Monday, December 13, 2010
The Walking (right into a trap) Dead
In case you didn't know (haha), I'm rather a fan of the zombie horror/comedy genre of entertainment. There's much I haven't read, but little left to watch. So I've been watching "The Walking Dead" and enjoying the heck out of it.
Except... I don't think these people are as smart as they think they are.
Maybe I'm not being fair. I've had my Augusta, Ga.-based zombie survival plan mapped out for at least the last 5 years. Having a child really makes you take stock of what's important in life. And I'd say zombie defense is a pretty high priority. Oh, you don't agree with me? Nice knowin' ya, "Running Buffet."
Anyway, perhaps AMC writers think that being smart wouldn't advance the plot very far, but these folks are still doing it wrong. There are some basic survival rules anyone - in any situation - would naturally follow.
First, run and hide. Many of them have managed this pretty well.
Second, find supplies. Apparently they have an RV full of them, plus some camping stuff. Meh, second rate, but I'll take it for now.
Third, find defensible shelter on high ground. See, this is where they've begun to fail. They drove about 10 minutes outside the downtown area to the former Bellwood Quarry, pitched some tents and began domestication.
NO! People, this is beyond stupid. First of all, a quarry goes down, not up. This is not the high ground you're looking for. All you've done is made a giant people soup bowl for hordes of ravenous undead. You won't even be able to see them coming because you were too stupid to set up watches at the top.
Second, tents are not defensible. What are you - the Three Little Pigs? It's like defending yourself with a house made of towels. Zombies are undeterred by zippers. And they do not knock politely. Get your ass something with bricks and mortar - and very small windows.
Third, it's not that great a shelter. There's no bathroom, little privacy. You have to think long-term. And if we've learned anything from the new global media, it's that cramped conditions and lack of latrines make for outbreaks of disease. What's the first thing the Army does when it sets up camp? It digs the latrines. So, for those non-Atlantans who have never heard of the Bellwood Quarry, you should know that there are already some buildings on site. They're old, and they'd need shoring up, but they're better than tents.
Fourth, why did they drive West of the city? The population there is less concentrated, which could be an advantage if you want to avoid the undead, sure. But if they wanted that, they could have at least made it outside the perimeter. I-285 isn't that daunting of an obstacle, so stopping there was just lazy. They are literally a 10-minute drive to downtown.
Going West means the likelihood of meeting survivors with whom you can team up is also lessened. So are: access to supplies, shelter, weaponry, transportation, and fuel. The chance of finding assistance lies to the immediate North and to the East, which are more densely populated areas.
The answer for these fools is obvious, but no one has made even the slightest mention of it. Any native Atlantan (hi, y'all!) knows there are several areas of defensible high ground with amenities available within a reasonable drive. So, assuming you can't find security at Ft. McPherson, here are some ideas.
1. Stone Mountain
This is my first instinct for places to hole up during a zombie apocalypse. First, it's high ground - 825 feet higher than the ground, to be precise - and there's only one side pedestrians can climb. Some of that might be accessible to zombies with advanced motor skill control. But much of that climb is too steep, and the last 50 yards requires strength and a hand rail to keep from slipping. Second, there's a wall-and-glass tourist pavilion at the top that provides shelter, plumbing and cooking facilities. Third, that pavilion also hosts a transmitting tower. If you're going to reach survivors, here's where to do it. Fourth, you have an escape/reconnaissance route through the cable cars, so you can either motor up and down the mountain to get supplies and carry larger/heavier items, or to look over the situation on the ground. And, finally, as the area surrounding Stone Mountain is a protected wildlife preserve and heavily wooded natural area, there is plenty of wildlife and a lake full of fish. Them's good eatin's. Disadvantage: Once the plumbing gives out and the electricity fails, you'll have to port water up the granite basolith. But a pulley system could offset some of that annoyance.
2. Kennesaw Mountain
Residents of Cobb County are screaming for me to choose this favorite spot. Well, guess what? I'm not gonna. Not only is there no shelter at the top of the mountain (the interpretive center sits at the mountain's base), but there's a freaking paved road straight up to a parking lot on the dang thing. The hunting is fine, but water's a hike. Advantage: rocky and heavily wooded terrain impedes progress of large hordes of the undead and allows natural cover for survivors. Also good for building new structures. But the presence of a largely pine forest means no low branches, so building aerial structures has a low success rate. Questionable: the presence of Civil War-era canons on site. Do they still work? Hmm... could be useful.
3. Little Kennesaw Mountain - Um, see above, minus interpretive center and canons. Also: "little." Not good.
4. Panola Mountain
Slightly better than Nos. 2 and 3 is this unusual park that shelters rare plants of the Piedmont region. It's minimally developed, very rocky in parts, heavily wooded and features an interpretive center that offers shelter, plumbing and basic cooking amenities. It's not perfect, because there is a road that leads right smack up to the building. But it is isolated and unlikely to attract others - and thus, teeming with wildlife for hunting. In addition, there are areas of retreat deeper into the park. Disadvantage: Access to water. Streams run on the property, but I don't remember them being close to the structure. You'll have to port water from Panola Mountain Lake - but there's good fishing, too.
5. Arabia Mountain
Not so much a mountain as it is simply higher-than-normal rock outcroppings, Arabia Mountain is another nature preserve. It is unpopulated and sports a few ancient structures in various states of disrepair, yet the old quarry office can be made nicely defensible. It offers isolation, 360-degree views of the surrounding countryside and access to loose rocks/wood for structure-building and hunting. Nearby Lake Arabia provides fishing and fresh water. All that makes this still better than Kennesaw Mountain. Sorry, Cobb County. I know you're accustomed to winning things.
6. Brasstown Bald
Once you've stocked up on supplies, moving out of the city is probably safer for everyone involved. Fewer people mean fewer undead. And if you move north, you have the added advantage of the Blue Ridge Mountains and winter's freezing temperatures to form a natural barrier. As the undead aren't likely to shop at REI, temperature and terrain slow them considerably. It's a long drive to the highest point in Georgia, and thus a dangerous journey - but it may be the most rewarding. The mountain is topped by a high tower with all the necessary amenities. While there is a bloody great road leading up to the top, it's very steep, very long and many undead will likely shamble accidentally over the side at some point. Bonus! Disadvantage: Lack of water at the top means you'll be porting the wet stuff up the mountain; also, thick clouds frequently mask the landscape at the top, making watchful defense difficult. Can you imagine the horror of a horde of zombies shuffling out from an eerie fog? (shudder)
7. Fort Mountain
Ahhh... I like the sound of this place! A fort on top of a mountain? That's what Kennesaw should be, but is not. Fort Mountain offers copious shelter. In the park, there are 15 cottages. Elsewhere on the mountain is the Global Conference Center, a first-class resort with plenty of room. If things are dire, there is also the historic fire tower on the property. The forests, streams, and surrounding lakes are teeming with wildlife and fish for eating, and it's up in Chatsworth, Ga., about 90 minutes from Atlanta (if you go the speed limit, which is completely unnecessary without state patrol on the roads). That means it's closer than Brasstown Bald, but not as easily defensible. And on the way: barbecue. Yum.
So what would I choose, were I in Atlanta? If things are dire and immediate, I head to Stone Mountain. If I have time and transportation, I try to make it to Brasstown Bald, with Fort Mountain as a fallback.
Fewer options exist in Augusta, but it's possible to survive. Let me just say that rooftop transportation can come in handy for safety, signaling overflying rescue craft, and for reconnaissance and supply runs - as can access to the river for food and water. But you'll have to develop your own survival plan in the Garden City on your own. I have a family to protect.
Except... I don't think these people are as smart as they think they are.
Maybe I'm not being fair. I've had my Augusta, Ga.-based zombie survival plan mapped out for at least the last 5 years. Having a child really makes you take stock of what's important in life. And I'd say zombie defense is a pretty high priority. Oh, you don't agree with me? Nice knowin' ya, "Running Buffet."
Anyway, perhaps AMC writers think that being smart wouldn't advance the plot very far, but these folks are still doing it wrong. There are some basic survival rules anyone - in any situation - would naturally follow.
First, run and hide. Many of them have managed this pretty well.
Second, find supplies. Apparently they have an RV full of them, plus some camping stuff. Meh, second rate, but I'll take it for now.
Third, find defensible shelter on high ground. See, this is where they've begun to fail. They drove about 10 minutes outside the downtown area to the former Bellwood Quarry, pitched some tents and began domestication.
Second, tents are not defensible. What are you - the Three Little Pigs? It's like defending yourself with a house made of towels. Zombies are undeterred by zippers. And they do not knock politely. Get your ass something with bricks and mortar - and very small windows.
Third, it's not that great a shelter. There's no bathroom, little privacy. You have to think long-term. And if we've learned anything from the new global media, it's that cramped conditions and lack of latrines make for outbreaks of disease. What's the first thing the Army does when it sets up camp? It digs the latrines. So, for those non-Atlantans who have never heard of the Bellwood Quarry, you should know that there are already some buildings on site. They're old, and they'd need shoring up, but they're better than tents.
Fourth, why did they drive West of the city? The population there is less concentrated, which could be an advantage if you want to avoid the undead, sure. But if they wanted that, they could have at least made it outside the perimeter. I-285 isn't that daunting of an obstacle, so stopping there was just lazy. They are literally a 10-minute drive to downtown.
Going West means the likelihood of meeting survivors with whom you can team up is also lessened. So are: access to supplies, shelter, weaponry, transportation, and fuel. The chance of finding assistance lies to the immediate North and to the East, which are more densely populated areas.
The answer for these fools is obvious, but no one has made even the slightest mention of it. Any native Atlantan (hi, y'all!) knows there are several areas of defensible high ground with amenities available within a reasonable drive. So, assuming you can't find security at Ft. McPherson, here are some ideas.
1. Stone Mountain
This is my first instinct for places to hole up during a zombie apocalypse. First, it's high ground - 825 feet higher than the ground, to be precise - and there's only one side pedestrians can climb. Some of that might be accessible to zombies with advanced motor skill control. But much of that climb is too steep, and the last 50 yards requires strength and a hand rail to keep from slipping. Second, there's a wall-and-glass tourist pavilion at the top that provides shelter, plumbing and cooking facilities. Third, that pavilion also hosts a transmitting tower. If you're going to reach survivors, here's where to do it. Fourth, you have an escape/reconnaissance route through the cable cars, so you can either motor up and down the mountain to get supplies and carry larger/heavier items, or to look over the situation on the ground. And, finally, as the area surrounding Stone Mountain is a protected wildlife preserve and heavily wooded natural area, there is plenty of wildlife and a lake full of fish. Them's good eatin's. Disadvantage: Once the plumbing gives out and the electricity fails, you'll have to port water up the granite basolith. But a pulley system could offset some of that annoyance.
2. Kennesaw Mountain
3. Little Kennesaw Mountain - Um, see above, minus interpretive center and canons. Also: "little." Not good.
4. Panola Mountain
Slightly better than Nos. 2 and 3 is this unusual park that shelters rare plants of the Piedmont region. It's minimally developed, very rocky in parts, heavily wooded and features an interpretive center that offers shelter, plumbing and basic cooking amenities. It's not perfect, because there is a road that leads right smack up to the building. But it is isolated and unlikely to attract others - and thus, teeming with wildlife for hunting. In addition, there are areas of retreat deeper into the park. Disadvantage: Access to water. Streams run on the property, but I don't remember them being close to the structure. You'll have to port water from Panola Mountain Lake - but there's good fishing, too.
5. Arabia Mountain
Not so much a mountain as it is simply higher-than-normal rock outcroppings, Arabia Mountain is another nature preserve. It is unpopulated and sports a few ancient structures in various states of disrepair, yet the old quarry office can be made nicely defensible. It offers isolation, 360-degree views of the surrounding countryside and access to loose rocks/wood for structure-building and hunting. Nearby Lake Arabia provides fishing and fresh water. All that makes this still better than Kennesaw Mountain. Sorry, Cobb County. I know you're accustomed to winning things.
6. Brasstown Bald
Once you've stocked up on supplies, moving out of the city is probably safer for everyone involved. Fewer people mean fewer undead. And if you move north, you have the added advantage of the Blue Ridge Mountains and winter's freezing temperatures to form a natural barrier. As the undead aren't likely to shop at REI, temperature and terrain slow them considerably. It's a long drive to the highest point in Georgia, and thus a dangerous journey - but it may be the most rewarding. The mountain is topped by a high tower with all the necessary amenities. While there is a bloody great road leading up to the top, it's very steep, very long and many undead will likely shamble accidentally over the side at some point. Bonus! Disadvantage: Lack of water at the top means you'll be porting the wet stuff up the mountain; also, thick clouds frequently mask the landscape at the top, making watchful defense difficult. Can you imagine the horror of a horde of zombies shuffling out from an eerie fog? (shudder)
7. Fort Mountain
Ahhh... I like the sound of this place! A fort on top of a mountain? That's what Kennesaw should be, but is not. Fort Mountain offers copious shelter. In the park, there are 15 cottages. Elsewhere on the mountain is the Global Conference Center, a first-class resort with plenty of room. If things are dire, there is also the historic fire tower on the property. The forests, streams, and surrounding lakes are teeming with wildlife and fish for eating, and it's up in Chatsworth, Ga., about 90 minutes from Atlanta (if you go the speed limit, which is completely unnecessary without state patrol on the roads). That means it's closer than Brasstown Bald, but not as easily defensible. And on the way: barbecue. Yum.
So what would I choose, were I in Atlanta? If things are dire and immediate, I head to Stone Mountain. If I have time and transportation, I try to make it to Brasstown Bald, with Fort Mountain as a fallback.
Fewer options exist in Augusta, but it's possible to survive. Let me just say that rooftop transportation can come in handy for safety, signaling overflying rescue craft, and for reconnaissance and supply runs - as can access to the river for food and water. But you'll have to develop your own survival plan in the Garden City on your own. I have a family to protect.
Easy Crockpot Dinner
Just wanted to share this with you on a morning when it's cold, after a weekend of cold, after a week of cold, and with the knowledge that it ain't gettin' warm any time soon. Something about winter - and cold - makes me not want to do anything. I go into Mommy Hibernation. So I pull out easy soup and one-pot recipes, like chili, sherried mushroom bisque (can't believe I've never posted this recipe - will do so soon), sausage soup, and Greek chicken soup.
But this morning, I made my laziest, most no-cook, most made-up, most Real-Chef-Horrifying meal. It would give Chef Heinz at La Maison the vapors. And I do not care. I love it, and it's easy.
Spicy-Sweet Meatballs Over Minute Rice
1 pkg precooked frozen meatballs
1 jar Peach-Pineapple Chipotle Salsa
1/2 salsa jar of water
some Sriracha sauce
some brown mustard
all the rice you wanna make
Take all ingredients listed before the rice, pour in a crockpot, and stir well. Set crockpot on low. Go away for a very long time. Come back. Stir. Make rice. Put rice on plates. Spoon meatballs over rice. The end.
Now, I always try to do plenty of vegetables with my meals, so I sometimes stir in a package of frozen stir-fry vegetables about an hour before the meatballs cook. Or I might stir-fry the vegetables separately and serve as a side. It doesn't matter, actually, because the fruit and vegetables in the salsa kind of serve that purpose. But more vegetables = better.
Variations: Also, we've actually stopped using Minute Rice, and now use a whole grain-and-rice mix, black rice, or quinoa. Still pretty flippin' easy. You could even use plain couscous, and pretend like it's Moroccan food, the way one restaurant in town does. In addition, you can really use any salsa you'd like. I'll bet a mango salsa would be awesome! Or you can use a regular salsa and add some chili powder and make them southwest meatballs. That might be a little weird, but tasty.
But this morning, I made my laziest, most no-cook, most made-up, most Real-Chef-Horrifying meal. It would give Chef Heinz at La Maison the vapors. And I do not care. I love it, and it's easy.
Spicy-Sweet Meatballs Over Minute Rice
1 pkg precooked frozen meatballs
1 jar Peach-Pineapple Chipotle Salsa
1/2 salsa jar of water
some Sriracha sauce
some brown mustard
all the rice you wanna make
Take all ingredients listed before the rice, pour in a crockpot, and stir well. Set crockpot on low. Go away for a very long time. Come back. Stir. Make rice. Put rice on plates. Spoon meatballs over rice. The end.
Now, I always try to do plenty of vegetables with my meals, so I sometimes stir in a package of frozen stir-fry vegetables about an hour before the meatballs cook. Or I might stir-fry the vegetables separately and serve as a side. It doesn't matter, actually, because the fruit and vegetables in the salsa kind of serve that purpose. But more vegetables = better.
Variations: Also, we've actually stopped using Minute Rice, and now use a whole grain-and-rice mix, black rice, or quinoa. Still pretty flippin' easy. You could even use plain couscous, and pretend like it's Moroccan food, the way one restaurant in town does. In addition, you can really use any salsa you'd like. I'll bet a mango salsa would be awesome! Or you can use a regular salsa and add some chili powder and make them southwest meatballs. That might be a little weird, but tasty.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Whiffle Ball Madness
As is customary at my parents' home, we got together a Whiffle Ball game over the Thanksgiving holiday week. My sister and I took turns pitching to the three children, and trying to tag each other out.
My 13-year-old nephew, Jacob, had an advantage. He has several years of Little League behind him.
My 6-year-old nephew, Jackson, was enthusiastic, but untrained. Still, he has that assured physicality that boys seem to accomplish before girls. He wasn't great, but he was comfortable and had a solid stance.
And then there was Emmie.
Y'all, I love her more than anything on this planet. But that child could not hit a ball if it was a magnet and the bat was made of steel. She was too busy laughing, yelling crap instructions at her cousins, jumping up and down with excitement, and spinning in circles at the end of every swing.
In short, she was awesome.
While I was on 'second base' (the big poplar tree by the driveway), Jacob was on 'first base' (the dogwood tree by the street), and Jackson was on 'third base' (the corner of the sidewalk by the front porch). Kelli was pitching to Emerson. And Emmie was bouncing up and down like a lunatic.
"Keep your eye on the ball, Emmie," Kelli said. Swing! Miss. Spin...
"That's okay. Try again." Swing! Miss. Spin...
"I can do it!" Emmie shrieked, joyously confident. She would get it the next time. Swing! Miss. Spin...
Jackson, who enjoys playing the role of the older, more worldly cousin, rolled his eyes in my direction.
"It's okay," he said. "She's only five, you know?"
Yes, thanks, Jackson. In the interim: Swing! Miss. Spin...
Jacob was chuckling at her. Kelli grinned back at me. It was going to take a while. But not even Jackson suggested that she had struck out, even though he, himself, had done so earlier. My family is incredibly generous of spirit.
Meanwhile, I restrained myself from tackling Kelli while her back was turned. It's a palpable desire that I've fought since we were little, when there were three more dogwood trees in the front yard and second base seemed light years from first.
Just as I was entertaining myself with the fantasy, Emmie swung - and connected!
"RUN EMMIE!" I shrieked, and started for third. She was celebrating her hit with more jumping and laughing. "RUN!"
She dropped the bat and ran-pranced (if that's possible, which it is, if you're The Divine Miss Em) toward first, while Kelli scrambled for the ball that had dropped about two feet in front the plate.
Emmie made it to first as I rounded home (the area in front of the big pine tree - try sliding on pine cones, bitches!) and turned to see her running for second... sort of. Unfamiliar with the rules of the game, she wasn't running from the person with the ball - she was running from everyone.
"Emmie, touch the tree!" I shouted.
"Dey goeend TAG MEE!" she shrieked, and ran in a circle around Jackson, who stood bemused.
"No, only if they have the ball! Touch the tree!" I gasped through laughter.
Without warning, the ball whizzed past her head into the "outfield" as Kelli tried to throw her out. That's the advantage of Whiffle Ball. You get to throw the ball at runners. It's deeply satisfying. I have often made the argument that baseball, in general, would be more entertaining if the runners could take the bats around the bases with them.
"Run to third, Emmie!" I shrieked, and she abandoned the idea of tagging second and headed towards the sidewalk.
Just then, Jackson caught the ball, thrown from the outfield by Jacob. Emmie changed direction as Jackson came towards her. It became a footrace, Emmie running to tag third before Jackson could tag her. Jackson was gaining. So Emmie ran for the sidewalk.
"Base!" she shouted, using the perpetual refuge of hide-and-seekers.
She was not on base. She was halfway down the sidewalk from base. But Jackson stopped and looked at the adults for direction. On the one hand, she very clearly was not on base, and a child less empathetic than Jackson would have tagged her out and celebrated in her face. (That is to say, I would have done that to my sister when we were little, because she could run twice as fast as me and catching her would have been damn good reason to celebrate.) On the other hand, Emerson very clearly did not understand the rules of the game at all.
"Emmie, that's not third base," Jackson explained.
"BASE!" she shrieked. "Baaaaaase!"
Hoookay, then. At a disadvantage both physically and in experience, Emmie resorted to the old argument standby: The one who yells loudest wins.
"Emmie, third is the corner of the sidewalk in front of the stairs," I called, still guffawing. "Just that part, not the whole sidewalk."
I had to leave, then, to come back to Augusta. I had two more days of work before the holiday, and I was loathe to leave them to drive two hours. So I don't know how it was resolved. Probably with more running and shrieking.
But I know that Emerson was having a great time with wonderful people who - even if they were just barely a year older - worried about her feelings as much as her safety. She would spend the next week doing more running and shrieking, laughing and playing, stealing sweets and hiding-and-seeking, than she does anywhere else. And maybe by Christmas she'll have those bases all worked out.
Until then, I'm going to work on her swing. Cause, dang, she needs it.
My 13-year-old nephew, Jacob, had an advantage. He has several years of Little League behind him.
My 6-year-old nephew, Jackson, was enthusiastic, but untrained. Still, he has that assured physicality that boys seem to accomplish before girls. He wasn't great, but he was comfortable and had a solid stance.
And then there was Emmie.
Y'all, I love her more than anything on this planet. But that child could not hit a ball if it was a magnet and the bat was made of steel. She was too busy laughing, yelling crap instructions at her cousins, jumping up and down with excitement, and spinning in circles at the end of every swing.
In short, she was awesome.
While I was on 'second base' (the big poplar tree by the driveway), Jacob was on 'first base' (the dogwood tree by the street), and Jackson was on 'third base' (the corner of the sidewalk by the front porch). Kelli was pitching to Emerson. And Emmie was bouncing up and down like a lunatic.
"Keep your eye on the ball, Emmie," Kelli said. Swing! Miss. Spin...
"That's okay. Try again." Swing! Miss. Spin...
"I can do it!" Emmie shrieked, joyously confident. She would get it the next time. Swing! Miss. Spin...
Jackson, who enjoys playing the role of the older, more worldly cousin, rolled his eyes in my direction.
"It's okay," he said. "She's only five, you know?"
Yes, thanks, Jackson. In the interim: Swing! Miss. Spin...
Jacob was chuckling at her. Kelli grinned back at me. It was going to take a while. But not even Jackson suggested that she had struck out, even though he, himself, had done so earlier. My family is incredibly generous of spirit.
Meanwhile, I restrained myself from tackling Kelli while her back was turned. It's a palpable desire that I've fought since we were little, when there were three more dogwood trees in the front yard and second base seemed light years from first.
Just as I was entertaining myself with the fantasy, Emmie swung - and connected!
"RUN EMMIE!" I shrieked, and started for third. She was celebrating her hit with more jumping and laughing. "RUN!"
She dropped the bat and ran-pranced (if that's possible, which it is, if you're The Divine Miss Em) toward first, while Kelli scrambled for the ball that had dropped about two feet in front the plate.
Emmie made it to first as I rounded home (the area in front of the big pine tree - try sliding on pine cones, bitches!) and turned to see her running for second... sort of. Unfamiliar with the rules of the game, she wasn't running from the person with the ball - she was running from everyone.
"Emmie, touch the tree!" I shouted.
"Dey goeend TAG MEE!" she shrieked, and ran in a circle around Jackson, who stood bemused.
"No, only if they have the ball! Touch the tree!" I gasped through laughter.
Without warning, the ball whizzed past her head into the "outfield" as Kelli tried to throw her out. That's the advantage of Whiffle Ball. You get to throw the ball at runners. It's deeply satisfying. I have often made the argument that baseball, in general, would be more entertaining if the runners could take the bats around the bases with them.
"Run to third, Emmie!" I shrieked, and she abandoned the idea of tagging second and headed towards the sidewalk.
Just then, Jackson caught the ball, thrown from the outfield by Jacob. Emmie changed direction as Jackson came towards her. It became a footrace, Emmie running to tag third before Jackson could tag her. Jackson was gaining. So Emmie ran for the sidewalk.
"Base!" she shouted, using the perpetual refuge of hide-and-seekers.
She was not on base. She was halfway down the sidewalk from base. But Jackson stopped and looked at the adults for direction. On the one hand, she very clearly was not on base, and a child less empathetic than Jackson would have tagged her out and celebrated in her face. (That is to say, I would have done that to my sister when we were little, because she could run twice as fast as me and catching her would have been damn good reason to celebrate.) On the other hand, Emerson very clearly did not understand the rules of the game at all.
"Emmie, that's not third base," Jackson explained.
"BASE!" she shrieked. "Baaaaaase!"
Hoookay, then. At a disadvantage both physically and in experience, Emmie resorted to the old argument standby: The one who yells loudest wins.
"Emmie, third is the corner of the sidewalk in front of the stairs," I called, still guffawing. "Just that part, not the whole sidewalk."
I had to leave, then, to come back to Augusta. I had two more days of work before the holiday, and I was loathe to leave them to drive two hours. So I don't know how it was resolved. Probably with more running and shrieking.
But I know that Emerson was having a great time with wonderful people who - even if they were just barely a year older - worried about her feelings as much as her safety. She would spend the next week doing more running and shrieking, laughing and playing, stealing sweets and hiding-and-seeking, than she does anywhere else. And maybe by Christmas she'll have those bases all worked out.
Until then, I'm going to work on her swing. Cause, dang, she needs it.
Thursday, December 09, 2010
Teacher Gift Ideas, Christmas 2010
Augusta, GA. - I have a lot of teachers and teachers-to-be in my extended family. And every year they get a treasure trove of sweet little gifts from their students.
But there's only so much coffee a teacher can drink, and only so many places to put apple-themed accessories. So this year, consider the following ideas for your child's teacher(s):
1. Thank You Notes - a sincere handwritten note from your child is worth its weight in coffee mugs.
2. DIY Coupons: Offer to share your talents/expertise with the class! Teachers are always looking for ways to work with parents and use your collective skills to educate their classes.
3. Donations in a Teacher's Name: If your child's teacher has had a challenge - death in the family - or a special cause - animal rescue - this year, make a donation in that teacher's name to an appropriate organization (American Cancer Society, Humane Society).
4. Subject-specific memberships or donations - Say your child's teacher specializes in English. It will be appreciated if the donation you make is to a literacy program. Or if you were to pay for a quality book-of-the-month club. Or pay their union dues. Anything that makes sense for them, and that makes that teacher's life a little easier.
5. Gift Certificates - Teachers spend so much of their person money on classroom supplies. How about a gift certificate to an office-supply store?
6. Gift Certificates, part deux - Pamper your child's 10-hour-a-day on-their-feet teachers with gift certificates for pedicures, for dinner, or for groceries. After all, they didn't get into the profession for the money.
7. Teacher Supply Box - Fill a festive box with any age-appropriate combination of anti-bacterial soap, tissues, pens, pencils, markers, glue, tape, scissors, air fresheners, fans, notepads, construction paper, folders, lined writing paper, binders, paper towels, chalk, dry erase markers, graphing paper, burnable CDs, flash or thumb drives, software, memory sticks, a backup mouse or keyboard, disposable cameras ... whatever is age-appropriate or discipline-specific.
8. Jar of Treats - nothing like a snacky-snack!
9. Elementary/Middle School: Board Games - Again, look for age-appropriate and discipline-specific games. Economics? Choose monopoly. Language Arts? That's Scrabble or Yahtzee. Sciences? For younger kids, there's Totally Gross. Art? Perhaps Pictionary.
10. Donate Your Used Equipment - Look around the house. Do you have an old boom box, computer, television, computer peripherals, camera, clothing, art supplies, board games, DVDs, books, or other items that are still in usable condition? I'll bet your child's teacher can make use of it in her classroom. Consider donating to your child's school before you send your things to the trash heap.
But there's only so much coffee a teacher can drink, and only so many places to put apple-themed accessories. So this year, consider the following ideas for your child's teacher(s):
1. Thank You Notes - a sincere handwritten note from your child is worth its weight in coffee mugs.
2. DIY Coupons: Offer to share your talents/expertise with the class! Teachers are always looking for ways to work with parents and use your collective skills to educate their classes.
3. Donations in a Teacher's Name: If your child's teacher has had a challenge - death in the family - or a special cause - animal rescue - this year, make a donation in that teacher's name to an appropriate organization (American Cancer Society, Humane Society).
4. Subject-specific memberships or donations - Say your child's teacher specializes in English. It will be appreciated if the donation you make is to a literacy program. Or if you were to pay for a quality book-of-the-month club. Or pay their union dues. Anything that makes sense for them, and that makes that teacher's life a little easier.
5. Gift Certificates - Teachers spend so much of their person money on classroom supplies. How about a gift certificate to an office-supply store?
6. Gift Certificates, part deux - Pamper your child's 10-hour-a-day on-their-feet teachers with gift certificates for pedicures, for dinner, or for groceries. After all, they didn't get into the profession for the money.
7. Teacher Supply Box - Fill a festive box with any age-appropriate combination of anti-bacterial soap, tissues, pens, pencils, markers, glue, tape, scissors, air fresheners, fans, notepads, construction paper, folders, lined writing paper, binders, paper towels, chalk, dry erase markers, graphing paper, burnable CDs, flash or thumb drives, software, memory sticks, a backup mouse or keyboard, disposable cameras ... whatever is age-appropriate or discipline-specific.
8. Jar of Treats - nothing like a snacky-snack!
9. Elementary/Middle School: Board Games - Again, look for age-appropriate and discipline-specific games. Economics? Choose monopoly. Language Arts? That's Scrabble or Yahtzee. Sciences? For younger kids, there's Totally Gross. Art? Perhaps Pictionary.
10. Donate Your Used Equipment - Look around the house. Do you have an old boom box, computer, television, computer peripherals, camera, clothing, art supplies, board games, DVDs, books, or other items that are still in usable condition? I'll bet your child's teacher can make use of it in her classroom. Consider donating to your child's school before you send your things to the trash heap.
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
And so it begins...
Story from the AP: Sheboygan woman bit off husband's tongue during kiss
THIS IS HOW IT STARTS, PEOPLE! Oh, sure. Here and there we hear a few oddball stories. Then the guy with the re-attached tongue starts experiencing sensory-motor slowdown. He goes to the doc - and takes a bite out of the doctor's arm!
I'm telling you, his wife is Patient Zero. The zombie oubreak on the way!
Poke your loved ones with a sharp stick and make sure they're alive and feel pain before you get too close. They could be zombified!
THIS IS HOW IT STARTS, PEOPLE! Oh, sure. Here and there we hear a few oddball stories. Then the guy with the re-attached tongue starts experiencing sensory-motor slowdown. He goes to the doc - and takes a bite out of the doctor's arm!
I'm telling you, his wife is Patient Zero. The zombie oubreak on the way!
Poke your loved ones with a sharp stick and make sure they're alive and feel pain before you get too close. They could be zombified!
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Here We Come a-Shivering
It's Christmas shopping time! And it was so cold this morning that, as Emmie said, "I'm almost cold to death!"
I forgot that I needed to buy new gloves this year. So I'm glad my heater defrosted my hands from the steering wheel before I got to work. That would have been awkward.
I saw these hand warmers at a convenience store the other day, and almost picked one up. I wish I had, but knowing me, if I prepared that well, I'd probably then wander off and forget my hands.
Oh, did I mention that I forgot to wear socks? What is wrong with me? Who forgets to put on socks in the winter?! Hi, that would be me. Luckily, the same company also makes foot warmers. It's much harder to forget to put on feet. Falling down tends to remind one.
So I know what I'm putting in stockings this year: hand warmers and foot warmers, in case someone else in my family is as forgetful as I am.
But if anyone is making me a stocking, I'd like the hotness on burton.com. I'll let you decide what hotness I'm talking about. But, just so you know, I don't snowboard.
I forgot that I needed to buy new gloves this year. So I'm glad my heater defrosted my hands from the steering wheel before I got to work. That would have been awkward.
I saw these hand warmers at a convenience store the other day, and almost picked one up. I wish I had, but knowing me, if I prepared that well, I'd probably then wander off and forget my hands.
Oh, did I mention that I forgot to wear socks? What is wrong with me? Who forgets to put on socks in the winter?! Hi, that would be me. Luckily, the same company also makes foot warmers. It's much harder to forget to put on feet. Falling down tends to remind one.
So I know what I'm putting in stockings this year: hand warmers and foot warmers, in case someone else in my family is as forgetful as I am.
But if anyone is making me a stocking, I'd like the hotness on burton.com. I'll let you decide what hotness I'm talking about. But, just so you know, I don't snowboard.
Monday, December 06, 2010
Five-ingredient stew recipe
Sausage-Sprout Stew
Ingredients
- 1 package smoked turkey sausage/kielbasa, sliced thin
- 1 lb. frozen (then defrosted) Brussels sprouts, halved
- 3 large red potatoes, diced
- 5 cups low-sodium chicken broth (sausage has a lot of sodium in it)
- Sage, thyme, marjaram, savory, and parsley to taste
- 2 bay leaves, if you have them (I never do)
Cooking
- Brown the sausage in a large pot.
- Add the broth and potatoes. Bring to a boil.
- Add the spices. Let boil 5 minutes.
- Reduce heat to simmer, and add the Brussels sprouts. Simmer 5 minutes.
- Test potatoes for completion. Test broth for saltiness. If too salty, add water by the 1/2 cup until desired flavor is achieved.
- Remove bay leaves, if necessary.
Variations: You may substitute rice for the potatoes, but you will cut the boiling time down by the appropriate amount of time. You may also substitute chopped kale for the Brussels sprouts. You might also desire a splash of lemon juice, sherry, or white wine at the end. You could substitute ground turkey sausage for the links, but I would drain it after it's brown - and then even run hot water over it in a colander. This is not the kind of soup that would be improved by oils.
Friday, November 26, 2010
My Sister is Insane
Emmie is watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade when a giant float goes by: "LOOK! Ders da Wimpy Kid!"
"Yeah, Em. Do you like him?"
"No," she sighed. "He has diarrhea."
"... What?"
"He has diarrhea."
"What are you talking about?"
"Diarrhea of a Wimpy Kid. Das wut he is."
And then I know: "KELLLIIIII!!"
My sister cackles in the other room.
"Yeah, Em. Do you like him?"
"No," she sighed. "He has diarrhea."
"... What?"
"He has diarrhea."
"What are you talking about?"
"Diarrhea of a Wimpy Kid. Das wut he is."
And then I know: "KELLLIIIII!!"
My sister cackles in the other room.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Happy Thanksgiving, Y'all!
"Mom?" Emmie says. "Do you miss da Native Amer-cans?"
Man, it is too early in the morning for this stuff. I am standing in the bedroom with one leg in my tights and one leg out. I have no idea what kind of stories the Richmond County School System is telling, but I am certain that it is filled with the kind of inaccuracies and outdated information I have seen all year. For example, how many types of matter are there? Four! Not three, RCSS. Get your information updated, please!
"Uh, well, it's not like they've gone anywhere, Em. What are you trying to ask me, sweetie?"
"Well, ders da people, dat are da Native Amer-cans, whut my teacher say Indians, but you say Native Amer-cans so dass whut I say, too. And dey're missing! We godda fine dem!"
What? What the heck is she learning?
"Honey, I think we know where they are," I say, and then mutter to myself: "because we marched them there."
"We do?!"
"Yes."
"Wull, we godda go get dem, because whut if we forget how to hunt?" she asks, brows furrowed in concern.
"Are you worried about that?" I ask, confused. I mean, I hunt my food at the grocery store - except for eggs - so I really don't know what would happen if we forgot how to hunt. I guess I'd learn quickly.
"Yeth! Whut if we forget to hunt, an' fish, and grow plants to eat?" she asks, palms out and worry framing her eyes. "We godda fine da Native Amer-cans, so dat don't happen!"
Ah. Now I get it. They're studying the first Thanksgiving.
"Okay. Well, first of all, Daddy knows how to hunt, and Mommy and Daddy know how to fish."
"Whut about da plants?" she asks.
"Well, okay, Daddy knows that better than I do," I concede. "But I think we'll be okay."
"But..." she interrupts.
"Sweetie, the people you think of as Native Americans? With the feathers?" I say, trying to access the images in her head. "They're just people, like you and me. Most of the time they wear jeans and T-shirts, like we do, and go to school, and have jobs, and live almost exactly like we do. Which may be a good thing, may not be. Because there are also beautiful differences, like their languages, and their music and stuff I don't even know about - like their fancy ceremony clothes, with feathers and animal hide, which they might choose to wear at special parties, just like they did when the Pilgrims first got here," I say.
"Yeth! An' dey help dem to not die! Because dey were cold and hungry, and dey were gonna all be dead! But da Native Amer-cans sabe der life!"
Sigh... yes, and no. I have a strong feeling that we're not doing our children any favors by relaying fairy tales. I don't need some dream of America to let me know what a great country we live in; I appreciate my freedoms every day. And being married to someone with a degree in history makes it difficult, to say the least, to allow these stories to pass without comment. But how to keep it appropriate for a kindergartner, and yet not undermine her teacher's authority?
I don't have a frickin' clue.
"Yes, some of the native Americans taught the settlers some very important lessons to help them survive in a new place with different animals to catch and plants to eat. But the Native Americans aren't missing, and they aren't dead. They're alive, and they live in this country, too. And it's important that we think of them as real people, with real lives and real feelings. And to remember that the story you're learning happened a long, long time ago. The people in the story have all grown and changed over the last two hundred years," I say.
"So, dey're not missing?"
"No."
"Good!" she sighed. "I was worried about dem. Der fambilies would be sad."
Oh. She was worried about their families. Maybe the lecture wasn't necessary after all. Do I take things too seriously sometimes? That's a big 10-4.
Man, it is too early in the morning for this stuff. I am standing in the bedroom with one leg in my tights and one leg out. I have no idea what kind of stories the Richmond County School System is telling, but I am certain that it is filled with the kind of inaccuracies and outdated information I have seen all year. For example, how many types of matter are there? Four! Not three, RCSS. Get your information updated, please!
"Uh, well, it's not like they've gone anywhere, Em. What are you trying to ask me, sweetie?"
"Well, ders da people, dat are da Native Amer-cans, whut my teacher say Indians, but you say Native Amer-cans so dass whut I say, too. And dey're missing! We godda fine dem!"
What? What the heck is she learning?
"Honey, I think we know where they are," I say, and then mutter to myself: "because we marched them there."
"We do?!"
"Yes."
"Wull, we godda go get dem, because whut if we forget how to hunt?" she asks, brows furrowed in concern.
"Are you worried about that?" I ask, confused. I mean, I hunt my food at the grocery store - except for eggs - so I really don't know what would happen if we forgot how to hunt. I guess I'd learn quickly.
"Yeth! Whut if we forget to hunt, an' fish, and grow plants to eat?" she asks, palms out and worry framing her eyes. "We godda fine da Native Amer-cans, so dat don't happen!"
Ah. Now I get it. They're studying the first Thanksgiving.
"Okay. Well, first of all, Daddy knows how to hunt, and Mommy and Daddy know how to fish."
"Whut about da plants?" she asks.
"Well, okay, Daddy knows that better than I do," I concede. "But I think we'll be okay."
"But..." she interrupts.
"Sweetie, the people you think of as Native Americans? With the feathers?" I say, trying to access the images in her head. "They're just people, like you and me. Most of the time they wear jeans and T-shirts, like we do, and go to school, and have jobs, and live almost exactly like we do. Which may be a good thing, may not be. Because there are also beautiful differences, like their languages, and their music and stuff I don't even know about - like their fancy ceremony clothes, with feathers and animal hide, which they might choose to wear at special parties, just like they did when the Pilgrims first got here," I say.
"Yeth! An' dey help dem to not die! Because dey were cold and hungry, and dey were gonna all be dead! But da Native Amer-cans sabe der life!"
Sigh... yes, and no. I have a strong feeling that we're not doing our children any favors by relaying fairy tales. I don't need some dream of America to let me know what a great country we live in; I appreciate my freedoms every day. And being married to someone with a degree in history makes it difficult, to say the least, to allow these stories to pass without comment. But how to keep it appropriate for a kindergartner, and yet not undermine her teacher's authority?
I don't have a frickin' clue.
"Yes, some of the native Americans taught the settlers some very important lessons to help them survive in a new place with different animals to catch and plants to eat. But the Native Americans aren't missing, and they aren't dead. They're alive, and they live in this country, too. And it's important that we think of them as real people, with real lives and real feelings. And to remember that the story you're learning happened a long, long time ago. The people in the story have all grown and changed over the last two hundred years," I say.
"So, dey're not missing?"
"No."
"Good!" she sighed. "I was worried about dem. Der fambilies would be sad."
Oh. She was worried about their families. Maybe the lecture wasn't necessary after all. Do I take things too seriously sometimes? That's a big 10-4.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Notes from Anthony Bourdain's Atlanta show
Eat at Fat Mac's Rib Shack in Atlanta
Eat at St. John in London
Drunken Emory students, please shut up
Q&A session needs better questions
Ted Nugent's appearances on his show gets him the most hate mail
His wife, who is Italian, finds his Italian food only acceptable
No one wants to know how he cooks an omelet. It's a ridiculous question. Sit down, sir.
Why hasn't he done a barbecue tour? Because everyone else does it, and because the ratings spike up. So the network executives' expectations get too high.
His weirdest - but delicious - food was Guinea pig.
He's drinking a Sweetwater 420.
Why do so many people want to know his opinion on legalizing weed in California? Incidentally, he thinks it's more fun when it's illegal.
Aspiring chefs should go to culinary school, but not before you make sure you'll like heat, pace, insanity, no weekends or holidays off, and the neverending conversations about penis prowess.
Fave Ramones song is "Beat on the Brat."
He likes KFC mac n cheese when no one is watching and he's really drunk.
Bacon is the way to break vegetarians.
The 'next pork belly' is lamb neck.
He won't shoot in Burma or Iran, because of the government.
He's not welcome back in Romania.
He would like to see more 'democratic' approach to food - more food trucks and stalls, less snobbishness and velvet rope attitude.
He could do every show in China for the rest of his life, and still not know everything.
I think EVERYONE got drunk before they came to the show. Except me. Boo.
Nothing about his life has improved since he stopped smoking.
He likes to say 'fuck,' a lot. It's almost like he has Tourette's.
Last meal used to be roasted marrow. But now it's some kind of sea urchin thing. Whatever.
If you have your hand up, you should ACTUALLY have a question. Please. You are hurting my feelings.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Eat at St. John in London
Drunken Emory students, please shut up
Q&A session needs better questions
Ted Nugent's appearances on his show gets him the most hate mail
His wife, who is Italian, finds his Italian food only acceptable
No one wants to know how he cooks an omelet. It's a ridiculous question. Sit down, sir.
Why hasn't he done a barbecue tour? Because everyone else does it, and because the ratings spike up. So the network executives' expectations get too high.
His weirdest - but delicious - food was Guinea pig.
He's drinking a Sweetwater 420.
Why do so many people want to know his opinion on legalizing weed in California? Incidentally, he thinks it's more fun when it's illegal.
Aspiring chefs should go to culinary school, but not before you make sure you'll like heat, pace, insanity, no weekends or holidays off, and the neverending conversations about penis prowess.
Fave Ramones song is "Beat on the Brat."
He likes KFC mac n cheese when no one is watching and he's really drunk.
Bacon is the way to break vegetarians.
The 'next pork belly' is lamb neck.
He won't shoot in Burma or Iran, because of the government.
He's not welcome back in Romania.
He would like to see more 'democratic' approach to food - more food trucks and stalls, less snobbishness and velvet rope attitude.
He could do every show in China for the rest of his life, and still not know everything.
I think EVERYONE got drunk before they came to the show. Except me. Boo.
Nothing about his life has improved since he stopped smoking.
He likes to say 'fuck,' a lot. It's almost like he has Tourette's.
Last meal used to be roasted marrow. But now it's some kind of sea urchin thing. Whatever.
If you have your hand up, you should ACTUALLY have a question. Please. You are hurting my feelings.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Friday, November 19, 2010
We'll start saving for tutors immediately
We're settling a vehicle seating dispute. There are two car seats that are exactly the same, but one is preferred over the other. It is "the big kid" seat, according to Emerson and Zequan.
"Okay, I'm thinking of a number between one and ten. What is it?" I ask.
"One," Emmie says.
"Ten," Zequan says.
It's five. Crap.
"No one is closer," I say, which would give lots of kids a hint. "Try again."
"Ten," Emmie says.
"One," Zequan says.
Really, guys?
"No, no, new numbers between one and ten," I say, my voice shaking with laughter.
"Twelve," Emmie says.
"Twenny," Zequan says.
"Guys! Between ONE and TEN," I say."
"Twenny one THOUSAND!" Emmie challenges.
"A BILLION thousand!" Zequan counters.
Emmie sighs: "Okay, you win, Zequan."
"Yes!" he celebrates.
(facepalm)
"Okay, I'm thinking of a number between one and ten. What is it?" I ask.
"One," Emmie says.
"Ten," Zequan says.
It's five. Crap.
"No one is closer," I say, which would give lots of kids a hint. "Try again."
"Ten," Emmie says.
"One," Zequan says.
Really, guys?
"No, no, new numbers between one and ten," I say, my voice shaking with laughter.
"Twelve," Emmie says.
"Twenny," Zequan says.
"Guys! Between ONE and TEN," I say."
"Twenny one THOUSAND!" Emmie challenges.
"A BILLION thousand!" Zequan counters.
Emmie sighs: "Okay, you win, Zequan."
"Yes!" he celebrates.
(facepalm)
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
And one for my mom...
Text from C.B.: "Was good seeing you for that split second today. You had us worried a few weeks back."
Text from me: "My mother's been worried for years. She never figured out what's wrong with me, either."
C.B.: "There are some mysteries that last a lifetime."
Eh, I have a few more years. Maybe someone will figure it out.
Text from me: "My mother's been worried for years. She never figured out what's wrong with me, either."
C.B.: "There are some mysteries that last a lifetime."
Eh, I have a few more years. Maybe someone will figure it out.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Halloween costumes are getting inappropriate
I am rarely truly outraged.
(We interrupt this post for a message from Stacey's subconscious: Oh, snap, y'all! Bigmouth is about to go off on something. Here's a hint: It's gonna take awhile. You know she's gonna have to have three examples for everything, and a hundred smart-ass comments. So let me sum it up for you. Stacey did not appreciate the hoochie costumes for sale on Halloween. Y'all go on about your regular business now. Unless you have nothing better to do than read her stark-raving-mad open letter to the Internets.)
Where was I? Oh, yes.
I am rarely truly outraged.
Politics don't rile me. Religion only mildly annoys me. If those things don't make you mad, you're probably okay.
But I was really pissed about Halloween this year, when I watched girls no older than 12 prance by in skirts that barely covered their lady parts, paired with knee-high socks and heels. Really, parents?
I get it, moms and dads. We struggled, too. Emmie wanted to be Lady Gaga. I wanted to be something goofy, like a spelling bee or a cereal killer. Unfortunately, I am neither crafty nor able to sew. So I have to look for something "on the rack," so to speak.
But when I went to look at costumes - online, at Party City, Target, Wal-Mart, Spirit Halloween, and stores at the mall - with my sister and Emmie, I was mortified. Every recognizable and obscure female character from pop culture, history and literature has been turned into a gutter-trolling whore.
Cleopatra now wears a midriff-baring miniskirt. Amelia Earhart has ditched the chinos and bomber jacket, and now sports a low-cut top and impractical miniskirt. Even Hermione Granger, cerebral student witch, has ditched her academic robes for a robe more suited for the bedroom.
What really got me were the bullcorn costumes available for girls ages 5-12. Alice, the virginal Victorian tween lost in Wonderland, now renamed Chalice, carrier of sexually transmitted diseases. Cookie Monster, a blue Seseme Street puppet whose only previous "action" was relegated solely to a puppeteer's hand up his butt, now gives her cookies away to anyone. And there was some kind of medieval/shepherd thing that I called "Little Ho Peep."
What's the big deal? You might ask. Didn't you just argue against sexualizing young children?
Yes. But it's not as though the boys' costumes featured ab-showing, butt enhancing cutouts in clothes the lengths of which wouldn't pass even the most lenient of school dress codes. They were normal, child-like costumes featuring a lot of superhero leotards.
But is it fair to compare boys' and girls' costumes? Boys and girls are inherently different. Isn't that like comparing apples and oranges?
Girls like to be superheros, too. But why does Wonder Woman need a mini skirt that allows drive-by gynecological exams? She doesn't. She needs cargo pants or stretchy spandex for her backflips and a tool belt for her awesome gadgets, like the lasso of truth. (Barring that, this is a way more entertaining interpretation of her costume)
American women have fought for more than a century to be considered equals of men, and we're not going to lose that fight by dressing up as whores one night a year. In fact, younger feminists often embrace the idea that sexuality can be used as a weapon in that fight. On a side note, costumes have a long tradition in the boudoir - and, hey, what married folks do is between them.
But we're not talking about college-aged adults going to a tasteless pimps-and-hos party, or married adults engaging in fantasies. We're talking about prepubescent children being shown that, on a night when the clothes make the person, that person is mostly naked.
So what to do in 2010? Well, we cobbled together a costume from parts. Emmie wanted to go as Lady Gaga in her "Bad Romance" video. Not the naked part with the weird spinal protrusions; the dancing. So we bought white tights, a white leotard, white boots, and a hair bow. We were going to make the spiky headdress out of poster board, except mommy had a hair dye accident and spent several hours trying to fix it. Oops.
So Emmie essentially wore a ballet uniform with some crazy (but sheer) makeup that she put on herself in the car. And she was ecstatic about herself, singing the song's "rah-rah-ah-ah-ah" all night long and running from house to house. She didn't even notice that the street was filled with under-aged Vegas showgirls. She only noticed how much candy was in her plastic pink pumpkin head.
So maybe I'm overreacting. Hey, it wouldn't be the first time. And, like I argued before, adults are the ones who sexualize children. Children don't do it to themselves. For all I know, the bootie-short tutus so prevalent in tween costumes are there just for swishiness. I always liked a swishy skirt, myself.
But until Emmie turns 18, she'll be barred from clothing like that. Not only does it give off the wrong impression to other people, but the possibility of her internalizing those impressions is equally harmful. So I'll try to guide her towards more creative costume ideas, like an iPod commercial. Of course, Scott and I joke that the usual concerns for parents of tweens and teens won't matter to us, because the second she hits puberty we'll shuttle her off to a convent.
But I still worry. I've seen too many pregnant nun costumes not to.
(We interrupt this post for a message from Stacey's subconscious: Oh, snap, y'all! Bigmouth is about to go off on something. Here's a hint: It's gonna take awhile. You know she's gonna have to have three examples for everything, and a hundred smart-ass comments. So let me sum it up for you. Stacey did not appreciate the hoochie costumes for sale on Halloween. Y'all go on about your regular business now. Unless you have nothing better to do than read her stark-raving-mad open letter to the Internets.)
Where was I? Oh, yes.
I am rarely truly outraged.
Politics don't rile me. Religion only mildly annoys me. If those things don't make you mad, you're probably okay.
But I was really pissed about Halloween this year, when I watched girls no older than 12 prance by in skirts that barely covered their lady parts, paired with knee-high socks and heels. Really, parents?
 |
| Are you freaking kidding me? |
I get it, moms and dads. We struggled, too. Emmie wanted to be Lady Gaga. I wanted to be something goofy, like a spelling bee or a cereal killer. Unfortunately, I am neither crafty nor able to sew. So I have to look for something "on the rack," so to speak.
But when I went to look at costumes - online, at Party City, Target, Wal-Mart, Spirit Halloween, and stores at the mall - with my sister and Emmie, I was mortified. Every recognizable and obscure female character from pop culture, history and literature has been turned into a gutter-trolling whore.
Cleopatra now wears a midriff-baring miniskirt. Amelia Earhart has ditched the chinos and bomber jacket, and now sports a low-cut top and impractical miniskirt. Even Hermione Granger, cerebral student witch, has ditched her academic robes for a robe more suited for the bedroom.
 |
| This is not okay, people! |
What really got me were the bullcorn costumes available for girls ages 5-12. Alice, the virginal Victorian tween lost in Wonderland, now renamed Chalice, carrier of sexually transmitted diseases. Cookie Monster, a blue Seseme Street puppet whose only previous "action" was relegated solely to a puppeteer's hand up his butt, now gives her cookies away to anyone. And there was some kind of medieval/shepherd thing that I called "Little Ho Peep."
What's the big deal? You might ask. Didn't you just argue against sexualizing young children?
Yes. But it's not as though the boys' costumes featured ab-showing, butt enhancing cutouts in clothes the lengths of which wouldn't pass even the most lenient of school dress codes. They were normal, child-like costumes featuring a lot of superhero leotards.
But is it fair to compare boys' and girls' costumes? Boys and girls are inherently different. Isn't that like comparing apples and oranges?
Girls like to be superheros, too. But why does Wonder Woman need a mini skirt that allows drive-by gynecological exams? She doesn't. She needs cargo pants or stretchy spandex for her backflips and a tool belt for her awesome gadgets, like the lasso of truth. (Barring that, this is a way more entertaining interpretation of her costume)
 |
| Emmie's a super hero in 2011, and she doesn't have to worry about showing off her hoo-ha while kicking a bad guy in the face. |
But we're not talking about college-aged adults going to a tasteless pimps-and-hos party, or married adults engaging in fantasies. We're talking about prepubescent children being shown that, on a night when the clothes make the person, that person is mostly naked.
So what to do in 2010? Well, we cobbled together a costume from parts. Emmie wanted to go as Lady Gaga in her "Bad Romance" video. Not the naked part with the weird spinal protrusions; the dancing. So we bought white tights, a white leotard, white boots, and a hair bow. We were going to make the spiky headdress out of poster board, except mommy had a hair dye accident and spent several hours trying to fix it. Oops.
So Emmie essentially wore a ballet uniform with some crazy (but sheer) makeup that she put on herself in the car. And she was ecstatic about herself, singing the song's "rah-rah-ah-ah-ah" all night long and running from house to house. She didn't even notice that the street was filled with under-aged Vegas showgirls. She only noticed how much candy was in her plastic pink pumpkin head.
So maybe I'm overreacting. Hey, it wouldn't be the first time. And, like I argued before, adults are the ones who sexualize children. Children don't do it to themselves. For all I know, the bootie-short tutus so prevalent in tween costumes are there just for swishiness. I always liked a swishy skirt, myself.
But until Emmie turns 18, she'll be barred from clothing like that. Not only does it give off the wrong impression to other people, but the possibility of her internalizing those impressions is equally harmful. So I'll try to guide her towards more creative costume ideas, like an iPod commercial. Of course, Scott and I joke that the usual concerns for parents of tweens and teens won't matter to us, because the second she hits puberty we'll shuttle her off to a convent.
But I still worry. I've seen too many pregnant nun costumes not to.
 |
| This is also not okay. |
Friday, November 12, 2010
Google me this, Batman...
So, you're smart enough to post an ad with photos on Craigslist, but you're not smart enough to spell "mirror" and "chest of drawers?" FYI, it is not - nor has it ever been - "mirrow" and "chester draws."
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Well, there's a future option...
I'm on the phone with a girlfriend when Scott calls my cell with an alternate plan for the evening.
"That's cool," I tell him. "Whatever you want to do is fine."
"See?" K.J. says, when I hang up. "You're so supportive. I wish you and I were married."
"Me, too," I rasp, trying to sound like the creepy "Wizard of Oz" kid in "A Christmas Story." "You are soooo preeeeettyyy..."
She laughs. "We're on the same page about relationships, you know? We'd make a great lesbian couple. I think we'd grow old together."
"I think that's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me."
"Well, I have to go. It's date night with Ronnie," she says, breaking up with me before we even begin.
"Scott just canceled date night," I moan.
"See?! I would NEVER cancel date night!"
She's lookin' sexier all the time.
"That's cool," I tell him. "Whatever you want to do is fine."
"See?" K.J. says, when I hang up. "You're so supportive. I wish you and I were married."
"Me, too," I rasp, trying to sound like the creepy "Wizard of Oz" kid in "A Christmas Story." "You are soooo preeeeettyyy..."
She laughs. "We're on the same page about relationships, you know? We'd make a great lesbian couple. I think we'd grow old together."
"I think that's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me."
"Well, I have to go. It's date night with Ronnie," she says, breaking up with me before we even begin.
"Scott just canceled date night," I moan.
"See?! I would NEVER cancel date night!"
She's lookin' sexier all the time.
Monday, November 08, 2010
Economics 101: FAIL
"Mama!" Emmie comes running in. "I jus' heard on da TB dat you can get pizza and 50 tokens! Iss a coupon! For twenny dollars!"
"Oh, at Chuck E. Cheese?"
"Yes! But I gotta idea. We can jus' get ONE dollar, wif a TWENNY on it!"
Good thinking. Just don't tell the Treasury Department.
"Oh, at Chuck E. Cheese?"
"Yes! But I gotta idea. We can jus' get ONE dollar, wif a TWENNY on it!"
Good thinking. Just don't tell the Treasury Department.
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Because it's her world, we just live in it
Emmie is crying right now.
"But why is it in ATLANTAAAAAA," she wails.
I can't answer her, because I'm trying to keep my laughter to myself. It's a ridiculous outburst brought on by a weekend of art openings, late-night movies, all-day Putt-Putt adventures, and the confusion of daylight savings.
"I jus' want dem to build oooooooonnnnne," she continues to cry.
What is this outburst over? A theme park? A zoo? An aquarium? No. It's over a sushi buffet.
"'Cause I really, really like da octopuuuuuuss!" she wails.
Because that's what all normal 5-year-olds are craving these days.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
"But why is it in ATLANTAAAAAA," she wails.
I can't answer her, because I'm trying to keep my laughter to myself. It's a ridiculous outburst brought on by a weekend of art openings, late-night movies, all-day Putt-Putt adventures, and the confusion of daylight savings.
"I jus' want dem to build oooooooonnnnne," she continues to cry.
What is this outburst over? A theme park? A zoo? An aquarium? No. It's over a sushi buffet.
"'Cause I really, really like da octopuuuuuuss!" she wails.
Because that's what all normal 5-year-olds are craving these days.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Friday, November 05, 2010
What the heck happened?
The migraine was not a big deal. Usually when I get a migraine at night, I can just pop a decongestant and go to sleep. When I wake up, almost all better. But this one was different. I woke to a thousand dwarfs pounding bricks into my skull. Bricks made of suns that clanged like a train bell whenever they hit me. Crap.
So I fumbled - eyes covered - to the closet and pulled out the Imitrex. I wanted to French kiss it. But instead I took it with water and laid back down. Scott understood and kept Emmie quiet.
Four hours later, no change. I popped another Imitrex. Four hours later - and an entire Sunday almost depleted - no change. So I pulled out the big guns: The $300 Max-alt I keep on hand just in case. It tastes like ear wax. But it works quickly. Usually...
But not today. The afternoon was waning. There was only so much time before the clinic closed. After 90 minutes, no change.
"Let's go," I told Scott. "I need some help with this." And he went into partial freak-out mode, driving like a maniac and repeatedly asking me if I was okay.
"Jus' don' panic, Daddy," Emmie called from the back seat, and I giggled weakly, despite the explosions it set off in my skull.
The doctor gave me a very painful shot in my butt. In 15 minutes, I felt better. In 25, I was ready to go. In 40, I was back to myself. It lasted three hours, just enough time for me to get everyone ready for the new week. Then, a fever hit me. I mean it hit me hard. Took me down like a ninja whoopin' up on an old lady. By 3:30 a.m., I knew I wasn't going to work. By 5:30 a.m., I was out of my mind.
Scott tells me that I repeatedly complained about an alarm clock ringing. There was no alarm clock. I also started kicking my legs and saying, "Feet gotta run!" Anyone who knows me knows that running is something I do only when someone is chasing me with a knife. So, obviously, something was wrong.
Scott took Emmie to school and me to the hospital, where they admitted me immediately and started testing. They gave me a shot. Very little changed. They did a CT scan, and thought they saw evidence of swelling in my brain. The doctor came back with terms like sinus thrombosis and cerebri pseudotumor. Geez. Go right for the fun stuff.
I tried to convince them that I'm just so smart that I need more room in my cranium. They did not believe me. I can't imagine why...
They did an MRI. It was freaky, like being inside HAL. I had a moment of panic, from experiencing claustrophobia for the first time. But a tech patted me on the leg and told me I had just 5 more minutes to go. That got me through it.
They took me to a room, gave me something for the pain, and let me sleep. I did that a lot for a couple of days. Then they wanted to give me a spinal tap. That was not an experience I'd like to relive - especially because they had to stop and take me down to radiology to complete it. And yet, just a couple of days later, I had to repeat the experience, because I needed a blood patch to get rid of the spinal headache.
They kept me in the hospital from Monday to Saturday. There were cultures to grow - meningitis was another possibility - and I was in so much pain that I couldn't sit up. The pain was less manageable because I won't take opiates, except in extreme situations.
At the end of the week, they had no concrete answers. So they chalked it up to a migraine and sent me home with a prescription for an anti-seizure medication often used off-label to prevent migraines. It made me so stupid that I couldn't remember people's names or keep up in meetings. They call that side-effect "psychomotor slowing." It felt like I had to think my way through Jello. So I took myself off of it, because doctors just love it when patients medicate themselves, am I right, medical community?
I'm mostly back to normal - but I'm having problems with short term memory loss and concentration, a constant headache, and neck and jaw pain. In the meantime, I'm seeing an otolarygologist for treatment of my ongoing ear/sinus issues. The neurologist says that has nothing to do with migraines. But the ENT specialist says he sees it all the time. It can't be worse than doing nothing, so this is the way I'm going right now.
In the meantime, I'm getting all sorts of helpful advice from people. Like the co-worker who told me a story about a patient with fungal meningitis.
"I know they tested you for viral and bacterial meningitis, but did they test you for that?"
"Heck, I've never even heard of it - I don't know!"
Or another fear factor:
"I had a friend who had an ear or sinus infection that got so bad that it spread to her brain. Are you worried about that?"
Well, now I am. Thanks.
So I fumbled - eyes covered - to the closet and pulled out the Imitrex. I wanted to French kiss it. But instead I took it with water and laid back down. Scott understood and kept Emmie quiet.
Four hours later, no change. I popped another Imitrex. Four hours later - and an entire Sunday almost depleted - no change. So I pulled out the big guns: The $300 Max-alt I keep on hand just in case. It tastes like ear wax. But it works quickly. Usually...
But not today. The afternoon was waning. There was only so much time before the clinic closed. After 90 minutes, no change.
"Let's go," I told Scott. "I need some help with this." And he went into partial freak-out mode, driving like a maniac and repeatedly asking me if I was okay.
"Jus' don' panic, Daddy," Emmie called from the back seat, and I giggled weakly, despite the explosions it set off in my skull.
The doctor gave me a very painful shot in my butt. In 15 minutes, I felt better. In 25, I was ready to go. In 40, I was back to myself. It lasted three hours, just enough time for me to get everyone ready for the new week. Then, a fever hit me. I mean it hit me hard. Took me down like a ninja whoopin' up on an old lady. By 3:30 a.m., I knew I wasn't going to work. By 5:30 a.m., I was out of my mind.
Scott tells me that I repeatedly complained about an alarm clock ringing. There was no alarm clock. I also started kicking my legs and saying, "Feet gotta run!" Anyone who knows me knows that running is something I do only when someone is chasing me with a knife. So, obviously, something was wrong.
Scott took Emmie to school and me to the hospital, where they admitted me immediately and started testing. They gave me a shot. Very little changed. They did a CT scan, and thought they saw evidence of swelling in my brain. The doctor came back with terms like sinus thrombosis and cerebri pseudotumor. Geez. Go right for the fun stuff.
I tried to convince them that I'm just so smart that I need more room in my cranium. They did not believe me. I can't imagine why...
They did an MRI. It was freaky, like being inside HAL. I had a moment of panic, from experiencing claustrophobia for the first time. But a tech patted me on the leg and told me I had just 5 more minutes to go. That got me through it.
They took me to a room, gave me something for the pain, and let me sleep. I did that a lot for a couple of days. Then they wanted to give me a spinal tap. That was not an experience I'd like to relive - especially because they had to stop and take me down to radiology to complete it. And yet, just a couple of days later, I had to repeat the experience, because I needed a blood patch to get rid of the spinal headache.
They kept me in the hospital from Monday to Saturday. There were cultures to grow - meningitis was another possibility - and I was in so much pain that I couldn't sit up. The pain was less manageable because I won't take opiates, except in extreme situations.
At the end of the week, they had no concrete answers. So they chalked it up to a migraine and sent me home with a prescription for an anti-seizure medication often used off-label to prevent migraines. It made me so stupid that I couldn't remember people's names or keep up in meetings. They call that side-effect "psychomotor slowing." It felt like I had to think my way through Jello. So I took myself off of it, because doctors just love it when patients medicate themselves, am I right, medical community?
I'm mostly back to normal - but I'm having problems with short term memory loss and concentration, a constant headache, and neck and jaw pain. In the meantime, I'm seeing an otolarygologist for treatment of my ongoing ear/sinus issues. The neurologist says that has nothing to do with migraines. But the ENT specialist says he sees it all the time. It can't be worse than doing nothing, so this is the way I'm going right now.
In the meantime, I'm getting all sorts of helpful advice from people. Like the co-worker who told me a story about a patient with fungal meningitis.
"I know they tested you for viral and bacterial meningitis, but did they test you for that?"
"Heck, I've never even heard of it - I don't know!"
Or another fear factor:
"I had a friend who had an ear or sinus infection that got so bad that it spread to her brain. Are you worried about that?"
Well, now I am. Thanks.
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
Giving my sister a hard time
My sister, Kelli, is a very loving aunt. She gets really excited about stuff like Halloween. Unfortunately, she lives four hours away. So she depends on photos and phone calls to stay in touch. Emmie and Zequan were going to trick-or-treat as Lady Gaga and Jason Voorhees. I was going as Joan Holloway from "Mad Men."
Text from my sister: Do you have pictures of Emmie and Zequan?
Text from me: No. Joan Holloway is making her pen necklace.
An hour later...
Kelli: How about now?
Me: Joan Holloway is busy watching children. Do not make me sleep with your husband and dock your time card.
Kelli: How about Little Gaga?
Me: Gaga is on tour and cannot be reached. Please leave a message.
Kelli: COME ON!!
Me: Joan Hollway did not get promoted to Director of Operations for Sterling Cooper by being easily distracted.
She didn't answer any of my texts the rest of the night.
Text from my sister: Do you have pictures of Emmie and Zequan?
Text from me: No. Joan Holloway is making her pen necklace.
An hour later...
Kelli: How about now?
Me: Joan Holloway is busy watching children. Do not make me sleep with your husband and dock your time card.
Kelli: How about Little Gaga?
Me: Gaga is on tour and cannot be reached. Please leave a message.
Kelli: COME ON!!
Me: Joan Hollway did not get promoted to Director of Operations for Sterling Cooper by being easily distracted.
She didn't answer any of my texts the rest of the night.
Monday, November 01, 2010
They grow up so fast...
We're walking back from a meeting when a co-worker asks me about Emmie.
"She's doing great, thanks."
"And how is kindergarten? Is she enjoying it?"
"Most days. We just got her report card, and she got all Meets Expectations... the problem is that I know she's exceeding expectations in a lot of areas, so I worry about their metrics."
"Ah..."
Yes, I'm a helicopter parent. But I'm a really, really nice one, I promise!
"How is she doing with making friends?"
"She seems to be doing well. She has a little boyfriend, and apparently he proposed. So she's going to marry Trenae sometime soon, because 'he's so cute.' We're all invited."
"Oh, well, congratulations."
"Thanks. We're very proud."
"She's doing great, thanks."
"And how is kindergarten? Is she enjoying it?"
"Most days. We just got her report card, and she got all Meets Expectations... the problem is that I know she's exceeding expectations in a lot of areas, so I worry about their metrics."
"Ah..."
Yes, I'm a helicopter parent. But I'm a really, really nice one, I promise!
"How is she doing with making friends?"
"She seems to be doing well. She has a little boyfriend, and apparently he proposed. So she's going to marry Trenae sometime soon, because 'he's so cute.' We're all invited."
"Oh, well, congratulations."
"Thanks. We're very proud."
Friday, October 29, 2010
Silly Questions Kids Ask: Halloween Edition
As part of getting ready for bed, Emmie took her clothes to the laundry room (or, the laundry coffin, as I like to think of it, because every time I walk in there, I feel like I've been buried alive). She came back with a worried expression.
"What's up, Little Gaga?"
"Um, why ders a ghost in da laundry room, and wuss he doeend in der?"
"What?"
"Ders a ghost in da laundry room. Wuss he doeend?"
"There's no ghost in the laundry room, sweetie. I think you're still freaked out by the spooky stuff at the Halloween store."
She nodded, eyes wide. "Da zombies dat crawled were da coolest - but also da skeeriest!"
"But we know they're not real."
"No, dey're jus' stories dat we tell."
"Right."
"But, mama? Why do we tell dem?"
"Because they're fun to hear. Aren't they exciting?"
"Yeah! But... sometimes dey skeer me."
"Well, then we won't tell them when you feel scared."
"Danks, mama."
"Okay. Time for bed."
"But what about da ghost in da laundry room?"
"Honey, there's no ghost in the laundry room."
"But I saw'd it!"
"Okay, I'll lie down with you until you fall asleep."
"Danks, mom. You da best mama in da world."
"You're the best Doodle in the world."
After she was asleep, I puttered around the house doing small chores, and stopped to throw some clothes in the laundry basket. That's when I saw it:
"What's up, Little Gaga?"
"Um, why ders a ghost in da laundry room, and wuss he doeend in der?"
"What?"
"Ders a ghost in da laundry room. Wuss he doeend?"
"There's no ghost in the laundry room, sweetie. I think you're still freaked out by the spooky stuff at the Halloween store."
She nodded, eyes wide. "Da zombies dat crawled were da coolest - but also da skeeriest!"
"But we know they're not real."
"No, dey're jus' stories dat we tell."
"Right."
"But, mama? Why do we tell dem?"
"Because they're fun to hear. Aren't they exciting?"
"Yeah! But... sometimes dey skeer me."
"Well, then we won't tell them when you feel scared."
"Danks, mama."
"Okay. Time for bed."
"But what about da ghost in da laundry room?"
"Honey, there's no ghost in the laundry room."
"But I saw'd it!"
"Okay, I'll lie down with you until you fall asleep."
"Danks, mom. You da best mama in da world."
"You're the best Doodle in the world."
After she was asleep, I puttered around the house doing small chores, and stopped to throw some clothes in the laundry basket. That's when I saw it:
LOL! There was a ghost!
Scott draped over the vacuum cleaner, for reasons I may never know. What I love is - well, first, I was wrong and Emmie was right, and that always assures me that the natural order of thing is still as topsy-turvy as the day we brought her home. But I also love that she didn't scream or cry or freak out. Even though it startled her, she asked why the ghost was there. To which I would respond now, "Because Hell has frozen over and the souls are all escaping; that's the only time we get a significant amount of laundry done around here. Maybe the ghost will help."
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Because she's smarter than we are
Emmie has developed a new thing about eating. She wants to take a few bites and then put the food in the fridge "for later." She really just doesn't want to eat very much. Scott and I are of differing minds about this. He wants her to eat. I say she'll eat when she's hungry - and in the meantime, we'll supplement with a multi-vitamin.
Last night, he cooked a lovely dinner. And because I was late getting home, I missed a classic exchange. Emmie ate a little and then said she was full.
"No, eat your food," Scott said.
"But... I'm all fuuuulll!" she whined.
"Come on, you only had a few bites."
"Das all I wanned," she said.
"Emmie, eat your dinner."
"But Mom lets me put it in da fridge for later," she said.
"Emmie!" he was getting exasperated - and no doubt; she will argue with the furniture. "Just eat! There are starving children in China!"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Ders not starving children in China! Dey have rice, an' Chinese food, an' Chinese bread!"
And at that, she flounced off, leaving Scott's jaw to pick itself up off the floor.
Last night, he cooked a lovely dinner. And because I was late getting home, I missed a classic exchange. Emmie ate a little and then said she was full.
"No, eat your food," Scott said.
"But... I'm all fuuuulll!" she whined.
"Come on, you only had a few bites."
"Das all I wanned," she said.
"Emmie, eat your dinner."
"But Mom lets me put it in da fridge for later," she said.
"Emmie!" he was getting exasperated - and no doubt; she will argue with the furniture. "Just eat! There are starving children in China!"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Ders not starving children in China! Dey have rice, an' Chinese food, an' Chinese bread!"
And at that, she flounced off, leaving Scott's jaw to pick itself up off the floor.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
I can haz intellijunce?
I fumbled around this morning, panicked and blind, for a good 10 minutes. One of the rare side effects of the medication I was taking is temporary loss of vision.
But when I got to the bathroom and flipped on the light, the problem was solved. Because I looked in the mirror and realized that these are NOT my glasses. Doh!
But when I got to the bathroom and flipped on the light, the problem was solved. Because I looked in the mirror and realized that these are NOT my glasses. Doh!
Monday, October 25, 2010
Where's the video that shows how my marbles disappear?
Emmie and I look up videos online whenever she has questions about something and I can't explain it very well. Like while I was in the hospital, and tried to explain to her what was going on with my body, I finally had to resort to looking up photos of spinal taps and MRIs online - but not videos. First, I don't want her to mimic them while "playing doctor," and second, I am showing her these things to make her feel better, not to freak her out more.
So she's gotten into the habit of asking for them when she has a question. Of course, sometimes I have questions about her questions...
"Mom, can we look for a biddeo on grabbiddy? I wanna know if iss a big ibbissible hand dat grabs you so you don't fly off da erff."
"Um... do you mean 'gravity?'"
"YETH!!!"
And she's really into videos about how the body functions, but I have to be careful about the search terms I use. Not all videos are PG. Yeesh.
"Mama? Can we look up how da heart mates da blood go froo da body?"
"Sure."
"An' den can we go to da dahtor so I can lithen to my heart beep?"
"You mean 'beat?'"
"Das wut I said, 'beep!'"
She also likes to look at animals and pranks. But today she wanted something more mundane. She asked a question without answer.
"Mama? Can we watch a biddeo on how da shoelaces come untied when I'm not looking? Cause ebbrytime I tie dem, later, I look down, and dey come untied!"
So she's gotten into the habit of asking for them when she has a question. Of course, sometimes I have questions about her questions...
"Mom, can we look for a biddeo on grabbiddy? I wanna know if iss a big ibbissible hand dat grabs you so you don't fly off da erff."
"Um... do you mean 'gravity?'"
"YETH!!!"
And she's really into videos about how the body functions, but I have to be careful about the search terms I use. Not all videos are PG. Yeesh.
"Mama? Can we look up how da heart mates da blood go froo da body?"
"Sure."
"An' den can we go to da dahtor so I can lithen to my heart beep?"
"You mean 'beat?'"
"Das wut I said, 'beep!'"
She also likes to look at animals and pranks. But today she wanted something more mundane. She asked a question without answer.
"Mama? Can we watch a biddeo on how da shoelaces come untied when I'm not looking? Cause ebbrytime I tie dem, later, I look down, and dey come untied!"
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Metro's Best Whiners
I heard a lot of griping on Facebook about who was named Metro's Best this year - mostly from people masquerading as interested third parties, but who had ties to people with "dogs in the fight," so to speak. Workers for companies who lost, freelancers and friends of the owners of "competing" local media, that kind of thing. In other words, welcome to middle school.
Despite their obvious sour grapes, I agreed with some of their complaints. For example, I don't really see why Metro's Best New Local Restaurant has to be Cheddar's, when there are so many other new local restaurants. Shishkabob on North Belair Road, Frog Hollow and The Place on Broad Street, Rooster's Beak on 10th Street... that's all I can think of right now. I can't tell you why Cheddar's shouldn't have won, because I've never eaten there; ditto the category's second runner-up, Carolina Ale House. Generally speaking, Scott and I like the atmosphere at locally owned restaurants - not to mention the food.
There were other categories where I didn't agree with the winners chosen, but that happens every year. When I worked at the Spirit, we heard it from readers and advertisers when Outback was voted best steak, for example. We heard it from elected officials every time Austin Rhodes was nominated for anything. If it was a local place that won a category, we were "too trendy." If it was a chain, we were "bull$#!t sellouts."
I guess it was harder for people to call themselves bull$#!t sellouts. Because the votes were what counted. Three times as many people vote in the Metro's Best awards every year as in any other "best of" attempt in the CSRA. That's not propaganda. That's just the numbers. And those people who vote chose those places to win.
Why?
Well, that's a good question. First of all, it was a write-in ballot this year. That means that one thing mattered more than anything else: top of mind awareness. If people couldn't pull your business's name out of their brains within a few seconds, they weren't going to type it in. For example, there's a new steakhouse on Broad St. Don't ask me the name of it. I have no idea. And I bet no one voted for them.
That, my friends, is an Epic Marketing FAIL.
If no one knows who you are, how can you spread the "word of mouth" marketing that everyone around here loves to praise? "It's the best kind there is!" they say. Well, yes. And by that, they usually mean it's free. But, no matter what you mean, how are you going to get it? By not having people walk in your door? Well, you're doing just great. See you in the unemployment line next year.
One business representative crowed that their business didn't advertise so that it wouldn't attract the kind of people who would vote for Cheddars. Here's a hint: That business didn't win anything in Metro's Best. It's a great place, so why didn't it win? It certainly couldn't be the business representative's pretentious attitude, so please see the explanation above. In short, "the kind of people who would vote for Cheddars" could be giving you their money. But they're not.
I'm not saying that you should advertise - although you can't do worse than the empty tables staring you in the wallet every night. And advertising works, when you know how to hit your target demographics (creativity, get the numbers, and don't be ashamed to use an agency if you can't do it yourself). I'm saying you should market. And "word of mouth" marketing will only work when you have something buzzworthy for people to talk about. So what's buzzworthy about your business? Can you think of something exciting that you're doing?
I can't.
I'll tell you what Cheddar's is doing - besides choosing a high-traffic location with parking. Cheddar's is offering what mom-and-pop diners used to offer: quick, friendly service with hearty meals at a reasonable price - at least, that's the buzz I'm hearing - and it's close to shopping and the movie theater. So, really, Cheddar's is about convenience, affordability - and it's new! "Dey got one in Columbia, so dat means we're a big city now! Urhurh!"
I'll tell you what would be buzzworthy about a restaurant in this market: X restaurant is offering a full menu of healthy options - beyond salads and sandwiches - with a calorie count beside each item. Or Y eatery is now serving a pan-Asian noodle/rice bowl selection at a cozy corner shop with inside, outside and counter seating. Or Z restaurant is now serving a doughnut burger. (Have you heard about these things?! I want one. Unfortunately, X restaurant says it has 1 bazillion calories.)
New, different and - in this market - affordable: That's what will get your precious "word of mouth" marketing going. But don't skimp on the service. That's important, too.
And as for Metro's Best? I guess you can blame the newspaper for who won, what with them actually counting the votes, and all. You can listen to moles and sketchy salespeople who say that makes them "disloyal" to downtown (only one part of their readership) or that it means they've sold out. Whatever makes you feel better about yourself. But the real people you should blame is your customers because they gave their votes to someone else.
Ask yourself why they did.
Despite their obvious sour grapes, I agreed with some of their complaints. For example, I don't really see why Metro's Best New Local Restaurant has to be Cheddar's, when there are so many other new local restaurants. Shishkabob on North Belair Road, Frog Hollow and The Place on Broad Street, Rooster's Beak on 10th Street... that's all I can think of right now. I can't tell you why Cheddar's shouldn't have won, because I've never eaten there; ditto the category's second runner-up, Carolina Ale House. Generally speaking, Scott and I like the atmosphere at locally owned restaurants - not to mention the food.
There were other categories where I didn't agree with the winners chosen, but that happens every year. When I worked at the Spirit, we heard it from readers and advertisers when Outback was voted best steak, for example. We heard it from elected officials every time Austin Rhodes was nominated for anything. If it was a local place that won a category, we were "too trendy." If it was a chain, we were "bull$#!t sellouts."
I guess it was harder for people to call themselves bull$#!t sellouts. Because the votes were what counted. Three times as many people vote in the Metro's Best awards every year as in any other "best of" attempt in the CSRA. That's not propaganda. That's just the numbers. And those people who vote chose those places to win.
Why?
Well, that's a good question. First of all, it was a write-in ballot this year. That means that one thing mattered more than anything else: top of mind awareness. If people couldn't pull your business's name out of their brains within a few seconds, they weren't going to type it in. For example, there's a new steakhouse on Broad St. Don't ask me the name of it. I have no idea. And I bet no one voted for them.
That, my friends, is an Epic Marketing FAIL.
If no one knows who you are, how can you spread the "word of mouth" marketing that everyone around here loves to praise? "It's the best kind there is!" they say. Well, yes. And by that, they usually mean it's free. But, no matter what you mean, how are you going to get it? By not having people walk in your door? Well, you're doing just great. See you in the unemployment line next year.
One business representative crowed that their business didn't advertise so that it wouldn't attract the kind of people who would vote for Cheddars. Here's a hint: That business didn't win anything in Metro's Best. It's a great place, so why didn't it win? It certainly couldn't be the business representative's pretentious attitude, so please see the explanation above. In short, "the kind of people who would vote for Cheddars" could be giving you their money. But they're not.
I'm not saying that you should advertise - although you can't do worse than the empty tables staring you in the wallet every night. And advertising works, when you know how to hit your target demographics (creativity, get the numbers, and don't be ashamed to use an agency if you can't do it yourself). I'm saying you should market. And "word of mouth" marketing will only work when you have something buzzworthy for people to talk about. So what's buzzworthy about your business? Can you think of something exciting that you're doing?
I can't.
I'll tell you what Cheddar's is doing - besides choosing a high-traffic location with parking. Cheddar's is offering what mom-and-pop diners used to offer: quick, friendly service with hearty meals at a reasonable price - at least, that's the buzz I'm hearing - and it's close to shopping and the movie theater. So, really, Cheddar's is about convenience, affordability - and it's new! "Dey got one in Columbia, so dat means we're a big city now! Urhurh!"
I'll tell you what would be buzzworthy about a restaurant in this market: X restaurant is offering a full menu of healthy options - beyond salads and sandwiches - with a calorie count beside each item. Or Y eatery is now serving a pan-Asian noodle/rice bowl selection at a cozy corner shop with inside, outside and counter seating. Or Z restaurant is now serving a doughnut burger. (Have you heard about these things?! I want one. Unfortunately, X restaurant says it has 1 bazillion calories.)
New, different and - in this market - affordable: That's what will get your precious "word of mouth" marketing going. But don't skimp on the service. That's important, too.
And as for Metro's Best? I guess you can blame the newspaper for who won, what with them actually counting the votes, and all. You can listen to moles and sketchy salespeople who say that makes them "disloyal" to downtown (only one part of their readership) or that it means they've sold out. Whatever makes you feel better about yourself. But the real people you should blame is your customers because they gave their votes to someone else.
Ask yourself why they did.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Overheard in the Store: Remember this when she's 21, mom...
An adorable little girl, about four years old, holds up a green plastic margarita glass in a clearance bin and yells: "Mama! I really want this cup!"
Her mother is checking out, but glances over. "Looks like it will tip over, sweetie."
The girl looks at the cup and then back at her mother: "But it's just like yours!"
Her mother is checking out, but glances over. "Looks like it will tip over, sweetie."
The girl looks at the cup and then back at her mother: "But it's just like yours!"
Monday, October 18, 2010
Some Awesome soup
This soup takes less than 30 minutes to make, and is low fat, low carb, low calorie - but high flavor!
Greek chicken soup
4 chicken breasts, whole
1 yellow onion, chopped
1 quart chicken broth
1/2 cup instant rice, uncooked
Olive oil
1/2 tsp oregano
1/2 tsp thyme
Bunch baby spinach, coarsely torn
Lemon juice, about 1/4 cup
In stock pot, cook chopped onion until translucent. Add chicken, broth, rice, oregano and thyme. Bring to a boil, cover and reduce heat to medium. Cook, covered, for 5-8 minutes, until chicken is done.
With tongs, remove chicken and shred or coarsely chop. Set aside. Pour broth into food processor or blender (might have to work in two batches). Pulse until smooth and creamy.
Pour chicken and broth back into pot. Return to heat, and add spinach. Add lemon juice to taste. Cook until spinach is just wilted, serve immediately.
* Substitutions - can use any cut of chicken you like; try swiss chard, kale, or other winter green in place of spinach; consider white wine or sherry in place of lemon juice.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Greek chicken soup
4 chicken breasts, whole
1 yellow onion, chopped
1 quart chicken broth
1/2 cup instant rice, uncooked
Olive oil
1/2 tsp oregano
1/2 tsp thyme
Bunch baby spinach, coarsely torn
Lemon juice, about 1/4 cup
In stock pot, cook chopped onion until translucent. Add chicken, broth, rice, oregano and thyme. Bring to a boil, cover and reduce heat to medium. Cook, covered, for 5-8 minutes, until chicken is done.
With tongs, remove chicken and shred or coarsely chop. Set aside. Pour broth into food processor or blender (might have to work in two batches). Pulse until smooth and creamy.
Pour chicken and broth back into pot. Return to heat, and add spinach. Add lemon juice to taste. Cook until spinach is just wilted, serve immediately.
* Substitutions - can use any cut of chicken you like; try swiss chard, kale, or other winter green in place of spinach; consider white wine or sherry in place of lemon juice.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Job Security Not Improved by Family Relations
"Mom?" Em asked after Kelli spent a particularly long time annoying her. "Can you fire Aunt Kelli?"
"Oh, yes. Kelli, you're fired."
"Yeah, Aunt Kelli. Don' cry to death."
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Hooked on Phonics, Part II
We're working on homework, and Emmie is identifying photos of words that begin with the same sound as "cat."
"Car!" she cries, excited to find her first one.
"Very good," I say. "Now find all the ones that start with the same sound and color them in, and put an 'x' over the ones that don't start with the same sound."
"Okay," she says. "Panda.... no."
She puts an x.
"Corn - yes!"
She colors it in.
"Socks - no."
She puts an x, and moves on to a crappy mimeograph of a computer.
"Hmm. Peeyooter, no."
She puts an x.
(sigh) I really have to discourage the baby talk.
"Car!" she cries, excited to find her first one.
"Very good," I say. "Now find all the ones that start with the same sound and color them in, and put an 'x' over the ones that don't start with the same sound."
"Okay," she says. "Panda.... no."
She puts an x.
"Corn - yes!"
She colors it in.
"Socks - no."
She puts an x, and moves on to a crappy mimeograph of a computer.
"Hmm. Peeyooter, no."
She puts an x.
(sigh) I really have to discourage the baby talk.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
My Birthday Can Suck it
The month of October used to be my favorite month. The weather is awesome. Baseball playoffs. Oktoberfest and camping in Helen. Halloween. But lately, I've been thinking I should choose a new favorite month.
I'm not sure if these events have been gifts - after all, everyone has been healthy again by Oct. 10 - or warnings. But I'm going to move my birthday to a new date. I will be taking suggestions. But my mother will have final say. It's only fair.
And next year, Scott, Emerson, and I will be out of town during the week leading up to my former birthday. But we'll remain in the U.S., Canada, or Western Europe. Because it seems we should be somewhere with access to excellent health care.
- Two years ago, my husband was released from University Hospital on Oct. 9 after a month-long battle with TTP.
- One year ago, my daughter was attacked on Oct. 9 by our neighbor's idiot pit bull, but treated at the awesome MCG Children's Medical Center.
- This year, I spent five days in the hospital at MCG with a severe migraine and unexplained swelling of my brain, then bedridden with a "spinal headache" as the result of a lumbar puncture, before being released on Oct. 9.
Did I mention that my birthday is today, Oct. 10?
I'm not sure if these events have been gifts - after all, everyone has been healthy again by Oct. 10 - or warnings. But I'm going to move my birthday to a new date. I will be taking suggestions. But my mother will have final say. It's only fair.
And next year, Scott, Emerson, and I will be out of town during the week leading up to my former birthday. But we'll remain in the U.S., Canada, or Western Europe. Because it seems we should be somewhere with access to excellent health care.
Friday, October 08, 2010
Keyword search and rescue
I don't think I want to know what it says about me that the second most searched-for term - behind momnesia - for which people look when they come across my blog is "dog braces."
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Dance of Awesome = World Peace
My daughter is - like me - easily distractable. So the only way I have found that I can get her bootie dressed and ready for school on time in the mornings is... to race her. This has given rise to Many Insane Hair Days for me.
This morning, she was being unusually mouthy.
"MOOOMM!!" she shrieked, just a millisecond away from tears. "I can't get my SHOES on! An den I gon' be slow, and den you gon' WIN! An den I beed da LOSER!"
I lift my head from where I am blow-drying my hair upside-down in the vain, futile hope that I might trick it into not sucking today. She has on her shirt - backwards - and her jeans. But the shoes are a problem.
"Oh, reeaaaally?" I mimic a scheming villain. "Soooo, you want me to HELP you, so that I will LOSE? Hmmmm..."
She grins, continues to struggle with the shoes. I finish drying my hair, flip my head back, get dizzy and almost fall back into the shower.
She laughs hysterically.
"Oh, is that funny?" I grab the cardboard box of tissues and bonk myself repeatedly in the head. "How about that?"
She collapses on the floor, belly laughing. "Mama! Stop!"
"I'm not really hurting myself."
"No, you smasheend da box."
Thanks. Concern duly noted. I brush my hair while she straightens her shirt, then she looks down at her feet. Crud. She gives a big, limp-armed shoulder twitch and starts in again. "Mamaaaaaaa...! If you don' help me, I can't get my shoes on!"
I'm wriggling into my tights, and I only have two hands. Plus, the screeching is really starting to get on my nerves: "Seriously, Doodle, I'm going to smash myself in the head with the tissue box again, just because it's more fun than listening to you whine."
She glares at me.
"Will you chill out? Have I ever let you leave the house without shoes?"
"No..."
"That's not going to change this morning. Give me a sec and then I'll help you."
She relaxes, obviously relieved. "Danks, mama. But... mama, if you don' help me, I'm not goeen ta win."
"Mwahahahaha!" I laugh, evilly. "You have uncovered my plan!"
She stops keening and gives me A Look: "It dudden't madder, mama. Eben if you win, you still goeend be a loser."
Oh, snap.
"That's okay. Even if I lose, I'm still going to have all the awesome. See me? Repository of awesomeness. Right here. Check it out." I do a little dance. It is the awesome dance. El Baile de Awesome. Or so I tell myself.
She resists for a moment, but then begins to giggle and joins me. We dance the Dance of Awesome until we are breathless from laughing. And now running late. Dangit.
"Come on, Little Gaga. Let's get your shoes on and your hair combed."
"Okay, mama. But mama?"
"Yeah?"
"When I growed up, I wanna be awesome jus' like you."
"Baby, you already are."
This morning, she was being unusually mouthy.
"MOOOMM!!" she shrieked, just a millisecond away from tears. "I can't get my SHOES on! An den I gon' be slow, and den you gon' WIN! An den I beed da LOSER!"
I lift my head from where I am blow-drying my hair upside-down in the vain, futile hope that I might trick it into not sucking today. She has on her shirt - backwards - and her jeans. But the shoes are a problem.
"Oh, reeaaaally?" I mimic a scheming villain. "Soooo, you want me to HELP you, so that I will LOSE? Hmmmm..."
She grins, continues to struggle with the shoes. I finish drying my hair, flip my head back, get dizzy and almost fall back into the shower.
She laughs hysterically.
"Oh, is that funny?" I grab the cardboard box of tissues and bonk myself repeatedly in the head. "How about that?"
She collapses on the floor, belly laughing. "Mama! Stop!"
"I'm not really hurting myself."
"No, you smasheend da box."
Thanks. Concern duly noted. I brush my hair while she straightens her shirt, then she looks down at her feet. Crud. She gives a big, limp-armed shoulder twitch and starts in again. "Mamaaaaaaa...! If you don' help me, I can't get my shoes on!"
I'm wriggling into my tights, and I only have two hands. Plus, the screeching is really starting to get on my nerves: "Seriously, Doodle, I'm going to smash myself in the head with the tissue box again, just because it's more fun than listening to you whine."
She glares at me.
"Will you chill out? Have I ever let you leave the house without shoes?"
"No..."
"That's not going to change this morning. Give me a sec and then I'll help you."
She relaxes, obviously relieved. "Danks, mama. But... mama, if you don' help me, I'm not goeen ta win."
"Mwahahahaha!" I laugh, evilly. "You have uncovered my plan!"
She stops keening and gives me A Look: "It dudden't madder, mama. Eben if you win, you still goeend be a loser."
Oh, snap.
"That's okay. Even if I lose, I'm still going to have all the awesome. See me? Repository of awesomeness. Right here. Check it out." I do a little dance. It is the awesome dance. El Baile de Awesome. Or so I tell myself.
She resists for a moment, but then begins to giggle and joins me. We dance the Dance of Awesome until we are breathless from laughing. And now running late. Dangit.
"Come on, Little Gaga. Let's get your shoes on and your hair combed."
"Okay, mama. But mama?"
"Yeah?"
"When I growed up, I wanna be awesome jus' like you."
"Baby, you already are."
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Overheard in the newsroom
Editor to staffer: "That's the fourth obit you've sent me today. Are you on a murderous rampage?"
Monday, October 04, 2010
Oh, for a tonal language like Mandarin...
Emmie and I are playing "school." She has devised a brutal test of how well I understand my numbers. I think I'm rocking it, until we get to end.
"Das good, mama!" she puts a check beside every answer.
"Yeah, I got kindergarten down," I reply, flexing my (imaginary) biceps.
"No," she shakes her head with a serious expression.
"No?"
"NO."
"Okay..."
"We hafta do more."
"More what?"
"More testes."
(choke. sputter.)
"More what?!"
"Testes," she answers.
"Testes?!"
"Dis!" she points to her chalkboard. "Dis fing we jus' do! Iss a test! But we hafta do more testes, mama."
"Oh, okay. What are you testing for?"
"You brain. How much do it know about numbers."
"Well, not much. But I can tell you about some vocabulary we should probably discuss."
"Das good, mama!" she puts a check beside every answer.
"Yeah, I got kindergarten down," I reply, flexing my (imaginary) biceps.
"No," she shakes her head with a serious expression.
"No?"
"NO."
"Okay..."
"We hafta do more."
"More what?"
"More testes."
(choke. sputter.)
"More what?!"
"Testes," she answers.
"Testes?!"
"Dis!" she points to her chalkboard. "Dis fing we jus' do! Iss a test! But we hafta do more testes, mama."
"Oh, okay. What are you testing for?"
"You brain. How much do it know about numbers."
"Well, not much. But I can tell you about some vocabulary we should probably discuss."
Friday, October 01, 2010
Party of Ten, Please
"What did he say about the car?" A.R. asked me after I hung up the phone.
"That wasn't a conversation about our car repairs. That was a conversation about our marriage," I laughed.
And it kind of was. All of the unspoken things that went into the conversation - which, on the surface, were about struts, strut mounts, and CV joints - were about our relationship. For her, it must have been like watching a Bertrand Blier film without subtitles.
(Update: Alice Wynn tells me that the Bertrand Blier reference was pretentious as hell. I argue that it's not. We cannot agree. So in place of Bertrand Blier, you can imagine any director who concentrates on male-female relationships. We couldn't think of anyone except Woody Allen. but he doesn't count, because all Woody Allen films are really about Woody Allen. Except now I remember Pedro Almodovar. Is that still a pretentious reference, Alice? Is Blier pretentious because he's French, or because he's European?)
Lots of things in life are an unspoken negotiation. But negotiations in relationships are entirely different - because some kind of conflict is inevitable due to the fact that so much of what occurs is actually inside the minds and hearts of the people involved.
One might say, "Dishes are done," just to let one's partner know that task has been checked off the list. One's partner might hear "I did the dishes because you wouldn't," or "I did the dishes, now you do the laundry." Another partner might hear, "Dishes are done," and think "Big deal; I cut the grass." Those statements might not be part of the spoken conversation, but they're still present within the negotiations.
In this conversation, while I desired one course of action to ensure things were done correctly, he desired another course of action to avoid conflict, increase overall efficiency and save money. Both courses of action had benefits. But he was more aggravated by the situation than I expected. So, as a compromise, I asked for a separate, smaller, additional action, to which he agreed. Negotiations complete.
But what he was thinking? I may never know. It may have been, "What does she know about car repairs?!" It may have been, "Please do not make me deal with these people again." It might have been, "I don't give a flying crap about the car. I'd rather just buy a new one." Speculation does no good because even if I know the thoughts, the inflection, intention and accompanying imagery can never be known. Neither does he know what went on in my mind while we talked about it - nor should he.
Ah, relationships. You think it's a dialogue. But it's an ensemble cast.
"That wasn't a conversation about our car repairs. That was a conversation about our marriage," I laughed.
And it kind of was. All of the unspoken things that went into the conversation - which, on the surface, were about struts, strut mounts, and CV joints - were about our relationship. For her, it must have been like watching a Bertrand Blier film without subtitles.
(Update: Alice Wynn tells me that the Bertrand Blier reference was pretentious as hell. I argue that it's not. We cannot agree. So in place of Bertrand Blier, you can imagine any director who concentrates on male-female relationships. We couldn't think of anyone except Woody Allen. but he doesn't count, because all Woody Allen films are really about Woody Allen. Except now I remember Pedro Almodovar. Is that still a pretentious reference, Alice? Is Blier pretentious because he's French, or because he's European?)
Lots of things in life are an unspoken negotiation. But negotiations in relationships are entirely different - because some kind of conflict is inevitable due to the fact that so much of what occurs is actually inside the minds and hearts of the people involved.
One might say, "Dishes are done," just to let one's partner know that task has been checked off the list. One's partner might hear "I did the dishes because you wouldn't," or "I did the dishes, now you do the laundry." Another partner might hear, "Dishes are done," and think "Big deal; I cut the grass." Those statements might not be part of the spoken conversation, but they're still present within the negotiations.
In this conversation, while I desired one course of action to ensure things were done correctly, he desired another course of action to avoid conflict, increase overall efficiency and save money. Both courses of action had benefits. But he was more aggravated by the situation than I expected. So, as a compromise, I asked for a separate, smaller, additional action, to which he agreed. Negotiations complete.
But what he was thinking? I may never know. It may have been, "What does she know about car repairs?!" It may have been, "Please do not make me deal with these people again." It might have been, "I don't give a flying crap about the car. I'd rather just buy a new one." Speculation does no good because even if I know the thoughts, the inflection, intention and accompanying imagery can never be known. Neither does he know what went on in my mind while we talked about it - nor should he.
Ah, relationships. You think it's a dialogue. But it's an ensemble cast.
