 times during each of the three "Beatles Anthology" specials on TV back in 1996. (All of them having to do with John Lennon--sorry, Kacy, he just brings up so many more emotions in all of us than Paul does, which is why I would marry Paul, date John, have a crush on George, and be best friends with Ringo).
3. The last hour of "Return of the King." Because I can't help it.
2. When Stevie Nicks is talking about how devasted she was because Lindsay Buckingham broke her heart (seen on VH1's "Behind the Music"), and also when she sang "Silver Spring" on stage at their reunion concert, like RIGHT TO HIM! I wonder what he was thinking.
1. Inumerable times while watching Elvis's "'68 Comeback Special." That black leather jumpsuit! His banter with the audience and his band! The dramatic interpretations of his songs by dancers in multicolored bodysuits! Could it BE any more huggable?
10. Any time I see that new IPod commercial in which U2 is playing "Vertigo" and Bono is back in all his flowing-haired glory.
9. When Uncle Scrooge has a change of heart in "Mickey's Christmas Carrol" and Tiny Tim says his famous line. (This could also fit into my list of ten things I am ashamed to cry over).
8. Any time I see Craig Kilborn do or say anything on TV. He is so brilliant.
7. The time when I found out that U2 was coming to Utah on their Popmart Tour (1997) after a fifteen year hiatus.
6. That other time when I found out the U2 was coming to Utah on their Elevation Tour (2001). I went to this concert when I was 7 months pregnant. I had a ticket in the $80 seats and my husband sat in the cheap seats with his friend. I COULD have traded tickets with his friend, but there was no way I was going to sit in the cheap seats at a U2 concert--I have my standards.
5. 48 times during one viewing of "Rattle and Hum." Highlights include when Bono painstakingly plays guitar in "Running to Stand Still" and when he is so overcome with sweat and emotion in "Bad" that he just hugs Adam Clayton and walks off the stage mid-song.
4. 27 times during each of the three "Beatles Anthology" specials on TV back in 1996. (All of them having to do with John Lennon--sorry, Kacy, he just brings up so many more emotions in all of us than Paul does, which is why I would marry Paul, date John, have a crush on George, and be best friends with Ringo).
3. The last hour of "Return of the King." Because I can't help it.
2. When Stevie Nicks is talking about how devasted she was because Lindsay Buckingham broke her heart (seen on VH1's "Behind the Music"), and also when she sang "Silver Spring" on stage at their reunion concert, like RIGHT TO HIM! I wonder what he was thinking.
1. Inumerable times while watching Elvis's "'68 Comeback Special." That black leather jumpsuit! His banter with the audience and his band! The dramatic interpretations of his songs by dancers in multicolored bodysuits! Could it BE any more huggable?
Friday, October 22, 2004
Dress Your Family in Sweat Pants and "Ip Shoes"
As a mother, there are few times when I have been truly proud of my accomplishments. I am usually too racked with guilt to feel like I'm doing all that great of a job. However, I am proud of the fact that I have turned my boy into a bona fide picky weirdo. That's all my doing, yes. While Mike could certainly be classified as a "weirdo" he has not mastered the art of being picky as well as I have. And now the boy is following in my footsteps--can I help but be proud of what I have created?
Holden's education in weirdness and pickiness pretty much began when he was born. Though I didn't really realize it, I was setting him on a life-long path of fastidiousness. For one thing, he was too "weird" and "picky" to sleep at night (See Nine Moments in the Life of a Teacher for more painful details). He was also too picky to ever drink from a bottle or eat jars of baby food. Melted chocolate was his food of preference (a chip off the ol' block, no?). Occasionally he would consume the noodles of my campbells soup, eat popcorn seeds, or suck on the strap of his "Baby Bjorn," but that was about it. He was weird and picky even in his infancy.
This continued as he began to be very choosy over his wardrobe: cowboy boots, aqua socks, canvas keds, Italian leather loafers--nothing would suit him except for his "ip shoes" from Payless. For the uninitiated, 'ip" really means "zip" and Payless is a place where you can buy shoes for your children that will last about two weeks. I had a real problem. With his "ip" shoes breaking every few weeks, I had to buy them in every size just to keep Holden, and his fickle feet, happy. (Pickiness--maybe even a little bit of dimentia--at it's finest.)
And worse than the shoe issue is the sweatpants issue. The kid will wear nothing but the softest velour sweats on his legs. Try to put him in jeans--I dare you. I implore you. It's not so easy to stuff a screaming, squirming two-year-old into a pair of Levis.
At this point, I really have to stop and take a little bit of credit for this. When I was young, I would not wear jeans, either; I would only wear dresses. It was not a "girly" thing: I didn't feel the need to dress like a princess every day or wear pink-and-purple-flowered skirts, although I did love that kind of thing, I won't lie to you. No, it was nothing that normal. Indeed, it was because I HATED the way pants felt on my legs. My sisters and mother used to try to hold me down and force my chubby stubs into jeans, but, with determination topped only by my own son, I would not allow it. We finally compromised with "my knits," which followed the same principle as sweatpants (but of course, sweatpants weren't invented yet) in their supple texture and lack of "pleats," the culprit in the great "I hate pants" campaign. What would I wear to my first day of kindergarten? Why, my knits, of course! With my knits, I had a new lease on life: my side-saddle days were over.
In addition to my knits, I also insisted on wearing "my fongs" (you modern folk would call them "flip-flops" or "thongs") for an entire summer. By the end of June, they stunk to high heaven. My sisters and mother would search the house, baffled by their inability to find the source of the smell. Finally, they discovered that it was actually MY FEET and my FONGS that were so rancid. Much like Holden's "ip" shoes, my "fongs" weren't goin' nowhere: nobody could separate us. It got so bad that I had to sit in the very back of our station wagon while my mom and sisters rode with their heads out the window, gasping for fresh air.
So, you can see that my son's pickiness had its beginnings in my own troubled past. I consider it a good trait, however, his fickleness. He's a man of discriminating taste, which is more than I can say for a lot of people out there--those who listen to Mariah Carey, for example. Who knows, maybe he'll grow up to be a food critic or, even better, the host of TLC's "What Not To Wear." A mother can dream, can't she?
Holden's education in weirdness and pickiness pretty much began when he was born. Though I didn't really realize it, I was setting him on a life-long path of fastidiousness. For one thing, he was too "weird" and "picky" to sleep at night (See Nine Moments in the Life of a Teacher for more painful details). He was also too picky to ever drink from a bottle or eat jars of baby food. Melted chocolate was his food of preference (a chip off the ol' block, no?). Occasionally he would consume the noodles of my campbells soup, eat popcorn seeds, or suck on the strap of his "Baby Bjorn," but that was about it. He was weird and picky even in his infancy.
This continued as he began to be very choosy over his wardrobe: cowboy boots, aqua socks, canvas keds, Italian leather loafers--nothing would suit him except for his "ip shoes" from Payless. For the uninitiated, 'ip" really means "zip" and Payless is a place where you can buy shoes for your children that will last about two weeks. I had a real problem. With his "ip" shoes breaking every few weeks, I had to buy them in every size just to keep Holden, and his fickle feet, happy. (Pickiness--maybe even a little bit of dimentia--at it's finest.)
And worse than the shoe issue is the sweatpants issue. The kid will wear nothing but the softest velour sweats on his legs. Try to put him in jeans--I dare you. I implore you. It's not so easy to stuff a screaming, squirming two-year-old into a pair of Levis.
At this point, I really have to stop and take a little bit of credit for this. When I was young, I would not wear jeans, either; I would only wear dresses. It was not a "girly" thing: I didn't feel the need to dress like a princess every day or wear pink-and-purple-flowered skirts, although I did love that kind of thing, I won't lie to you. No, it was nothing that normal. Indeed, it was because I HATED the way pants felt on my legs. My sisters and mother used to try to hold me down and force my chubby stubs into jeans, but, with determination topped only by my own son, I would not allow it. We finally compromised with "my knits," which followed the same principle as sweatpants (but of course, sweatpants weren't invented yet) in their supple texture and lack of "pleats," the culprit in the great "I hate pants" campaign. What would I wear to my first day of kindergarten? Why, my knits, of course! With my knits, I had a new lease on life: my side-saddle days were over.
In addition to my knits, I also insisted on wearing "my fongs" (you modern folk would call them "flip-flops" or "thongs") for an entire summer. By the end of June, they stunk to high heaven. My sisters and mother would search the house, baffled by their inability to find the source of the smell. Finally, they discovered that it was actually MY FEET and my FONGS that were so rancid. Much like Holden's "ip" shoes, my "fongs" weren't goin' nowhere: nobody could separate us. It got so bad that I had to sit in the very back of our station wagon while my mom and sisters rode with their heads out the window, gasping for fresh air.
So, you can see that my son's pickiness had its beginnings in my own troubled past. I consider it a good trait, however, his fickleness. He's a man of discriminating taste, which is more than I can say for a lot of people out there--those who listen to Mariah Carey, for example. Who knows, maybe he'll grow up to be a food critic or, even better, the host of TLC's "What Not To Wear." A mother can dream, can't she?
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Daily Poetry
Roses are Red
My son has "special needs"
But only because he wears sweatpants
And likes to eat popcorn seeds
Detailed blog to follow. I know you can't wait...
My son has "special needs"
But only because he wears sweatpants
And likes to eat popcorn seeds
Detailed blog to follow. I know you can't wait...
[Insert Michael Moore Pun Here]
I make a point to be as apolitical as possible as a blogger. After all, I wouldn't want to alienate 50% of my readers (that means you, Marcy Dibbleblotts and Heikaras), but I thought I should at least mention that I went to see Michael Moore yesterday. It was a spectacle, which was exactly what I expected. It was less public speech, more political rally--lots of people yelling "HEEEELLLLOOOOO, UTAHHHHHHH!" and some people yelling "TWO MORE WEEKS!" etc. In the apolitical tradition, I won't discuss what I agreed/disagreed with, but I will tell you this: there were some people outside protesting the wearing of pants. They had signs that said "pants are the enemy" and they were chanting "no more pants, no more pants!" Now there's a political point of view that I can get behind. I got a brochure and some bumper stickers. One of the guys asked me for my name and number, so he could send me more information, but I declined (it was kinda creepy talking to a guy wearing a dress). I'm not sure what motivated these blokes--maybe it was the spirit of rebellion that Michael Moore inevitably brings with him where ever he goes. Maybe they were intoxicated by the craziness of the rain and the crowd. Or maybe it was something else, something more beautiful and complicated than we can ever imagine . . .
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Nine Moments in the Life of a Teacher
1. Your first teaching job comes in the form of a freshman writing course. You get the letter of acceptance and spend the next two weeks preparing like mad: you choose just the right briefcase and first-day-of-school outfit. You stand in front of the mirror saying, “good afternoon, class, and welcome to English 115. My name is Ms. Rasmussen.” To your horror, on your first day of class you can’t get the song “Hot For Teacher” by Van Halen out of your head. “What am I in this for, anyway?” you ask yourself as you scan the classroom, looking for cute, eligible RM’s.
2. That girl who always rolls her eyes at you in the back of the class sends her B+ paper to her high school English teacher, who insists that the paper YOU graded should have received at LEAST an A-. Your worst fears are confirmed when your boss reads the paper and tells you that the high school teacher was right. You smooth things over by telling the disgruntled student that “I gave you a lower grade because I expected more from you than this. You are such a good writer.” She never stops rolling her eyes at you for the rest of the semester.
3. You get married and move away to China—pretty typical scenario—where you teach 8 English classes and your male students ask you to play tennis with them and want to know if you know any other white women who can be their girlfriend. You fumble around for an answer when your students ask you how to pronounce an umlaut in the phonetic alphabet. At some point you have to leave class to vomit in a squatter and find an eraser and some chalk. Forget about an overhead projector and a copy limit. You don’t even get a textbook. On the last day of class, your students ask you to pose for a group picture immediately after you threw up, yet again, in the squatter.
4. You return from China determined not to throw up during class ever again, and, considering that you are in the advanced stages of pregnancy, this is not as easy as it might seem. You make up for your absent-mindedness by frequently bringing treats to class: hot chocolate, fudge nut bars, whatever you were craving the night before. One student from Alabama has an inexplicable crush on you, which leads him to bring you pumpkin pie shakes from Jamba Juice, comment on how cool your shoes are, and marvel the first time he sees you wearing glasses (“I’ve never seen you in THOSE before!”)
5. You start to notice that during your lessons you sweat profusely. It’s the pregnancy, but your students just think you are a disgusting, sweaty hoss—and, to be honest, you feel like one. The most prominent sweaty place is the area above your upper lip. It seems especially bad when you teach the Beehives on Sunday. You don’t know if you should point it out (like former “New Kid on the Block,” Joey MacIntire did when he hosted TRL. He was like “look at how bad my pits are sweating! I’m going to go change my shirt during this Mariah Carey video”), or whether to just pretend it doesn’t exist. Either way, you can’t win in the eyes of those demure 12-year-old girls, which is why you imagine they released you from your calling.
6. You have your baby and return to teaching six months later. Contrary to reason and human decency, your six-month-old doesn’t sleep at night AT ALL. You start to take Diet Coke intravenously just to stay alert for your three hour class, which consists of more ESL students than you know what to do with.
7. During a rather brilliant lesson on “tone,” you severely alienate one of your “non-traditional” students (i.e., a student that is older than you, male, and bitter about being in a class full of 18-year-olds that is taught by a woman). You alienate him by playing the Depeche Mode version of “Personal Jesus” and comparing it to the Johnny Cash version. Whose tone is more sincere? Turns out that this non-traditional dude “partied” with Depeche Mode back in ’85 at a hotel in Park City. When he hears them sing “Personal Jesus,” he feels like he really DOES have a personal Jesus. Johnny Cash is just country, and therefore not valid. After this, nontraditional student does little to mask his hatred of you, and you end the semester with a university-imposed restraining order against him.
8. You enroll in an advanced writing internship, in which you intern for a professor in an advanced writing class. Your professor spends more time critiquing your eye shadow than she does telling you what to do in class. She’s good at telling you that you are wrong and that “you need to go like this” as she makes a sweeping motion over her eyelids to indicate that you have a crease in your eye shadow.
9. You finally get your Masters and become a full-fledged part time professor. They give you an “A” sticker (people have been known to kill for an “A” sticker), an office with a door, and they leave you the heck alone. You feel that you have arrived. You start focusing a lot more on your outfits, like in the good old days, and you laugh at how insecure you used to be until you get an email from a student who rolls her eyes a lot in class—something about her grade not being “fair” and how you contradicted yourself in some conference . . .
2. That girl who always rolls her eyes at you in the back of the class sends her B+ paper to her high school English teacher, who insists that the paper YOU graded should have received at LEAST an A-. Your worst fears are confirmed when your boss reads the paper and tells you that the high school teacher was right. You smooth things over by telling the disgruntled student that “I gave you a lower grade because I expected more from you than this. You are such a good writer.” She never stops rolling her eyes at you for the rest of the semester.
3. You get married and move away to China—pretty typical scenario—where you teach 8 English classes and your male students ask you to play tennis with them and want to know if you know any other white women who can be their girlfriend. You fumble around for an answer when your students ask you how to pronounce an umlaut in the phonetic alphabet. At some point you have to leave class to vomit in a squatter and find an eraser and some chalk. Forget about an overhead projector and a copy limit. You don’t even get a textbook. On the last day of class, your students ask you to pose for a group picture immediately after you threw up, yet again, in the squatter.
4. You return from China determined not to throw up during class ever again, and, considering that you are in the advanced stages of pregnancy, this is not as easy as it might seem. You make up for your absent-mindedness by frequently bringing treats to class: hot chocolate, fudge nut bars, whatever you were craving the night before. One student from Alabama has an inexplicable crush on you, which leads him to bring you pumpkin pie shakes from Jamba Juice, comment on how cool your shoes are, and marvel the first time he sees you wearing glasses (“I’ve never seen you in THOSE before!”)
5. You start to notice that during your lessons you sweat profusely. It’s the pregnancy, but your students just think you are a disgusting, sweaty hoss—and, to be honest, you feel like one. The most prominent sweaty place is the area above your upper lip. It seems especially bad when you teach the Beehives on Sunday. You don’t know if you should point it out (like former “New Kid on the Block,” Joey MacIntire did when he hosted TRL. He was like “look at how bad my pits are sweating! I’m going to go change my shirt during this Mariah Carey video”), or whether to just pretend it doesn’t exist. Either way, you can’t win in the eyes of those demure 12-year-old girls, which is why you imagine they released you from your calling.
6. You have your baby and return to teaching six months later. Contrary to reason and human decency, your six-month-old doesn’t sleep at night AT ALL. You start to take Diet Coke intravenously just to stay alert for your three hour class, which consists of more ESL students than you know what to do with.
7. During a rather brilliant lesson on “tone,” you severely alienate one of your “non-traditional” students (i.e., a student that is older than you, male, and bitter about being in a class full of 18-year-olds that is taught by a woman). You alienate him by playing the Depeche Mode version of “Personal Jesus” and comparing it to the Johnny Cash version. Whose tone is more sincere? Turns out that this non-traditional dude “partied” with Depeche Mode back in ’85 at a hotel in Park City. When he hears them sing “Personal Jesus,” he feels like he really DOES have a personal Jesus. Johnny Cash is just country, and therefore not valid. After this, nontraditional student does little to mask his hatred of you, and you end the semester with a university-imposed restraining order against him.
8. You enroll in an advanced writing internship, in which you intern for a professor in an advanced writing class. Your professor spends more time critiquing your eye shadow than she does telling you what to do in class. She’s good at telling you that you are wrong and that “you need to go like this” as she makes a sweeping motion over her eyelids to indicate that you have a crease in your eye shadow.
9. You finally get your Masters and become a full-fledged part time professor. They give you an “A” sticker (people have been known to kill for an “A” sticker), an office with a door, and they leave you the heck alone. You feel that you have arrived. You start focusing a lot more on your outfits, like in the good old days, and you laugh at how insecure you used to be until you get an email from a student who rolls her eyes a lot in class—something about her grade not being “fair” and how you contradicted yourself in some conference . . .
What About the Rest of Us Lepers?
Last night I saw a very insightful program on the channel affectionately referred to as "E!" The program was called "Celebrity Beauty Secrets Revealed."
"This oughta be good," I said, grabbing my two-year-old's knee in anticipation, pencil and paper at the ready. "Come on, E!, wow me." I expected to find the elixir of life right there on channel 59, to finally know how J.Low got that coveted glow, and how Cameron Diaz could look so good in a bathing suit.
But what I got was a whole lotta nothin'. The only "secret" that was revealed was how truly rich these celebrities are (and the fact that Britney Spears uses castor oil on her split ends. I mean, has the girl ever heard of VO5 hot oil treatment? I guess VO5 is too "eighties" for her, not that she would remember the eighties, since she spent half of the decade in a high chair, and the other half in the Mickey Mouse Club. The VO5 is on the bottom shelf, right next to the Noxema and the Ten-06, Britney). These famous peeps are spending $500 on products called "Bone Marrow Cream" and "Brain Lipid Serum," for heaven's sake. As I watched, my desire to kiss Brad Pitt's cheek flew right out the window, along with my hope for a useable celebrity beauty secret.
I mean, my Uncle Tobe has some cows over in Delta, but like I know how to extract their bone marrow and brain lipids, make them into a cream, and then stomach putting that stuff on my face.
That's all well and good for THEM, but what about the rest of us poor lepers out here--the ones who can't even afford L'oreal at Rite Aid? Good to know that I can look as good as Jennifer Anniston if I have a comsetic surgery budget of $1 million. I think I'll stick to Ten-06, thank you very much. Let the cows be put to their original use: becoming juicy hamburgers and thick steaks.
"This oughta be good," I said, grabbing my two-year-old's knee in anticipation, pencil and paper at the ready. "Come on, E!, wow me." I expected to find the elixir of life right there on channel 59, to finally know how J.Low got that coveted glow, and how Cameron Diaz could look so good in a bathing suit.
But what I got was a whole lotta nothin'. The only "secret" that was revealed was how truly rich these celebrities are (and the fact that Britney Spears uses castor oil on her split ends. I mean, has the girl ever heard of VO5 hot oil treatment? I guess VO5 is too "eighties" for her, not that she would remember the eighties, since she spent half of the decade in a high chair, and the other half in the Mickey Mouse Club. The VO5 is on the bottom shelf, right next to the Noxema and the Ten-06, Britney). These famous peeps are spending $500 on products called "Bone Marrow Cream" and "Brain Lipid Serum," for heaven's sake. As I watched, my desire to kiss Brad Pitt's cheek flew right out the window, along with my hope for a useable celebrity beauty secret.
I mean, my Uncle Tobe has some cows over in Delta, but like I know how to extract their bone marrow and brain lipids, make them into a cream, and then stomach putting that stuff on my face.
That's all well and good for THEM, but what about the rest of us poor lepers out here--the ones who can't even afford L'oreal at Rite Aid? Good to know that I can look as good as Jennifer Anniston if I have a comsetic surgery budget of $1 million. I think I'll stick to Ten-06, thank you very much. Let the cows be put to their original use: becoming juicy hamburgers and thick steaks.
Monday, October 18, 2004
"Billy Jean" On A Cattle Car
So, another thing I am ashamed to admit is that I actually wanted my husband to ask me to go to the BYU Homecoming dance. You see, we’ve been married for nearly four years and I figured it was about time to get dressed up in something other than waist-high gaters and three layers of fleece to go out on a date. I wanted to primp, to spend weeks planning my outfit, and to see a look of surprise and admiration on Mike’s face when he knocked on the door to pick me up for our big Homecoming date. Did I tell him this? No, don’t be silly. But I reserved the right to be ticked off if he didn’t ask me—that’s what makes me so fascinating, and not a little bit scary.
“Oh, I wish Mike would ask me to Homecoming,” I wistfully told my mother one day. Her response was short and startlingly to the point: “Don’t hold your breath.”
So I didn’t hold my breath. In fact, I forgot all about it until one day I noticed a sign for the “Blue and White Ball,” which was the formal Homecoming dance, held at the State Capital. “Ah, the possibilities,” I said (I think out loud) and I started to imagine myself wearing a ball gown ala Gwyneth Paltrow’s at the 1999 Oscars (not the hideous, see-through mesh, gothic dress with matching black eye-liner. I mean the delicate, feminine, light pink one she wore when she won the Oscar for Shakespeare in Love). Add this day dream to the fact that one of my more vocal (think obnoxious) freshmen point-blank asked me if my husband was taking me to Homecoming, and you’ll have the classic recipe for a major bee in my bonnet. I lied and told my freshman that “I got married to avoid getting dressed up and making a fool of myself at dances,” adding that “I also got married to avoid playing volleyball,” but the damage had been done.
“Come to think of it,” I told myself, “Why DIDN’T Mike ask me to Homecoming? Don’t I deserve a night out?” This was my mantra all afternoon and evening, while I thanklessly prepared a beautiful dinner and cleaned up all the dishes (I am the victim, people. I implore you…). Mike was oblivious to my inner rage, which increased with every word he said. His innocent “pass the peas” translated into “I am a selfish jerk. Pass the peas, woman.”
Things came to a head that night as we were falling asleep:
“So my Spanish teacher’s husband asked her to Homecoming in front of the whole class,” he said with a yawn. “He made her a gingerbread train and the card said ‘come se dice ‘will you go to Homecoming on the Heber Creeper with me?’ en Espanol?’ She was so surprised.”
I managed to get in a bitter “that’s nice” before he was snoring away. So I did what all calm and rational people would have done: I slept on the couch. That’s the way to punish ‘em, all right: sleeping on a munchkin-sized couch all night while they lie in the middle of the bed, unaware of what you are doing or where you are. Carly 1, Mike 0.
The next morning I explained as best as I could how fightin’ mad I was at Mike. I think I may have mentioned that “we never do anything that I want to do,” as well as the ever-popular “it’s always all about YOU.” Ah, the shame. Mike bore it as best as one could expect and I spent the entire day with an “I’m-bitter-because-I’m-not-going-to-a freshmen-dance” kind of attitude you might expect from a real freshman, but certainly not a sophisticated writing teacher who reads David Sedaris and laughs out loud.
Later that day I found a Homecoming ticket wedged in our two-year-old’s battery operated choo choo train. I don’t want to get cheesy, here, but the note did say “you put the ‘toot’ in my whistle. Will you go to Homecoming on the Heber Creeper with me?” At that, all was forgiven. You can probably imagine how ridiculous I felt when Mike told me he had the ticket all along (though today I found out that he was lying, but that’s okay, cause I deserved to be lied to). But I soon replaced my remorse with plans for wearing my hair down and with a flower behind my ear like Drew Barrymore. . .
Heber Creeper Train Depot, 8:00pm: We board the train, bewildered at the energy that the people around us seemed to possess so close to bed time. We found some seats next to the Spanish teacher and her reluctant husband, who both looked as disoriented and tired as we were. We danced, to be sure, but after so many songs from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” we kind of ran out of moves. Mostly, we sat on our seats, making fun of people’s clothes and clucking our tongues at Honor Code violations, of which there were 41. I guess Homecoming on a train is really an activity for the young folks. In fact, after I saw one of my very own students there, I mentioned how much our two-year-old would love going on the Heber Creeper: “Let’s come again with Holden,” I yelled to Mike, my voice barely audible above Mariah Carey’s “Dream Lover.”
When we finally got off the train, feeling more like we’d been hit with it than like we’d danced the night away on it, I took Mike’s arm. “Thank you for bringing me to this,” I said. “It was very thoughtful and now we know that we never have to do this again. We can close this chapter of our lives for good.” Mike agreed, and we hobbled to the car, me in my pre-pregnancy “cruel shoes,” and Mike in his hardly-worn dress shoes.
And you know, I have closed the dance chapter of my life. The Spanish teacher said it best when she observed that “this dance would be a lot more fun if I were a freshman, and if I were going with some guy that I really, really LIKED.” Hahaha. Don’t get me wrong, I really, really LIKE Mike, but I’ve found that I like him better in gaters, snowshoeing through Diamond Fork Canyon than in a tie, bobbing his head to “Billy Jean” on a cattle car.
“Oh, I wish Mike would ask me to Homecoming,” I wistfully told my mother one day. Her response was short and startlingly to the point: “Don’t hold your breath.”
So I didn’t hold my breath. In fact, I forgot all about it until one day I noticed a sign for the “Blue and White Ball,” which was the formal Homecoming dance, held at the State Capital. “Ah, the possibilities,” I said (I think out loud) and I started to imagine myself wearing a ball gown ala Gwyneth Paltrow’s at the 1999 Oscars (not the hideous, see-through mesh, gothic dress with matching black eye-liner. I mean the delicate, feminine, light pink one she wore when she won the Oscar for Shakespeare in Love). Add this day dream to the fact that one of my more vocal (think obnoxious) freshmen point-blank asked me if my husband was taking me to Homecoming, and you’ll have the classic recipe for a major bee in my bonnet. I lied and told my freshman that “I got married to avoid getting dressed up and making a fool of myself at dances,” adding that “I also got married to avoid playing volleyball,” but the damage had been done.
“Come to think of it,” I told myself, “Why DIDN’T Mike ask me to Homecoming? Don’t I deserve a night out?” This was my mantra all afternoon and evening, while I thanklessly prepared a beautiful dinner and cleaned up all the dishes (I am the victim, people. I implore you…). Mike was oblivious to my inner rage, which increased with every word he said. His innocent “pass the peas” translated into “I am a selfish jerk. Pass the peas, woman.”
Things came to a head that night as we were falling asleep:
“So my Spanish teacher’s husband asked her to Homecoming in front of the whole class,” he said with a yawn. “He made her a gingerbread train and the card said ‘come se dice ‘will you go to Homecoming on the Heber Creeper with me?’ en Espanol?’ She was so surprised.”
I managed to get in a bitter “that’s nice” before he was snoring away. So I did what all calm and rational people would have done: I slept on the couch. That’s the way to punish ‘em, all right: sleeping on a munchkin-sized couch all night while they lie in the middle of the bed, unaware of what you are doing or where you are. Carly 1, Mike 0.
The next morning I explained as best as I could how fightin’ mad I was at Mike. I think I may have mentioned that “we never do anything that I want to do,” as well as the ever-popular “it’s always all about YOU.” Ah, the shame. Mike bore it as best as one could expect and I spent the entire day with an “I’m-bitter-because-I’m-not-going-to-a freshmen-dance” kind of attitude you might expect from a real freshman, but certainly not a sophisticated writing teacher who reads David Sedaris and laughs out loud.
Later that day I found a Homecoming ticket wedged in our two-year-old’s battery operated choo choo train. I don’t want to get cheesy, here, but the note did say “you put the ‘toot’ in my whistle. Will you go to Homecoming on the Heber Creeper with me?” At that, all was forgiven. You can probably imagine how ridiculous I felt when Mike told me he had the ticket all along (though today I found out that he was lying, but that’s okay, cause I deserved to be lied to). But I soon replaced my remorse with plans for wearing my hair down and with a flower behind my ear like Drew Barrymore. . .
Heber Creeper Train Depot, 8:00pm: We board the train, bewildered at the energy that the people around us seemed to possess so close to bed time. We found some seats next to the Spanish teacher and her reluctant husband, who both looked as disoriented and tired as we were. We danced, to be sure, but after so many songs from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” we kind of ran out of moves. Mostly, we sat on our seats, making fun of people’s clothes and clucking our tongues at Honor Code violations, of which there were 41. I guess Homecoming on a train is really an activity for the young folks. In fact, after I saw one of my very own students there, I mentioned how much our two-year-old would love going on the Heber Creeper: “Let’s come again with Holden,” I yelled to Mike, my voice barely audible above Mariah Carey’s “Dream Lover.”
When we finally got off the train, feeling more like we’d been hit with it than like we’d danced the night away on it, I took Mike’s arm. “Thank you for bringing me to this,” I said. “It was very thoughtful and now we know that we never have to do this again. We can close this chapter of our lives for good.” Mike agreed, and we hobbled to the car, me in my pre-pregnancy “cruel shoes,” and Mike in his hardly-worn dress shoes.
And you know, I have closed the dance chapter of my life. The Spanish teacher said it best when she observed that “this dance would be a lot more fun if I were a freshman, and if I were going with some guy that I really, really LIKED.” Hahaha. Don’t get me wrong, I really, really LIKE Mike, but I’ve found that I like him better in gaters, snowshoeing through Diamond Fork Canyon than in a tie, bobbing his head to “Billy Jean” on a cattle car.
Friday, October 15, 2004
Daily Poetry
Roses are red
I hate phony overtures
But what's weirder than that
Is that Billy-Bob Thornton is afraid of antique furniture
I just heard him say it on NPR. First he's got Angelina's blood in a vial around his neck, and now this.
I hate phony overtures
But what's weirder than that
Is that Billy-Bob Thornton is afraid of antique furniture
I just heard him say it on NPR. First he's got Angelina's blood in a vial around his neck, and now this.
Area Man Acts Snobby at Barnes and Noble
Thursday, October 14, Orem, UT: Carly, 26, walked into Barnes and Noble to exchange a CD for a book: "You see, I bought the latest Coldplay CD only to end up getting it for my birthday," she explained, "I decided to exchange it for a David Sedaris book. My sister's been raving about David Sedaris." But her seemingly simple and innocent exchange took a turn for the worse when she met Barnes and Noble employee, Walter S, 30, new trainee at the Orem store, and his manager, Bob.
"Walter tried to be helpful, but I had to explain several times that I did like the CD, but had two of them. Who needs two of the same CD?" When Walter finally "got it," he called assistant manager, Bob, over to the counter. Several eye witnesses said they saw Bob coming from the area of the bathrooms and breakroom. "About two minutes after he was called, I saw him sashaying out of the breakroom, with his nose in the air," explained Jan, 40, career Barnes and Noble loiterer. Other witnesses used words like "sauntered," "ambled," and "strolled" to describe the snobby man's walk. "His nose was totally in the air, and he looked like he had a bug up his back end," said Chris, 17, who was reading a Seventeen Magazine near the bathroom.
When Bob got to the counter to help Walter with Carly's transaction, his mood had not improved. "As far as I can tell, he just opened the drawer that held the gift cards," Carly mused, "how hard is that?" When Walter thanked him, Bob said "I'm on break." Later, Carly explained how chilly Bob's comment was: "It was like we had asked him to vaccum and dust the entire store. I couldn't believe how snobby he was." Bob then told Walter, the trainee, "You need to call Wendy instead." "Wendy doesn't work until 8:00 tonight," was Walter's reply. "BUT I'M ON BREAK," Bob said, in a really snobby way, while walking away, apparently with his head in the air again.
"Well, I couldn't believe how snobby Bob was to Walter," Carly said, "so I totally had to say something after he left. I was like, 'whoa, that wasn't very nice,' and Walter said 'well, that's just Bob for you.'" The entire experience left Carly a little disillusioned: "I always thought the people at Barnes and Noble were sophisticated," she said, "but this guy was just plain snobby."
"Walter tried to be helpful, but I had to explain several times that I did like the CD, but had two of them. Who needs two of the same CD?" When Walter finally "got it," he called assistant manager, Bob, over to the counter. Several eye witnesses said they saw Bob coming from the area of the bathrooms and breakroom. "About two minutes after he was called, I saw him sashaying out of the breakroom, with his nose in the air," explained Jan, 40, career Barnes and Noble loiterer. Other witnesses used words like "sauntered," "ambled," and "strolled" to describe the snobby man's walk. "His nose was totally in the air, and he looked like he had a bug up his back end," said Chris, 17, who was reading a Seventeen Magazine near the bathroom.
When Bob got to the counter to help Walter with Carly's transaction, his mood had not improved. "As far as I can tell, he just opened the drawer that held the gift cards," Carly mused, "how hard is that?" When Walter thanked him, Bob said "I'm on break." Later, Carly explained how chilly Bob's comment was: "It was like we had asked him to vaccum and dust the entire store. I couldn't believe how snobby he was." Bob then told Walter, the trainee, "You need to call Wendy instead." "Wendy doesn't work until 8:00 tonight," was Walter's reply. "BUT I'M ON BREAK," Bob said, in a really snobby way, while walking away, apparently with his head in the air again.
"Well, I couldn't believe how snobby Bob was to Walter," Carly said, "so I totally had to say something after he left. I was like, 'whoa, that wasn't very nice,' and Walter said 'well, that's just Bob for you.'" The entire experience left Carly a little disillusioned: "I always thought the people at Barnes and Noble were sophisticated," she said, "but this guy was just plain snobby."
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Ten Things I am Ashamed that I Cry Over
It's okay to cry at some things--like Lord of the Rings and the death of a loved one--but here are a few things that I wish didn't move me to tears.
10. Any (and I mean ANY) episode of VH1's "Behind the Music." It's shameful. Any story is fair game: Milli Vanilli, Vanilla Ice, Salt 'n' Peppa, I could go on.
9. Any moment of tenderness between Bart and Lisa Simpson (i.e., the episode when they go to military school and Bart cheers Lisa on as she finishes the obstacle course . . . gets me every time).
8. Those Sylvan Learning Center commercials. You know, the ones where the mom's all "Janie, time for bed" and Janie's like "in a minute," then the mom realizes that Janie is reading, and the music swells . . .
7. This picture: http://www.led-zeppelin.org/multimedia/photos/plant48.jpg
6. "Nessun Dorma" from Puccini's opera "Turandot." I am an opera fan, but, despite my two years of Italian learning in college, I don't really know what this song is about. All I know is that at the end the dude goes "vincero, vincero, vincero," which means "I will triumph," and I say to myself "yes, I WILL triumph" (tear).
5. The tearful reactions of home owners on "Trading Spaces," or any other surprise room-make-over show, for that matter. I cry when they are happy (when Vern has redone their room), and when they are sad (when Doug has turned their living room into a brown, "art-deco" theater).
4. When people don't read my blog--hahaha. I've even been known to delete my blog because of it.
3. The thought of Martha Stewart doing hard time in Camp Cupcake.
2. Memories of the 2000 election results
1. Certain episodes of "Wife Swap"
10. Any (and I mean ANY) episode of VH1's "Behind the Music." It's shameful. Any story is fair game: Milli Vanilli, Vanilla Ice, Salt 'n' Peppa, I could go on.
9. Any moment of tenderness between Bart and Lisa Simpson (i.e., the episode when they go to military school and Bart cheers Lisa on as she finishes the obstacle course . . . gets me every time).
8. Those Sylvan Learning Center commercials. You know, the ones where the mom's all "Janie, time for bed" and Janie's like "in a minute," then the mom realizes that Janie is reading, and the music swells . . .
7. This picture: http://www.led-zeppelin.org/multimedia/photos/plant48.jpg
6. "Nessun Dorma" from Puccini's opera "Turandot." I am an opera fan, but, despite my two years of Italian learning in college, I don't really know what this song is about. All I know is that at the end the dude goes "vincero, vincero, vincero," which means "I will triumph," and I say to myself "yes, I WILL triumph" (tear).
5. The tearful reactions of home owners on "Trading Spaces," or any other surprise room-make-over show, for that matter. I cry when they are happy (when Vern has redone their room), and when they are sad (when Doug has turned their living room into a brown, "art-deco" theater).
4. When people don't read my blog--hahaha. I've even been known to delete my blog because of it.
3. The thought of Martha Stewart doing hard time in Camp Cupcake.
2. Memories of the 2000 election results
1. Certain episodes of "Wife Swap"
Top Ten Celebrities With Whom I am Cosmically Connected
10. Stevie Nicks: I like to think that I AM her, especially when I wear my tall black boots, my "Stevie Nicks lucky boots"
9. Debbie Harry: I just really like rebellious blondes who sing in front of rock bands. I mean, who doesn't admire "Blondie"? One time in church I accidentally announced that "Debbie Harry" would be giving the opening prayer instead of "Debbie Hardy." Someone asked me if she'd be singing "Heart of Glass" after the prayer.
8. Bono: It started out as pure attraction, but now I feel deeply that he and I would be best friends if only he would just repeal that restraining order.
7. Gwyneth Paltrow: I've kind of lost a lot of respect for her since she named her baby "Apple" (also, one time she said that she has a lot more going on than most people her age, which deeply offended my sister, who is Gwyneth's age, and who has three kids, which is, really, a lot going on). But I've gotten the "Sliding Doors" haircut too many times for it to be a coincidence. I feel like if I get that haircut, I will actually look like her.
6. Satine: It's not so much Nicole Kidman as it is the character she plays in Moulin Rouge. I wish I were Satine (minus the whole prostitute and dying of consumption thing). In fact, my MSN Messenger identity is Satine.
5. John Lennon: Kacy is right, Paul is better. John is far too complicated and has done some really stupid things involving nudity. But for some reason, I have always felt a cosmic connection with John. I want to reach out to him, to tell him it's okay that his mother left him.
4. Elvis: This needs no explanation.
3. Gwen Stefani: It all started with her song "A Simple Kind of Life," then intensified when she married Bush frontman, Gavin Rossdale.
2. Reese Witherspoon: I love her in "Legally Blonde" and admire her for having kids and staying married to Ryan Philippe, not that it would be all that difficult.
1. Lindsay Lohan: I think she's precious and I think that if I were sixteen again, I would try to emulate her, with that red hair. Also, I am totally on her side regarding the whole Hillary Duff/Lindsay Lohan rivalry thing.
9. Debbie Harry: I just really like rebellious blondes who sing in front of rock bands. I mean, who doesn't admire "Blondie"? One time in church I accidentally announced that "Debbie Harry" would be giving the opening prayer instead of "Debbie Hardy." Someone asked me if she'd be singing "Heart of Glass" after the prayer.
8. Bono: It started out as pure attraction, but now I feel deeply that he and I would be best friends if only he would just repeal that restraining order.
7. Gwyneth Paltrow: I've kind of lost a lot of respect for her since she named her baby "Apple" (also, one time she said that she has a lot more going on than most people her age, which deeply offended my sister, who is Gwyneth's age, and who has three kids, which is, really, a lot going on). But I've gotten the "Sliding Doors" haircut too many times for it to be a coincidence. I feel like if I get that haircut, I will actually look like her.
6. Satine: It's not so much Nicole Kidman as it is the character she plays in Moulin Rouge. I wish I were Satine (minus the whole prostitute and dying of consumption thing). In fact, my MSN Messenger identity is Satine.
5. John Lennon: Kacy is right, Paul is better. John is far too complicated and has done some really stupid things involving nudity. But for some reason, I have always felt a cosmic connection with John. I want to reach out to him, to tell him it's okay that his mother left him.
4. Elvis: This needs no explanation.
3. Gwen Stefani: It all started with her song "A Simple Kind of Life," then intensified when she married Bush frontman, Gavin Rossdale.
2. Reese Witherspoon: I love her in "Legally Blonde" and admire her for having kids and staying married to Ryan Philippe, not that it would be all that difficult.
1. Lindsay Lohan: I think she's precious and I think that if I were sixteen again, I would try to emulate her, with that red hair. Also, I am totally on her side regarding the whole Hillary Duff/Lindsay Lohan rivalry thing.
Martha Stewart and Aristotle
All these pot-shots at Martha Stewart redecorating her prison cell are getting on my nerves. For one thing, it's such a cheap shot, such an easy joke to make. It requires no thought at all. For another thing, Martha Stewart saved me from a life of dull domesticity and bitterness. You see, housewifery did not come naturally to me. Had I not turned on the TV that fateful day in November of 2001 and tried to make that snowball luminary, I may never have been able to enjoy the art of homemaking. (Incidentally, the materials for the luminary cost over $40 and when it was finished, it blew away from my front porch during a snow storm.) Since then, I have taken great pleasure in Martha Stewart's "good things." I truly worry for her in prison. I don't think it's funny at all.
What people hate about Martha Stewart is the fact that she is a strong, at times ruthless, business-savvy WOMAN. Many of her qualities, were they found in a man, would be celebrated and admired. As it is, she is cast in the worst possible light. Hey, I am no defender of the white-collar criminal. But come on, don't you think that people are a little bit too hard on her? I mean, Martha Stewart made staying at home an art. She empowered the downtrodden woman. I liken her to the feminists of old, the Elizabeth Cady Stantons and Susan B. Anthonies. In fact, a 17th century feminist named Sor Juana once said that "if Artistotle would have prepared victuals, he would have written more." Martha has prepared her share of victuals, and in so doing, has become the Artistotle of the homemakers, the all-knowing mentor. I wish her the best in prison, and bide my time with her trusted magazine editors until her triumphant return.
What people hate about Martha Stewart is the fact that she is a strong, at times ruthless, business-savvy WOMAN. Many of her qualities, were they found in a man, would be celebrated and admired. As it is, she is cast in the worst possible light. Hey, I am no defender of the white-collar criminal. But come on, don't you think that people are a little bit too hard on her? I mean, Martha Stewart made staying at home an art. She empowered the downtrodden woman. I liken her to the feminists of old, the Elizabeth Cady Stantons and Susan B. Anthonies. In fact, a 17th century feminist named Sor Juana once said that "if Artistotle would have prepared victuals, he would have written more." Martha has prepared her share of victuals, and in so doing, has become the Artistotle of the homemakers, the all-knowing mentor. I wish her the best in prison, and bide my time with her trusted magazine editors until her triumphant return.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Elvis Still Lives--Every Time My Sister Blows Her Nose.
My favorite thing about my sister is the fact that she blows her nose to the tune of "Jailhouse Rock." She's very systematic about it: first the left nostril, then the right, then two taps of her foot (blow, blow, tap-tap. blow, blow, tap-tap) "Warden threw a party at the county jail..." I discovered her doing it one day in the bathroom, that mysterious post-blow tapping. Thinking that since she was the coolest person I knew, and that to be cool I had to be like her, I decided to blow MY nose to the tune of "Suspicious Minds," but it really sounds more like the horn in "A Little Less Conversation, a Little More Action." What are you gonna do? There's only one original "Jailhouse Rock" nose-blower.
Mama's Back
Well, I deleted my entire blog last night in a fit of. . . of . . . of low self-esteem. You know, I just felt that I needed to go away for a while and "dream it all up again," as Bono told us all back in 1989 (or was it '90?) before U2's hiatus and subsequent reincarnation in the form of "Achtung Baby." Well, this blog is my version of Achtung Baby. But never fear, there will not be an equivalent of "Zoocrappa" to follow (see http://kasm.blogspot.com). I am still Carly, and have not taken on any alternate personas like "The Fly" or "MacPhisto" (shudder). And while U2 took several years to complete their transformation, mine has taken less than 24 hours. Go figure. I guess I'm really rather shallow, after all. So, here's the new blog, created for my posse (Kacy and Christian, and possibly Heidi, if she will read it), and with aspirations only to entertain, please, and instruct them.
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