Why do Americans not care about soccer? Sure, we're making a good effort during the World Cup, watching the U.S. games and ignoring the others. Billions of people love soccer. Me? I watched a good chunk of that match with England and couldn't get too enthused. First I didn't understand the rules. (But then explain American football to anyone from another country. Don't you feel silly talking about downs and yards?) Second I have no idea when the match will end. (Americans love to see a countdown clock...in hundredths of a second, please.)
But then I look at baseball. Talk about dull. How much action takes place in a typical game? About three minutes? Hell, the announcers need to be master storytellers to fill the time between pitches. Generations of us have used baseball as our summer background music while we make dinner, clean the house or doze off at night.
Soccer fans, though, are completely engaged for the entire match. How do they do it? Do they have better attention spans than us? Plus they are often plowed so that's a real talent.
Ah, the inferior American once again.
Jun 23, 2010
Jun 20, 2010
2010 Reading List (so far)
A friend recently asked me why I haven't posted any books for awhile. My 2009 New Years resolution was to blog about every book I finished. In all, I completed 29 and probably started another dozen that I didn't like enough to finish (or I wasn't in the right mindset). I took a year off from New Years resolutions since the 2009 goal was so tasking. I might be an every-other-year-resolutionist.
So, as my laziness shows, I need to list what I'm reading these days. In my journal I do track the books I complete. There are some genres or authors I want to come back to, and I have a horrible memory when I'm standing in the bookstore deciding on a new book. It's as if my mind is erased as I pass through the doors. Thirty seconds before I had 3 or 4 books in mind; now I can't think of one. (This also happens to me when I log into iTunes.) So I'm usually covered in Post-It notes, credit card in hand, concentrating intently on the book(s) I'm there to score.
In no particular order, here are my 2010 books:
Loving Frank: A Novel, by Nancy Horan. Horan's book is considered fiction but uses known facts to tell the story of Mamah Cheney and Frank Lloyd Wright. Up here in Wisconsin, Frank is a big deal, so I was surprised by what a cad he was. Mamah becomes Wright's first mistress before he becomes the iconic architecht. Horan takes liberties with their story since not much is known about Mamah. What is known is that she left her family in Chicago to travel the world with Frank and ended up in Spring Green, WI. The ending surprised me, making me gasp out loud. If you don't know your FLW history you may be surprised as well.
Skinny Dip, by Carl Hiaasen is wonderful romp through the corruption of South Florida. I asked a friend for a juicy but light book for my flight to London in January. This fit the bill. Hiaasen, who also writes children's fiction, has written a number of books that are set in South FL. They are all over- the-top and hilarious. This book begins with a husband throwing his wife off a cruise boat. Surprisingly she does not die and the book tells the tale of her revenge and his motivation to try to kill her. Lots of laughs though the premise sounds gruesome.
The Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, is a beautiful, lyrical book that made me want to book a flight to Barcelona. A bestseller in Ruiz Zafon's Spain, Shadow tells the story of Daniel, son of a book shop owner, who becomes enamored with a rare book by a dead author. Someone is intent on burning every remaining copy and perhaps destroying Daniel in the process. The back drop is the brutality of the Spanish Civil War (1936-39). The book follows Daniel as he grows into adulthood and keeps digging deeper into the past of the author of his favorite book. The terrific translation into English provides wonderful imagery that makes the story float. Though the book is a bit on the long side, the story is fascinating and worth every hour you spend reading it.
I've picked up four books by Elizabeth Berg after reading an article about her in Writers Digest. She is a veteran of women's fiction having published some 22 books. A short story collection, The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted, was my introduction to Berg. Based on the title alone, I bet most women would want to invite her to their next wine gathering. The Year of Pleasures, her book from 2005, tells the tale of Betta, a newly widowed fifty-something who is desperately trying to live the life she told her husband she would live in his absence. Berg paints such a vivid picture of Betta's new life that I want to look her up and have dinner. Open House, the book that put Berg on the map when it made Oprah's book club, explores another type of loss women face - the divorce they don't want. Perhaps the book I like the most is Berg's take on a writing life, Escaping Into The Open: the Art of Writing True. This honest account of Berg's writing and advice for other writers displays her love of writing. I often tap into her creative exercises to get my right brain in action. (Right brain = creativity; left brain = analysis) My huge left brain often overpowers and beats the snot out of my thoughtful and fun right brain. When I'm struggling with forming one solitary creative thought (those days are more frequent that I'd like to admit), I use Berg's book for inspiration.
Like most American women, it seems, I read The Help, by Kathryn Stockett early this spring. The story takes place in 1960s Mississippi and is told by the point of view (POV) of three women: Eugenia "Skeeter" is the central white character who is raised by a black maid; Aibeleen and Minny are black maids who suffer the humiliation of being black in the pre-civil rights south while gaining the satisfaction of raising other people's children. If you're from the north and don't know much about the 20th century south, read this book! Stockett was raised by a black caregiver and provides a touching and insightful story about her childhood world.
My favorite fictional dog, Chet, is back with Thereby Hangs a Tail: A Chet and Bernie Mystery, by Spencer Quinn. I'm a sucker for a book told from a dog's POV. Dogs seem so much happier than humans about life. Their needs include a scratch behind the ear and something yummy to eat. The second of the Chet and Bernie books, Tail is about the kidnapping of a prize dog and its owner. Chet is funny, insightful and somewhat Zen in his approach to his job (assistant to a private investigator). If you love dogs don't let this one pass you by. And don't forget the first book of the series, Dog On It (see my review here).
Speaking of dogs, The Art of Racing In the Rain, by Garth Stein, seemed to be required book club reading, which is how I came upon it. Also told from a dog's POV, Racing is a more sober account about a family dog who witnesses the death of the mother and battle the father has to retain custody of his only child. I cried hard at the end. A friend told me that dog books never end well and she won't read them. I guess she has a point. But Racing helps you take stock of your own life. Plus the dog, Enzo, is far wiser than 95 percent of the people I know.
I met Rae Meadows at the Writers Institute at the Univ of Wisconsin this spring. Her fiction workshop was just what I hoped it would be: insightful and hopeful for aspiring writers. I've read both of her books: Calling Out, about a Mormon-approved escort agency (you read that correctly) and No One Tells Everything about a NYC woman who befriends a murderer. Meadow's protagonists both struggle with insecurity and secrets long buried. I can't wait for her next book. If you're female, you'll might find a bit of yourself in her central characters.
Of course sometimes a girl needs a good dose of chick lit. I've been following Allison Winn Scotch (because she has a great name and tells wonderful stories) via her Ask Allison website for writers and in her three novels. The latest, The One That I Want plays with time and space the way her previous novel, Time of My Life, did so well. As in TOML I wanted to grab the main character, Tilly, by the neck and shake her into reality. But Winn Scotch uses a little magic to help Tilly help herself. My favorite Winn Scotch book is her first one, The Department of Lost and Found (see review here). Between her website, Facebook and Twitter, Winn Scotch shows how generous she is as an author and a cheerleader for other writers.
And that brings us up to date. I have several books waiting in the wings including The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo that I see being read in every airport I've been through this year. And can I have one of those iPads, please? I drool everytime I see one. I almost mauled a woman sitting next to me on a flight from Detroit to Madison. I apologize. I'm really a nice person once you take the gadgets away from me.
,
So, as my laziness shows, I need to list what I'm reading these days. In my journal I do track the books I complete. There are some genres or authors I want to come back to, and I have a horrible memory when I'm standing in the bookstore deciding on a new book. It's as if my mind is erased as I pass through the doors. Thirty seconds before I had 3 or 4 books in mind; now I can't think of one. (This also happens to me when I log into iTunes.) So I'm usually covered in Post-It notes, credit card in hand, concentrating intently on the book(s) I'm there to score.
In no particular order, here are my 2010 books:
Loving Frank: A Novel, by Nancy Horan. Horan's book is considered fiction but uses known facts to tell the story of Mamah Cheney and Frank Lloyd Wright. Up here in Wisconsin, Frank is a big deal, so I was surprised by what a cad he was. Mamah becomes Wright's first mistress before he becomes the iconic architecht. Horan takes liberties with their story since not much is known about Mamah. What is known is that she left her family in Chicago to travel the world with Frank and ended up in Spring Green, WI. The ending surprised me, making me gasp out loud. If you don't know your FLW history you may be surprised as well.
Skinny Dip, by Carl Hiaasen is wonderful romp through the corruption of South Florida. I asked a friend for a juicy but light book for my flight to London in January. This fit the bill. Hiaasen, who also writes children's fiction, has written a number of books that are set in South FL. They are all over- the-top and hilarious. This book begins with a husband throwing his wife off a cruise boat. Surprisingly she does not die and the book tells the tale of her revenge and his motivation to try to kill her. Lots of laughs though the premise sounds gruesome.
The Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, is a beautiful, lyrical book that made me want to book a flight to Barcelona. A bestseller in Ruiz Zafon's Spain, Shadow tells the story of Daniel, son of a book shop owner, who becomes enamored with a rare book by a dead author. Someone is intent on burning every remaining copy and perhaps destroying Daniel in the process. The back drop is the brutality of the Spanish Civil War (1936-39). The book follows Daniel as he grows into adulthood and keeps digging deeper into the past of the author of his favorite book. The terrific translation into English provides wonderful imagery that makes the story float. Though the book is a bit on the long side, the story is fascinating and worth every hour you spend reading it.
I've picked up four books by Elizabeth Berg after reading an article about her in Writers Digest. She is a veteran of women's fiction having published some 22 books. A short story collection, The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted, was my introduction to Berg. Based on the title alone, I bet most women would want to invite her to their next wine gathering. The Year of Pleasures, her book from 2005, tells the tale of Betta, a newly widowed fifty-something who is desperately trying to live the life she told her husband she would live in his absence. Berg paints such a vivid picture of Betta's new life that I want to look her up and have dinner. Open House, the book that put Berg on the map when it made Oprah's book club, explores another type of loss women face - the divorce they don't want. Perhaps the book I like the most is Berg's take on a writing life, Escaping Into The Open: the Art of Writing True. This honest account of Berg's writing and advice for other writers displays her love of writing. I often tap into her creative exercises to get my right brain in action. (Right brain = creativity; left brain = analysis) My huge left brain often overpowers and beats the snot out of my thoughtful and fun right brain. When I'm struggling with forming one solitary creative thought (those days are more frequent that I'd like to admit), I use Berg's book for inspiration.
Like most American women, it seems, I read The Help, by Kathryn Stockett early this spring. The story takes place in 1960s Mississippi and is told by the point of view (POV) of three women: Eugenia "Skeeter" is the central white character who is raised by a black maid; Aibeleen and Minny are black maids who suffer the humiliation of being black in the pre-civil rights south while gaining the satisfaction of raising other people's children. If you're from the north and don't know much about the 20th century south, read this book! Stockett was raised by a black caregiver and provides a touching and insightful story about her childhood world.
My favorite fictional dog, Chet, is back with Thereby Hangs a Tail: A Chet and Bernie Mystery, by Spencer Quinn. I'm a sucker for a book told from a dog's POV. Dogs seem so much happier than humans about life. Their needs include a scratch behind the ear and something yummy to eat. The second of the Chet and Bernie books, Tail is about the kidnapping of a prize dog and its owner. Chet is funny, insightful and somewhat Zen in his approach to his job (assistant to a private investigator). If you love dogs don't let this one pass you by. And don't forget the first book of the series, Dog On It (see my review here).
Speaking of dogs, The Art of Racing In the Rain, by Garth Stein, seemed to be required book club reading, which is how I came upon it. Also told from a dog's POV, Racing is a more sober account about a family dog who witnesses the death of the mother and battle the father has to retain custody of his only child. I cried hard at the end. A friend told me that dog books never end well and she won't read them. I guess she has a point. But Racing helps you take stock of your own life. Plus the dog, Enzo, is far wiser than 95 percent of the people I know.
I met Rae Meadows at the Writers Institute at the Univ of Wisconsin this spring. Her fiction workshop was just what I hoped it would be: insightful and hopeful for aspiring writers. I've read both of her books: Calling Out, about a Mormon-approved escort agency (you read that correctly) and No One Tells Everything about a NYC woman who befriends a murderer. Meadow's protagonists both struggle with insecurity and secrets long buried. I can't wait for her next book. If you're female, you'll might find a bit of yourself in her central characters.
Of course sometimes a girl needs a good dose of chick lit. I've been following Allison Winn Scotch (because she has a great name and tells wonderful stories) via her Ask Allison website for writers and in her three novels. The latest, The One That I Want plays with time and space the way her previous novel, Time of My Life, did so well. As in TOML I wanted to grab the main character, Tilly, by the neck and shake her into reality. But Winn Scotch uses a little magic to help Tilly help herself. My favorite Winn Scotch book is her first one, The Department of Lost and Found (see review here). Between her website, Facebook and Twitter, Winn Scotch shows how generous she is as an author and a cheerleader for other writers.
And that brings us up to date. I have several books waiting in the wings including The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo that I see being read in every airport I've been through this year. And can I have one of those iPads, please? I drool everytime I see one. I almost mauled a woman sitting next to me on a flight from Detroit to Madison. I apologize. I'm really a nice person once you take the gadgets away from me.
,
Jun 18, 2010
Brothers in Cynicism
Last weekend my mother and brother-in-law were talking about a interview they saw on TV with Larry Bird and Magic Johnson. My mom mentioned how touching it was to watch. My brother-in-law raised his eyebrow and said the reason for the interview was to pitch a book (When the Game Was Ours). Yes, it was true that book was the reason behind the media blitz. But as my brother-in-law talked about how celebrities make themselves (and their interesting lives) available for the masses only when they have something to promote, I thought his tone sounded very familiar.
Just like Hubby.
Is it any surprise that Hubby and bro-in-law went to the same journalism school? Is it part of their training to take a cynical view of the world?
I believe the answer is a loud and attention-getting yes.
Hubby raises his eyebrow in the same fashion as I cry when the winner is named on [pick any reality show]. "This was all staged, you know."
Last night we watched the NBA final as L.A. beat Boston. "I bet David Stern told the teams to take it to seven games and make it somewhat close in the end," I replied in my own cynical fashion. All I got in return was bored look.
Just like Hubby.
Is it any surprise that Hubby and bro-in-law went to the same journalism school? Is it part of their training to take a cynical view of the world?
I believe the answer is a loud and attention-getting yes.
Hubby raises his eyebrow in the same fashion as I cry when the winner is named on [pick any reality show]. "This was all staged, you know."
Last night we watched the NBA final as L.A. beat Boston. "I bet David Stern told the teams to take it to seven games and make it somewhat close in the end," I replied in my own cynical fashion. All I got in return was bored look.
Apr 19, 2010
Can I Post Less Often? Eeesh!
Sorry for the loooong delay. I've been taking a humor writing class. Love it! There's homework each week which is challenging but a good way to stretch my abilities. That being said, there's not an excuse for not posting. Except maybe I only have so many words in me in a given week. Wouldn't that suck? So much for the writing aspirations. I'm sorry. I can only write 500 words a week.
This is an assignment I recently submitted. Hope you enjoy it.
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I open my eyes and see that once again I am on the floor. Oh, well. The bed would have been better, but I can’t always choose where I sleep. I’m pretty adaptable and can snooze on the couch, a chair (the recliner is my favorite). Heck, I can even stretch out on the lawn in a pinch.
The only light in the room comes through the slit in the curtains, revealing that it is early morning. Excellent! It’s almost time to eat. Wonder what I’ll have today?
I stretch and yawn. Yes, this will be a wonderful morning. So much to do; so much to explore. I hope my friends will meet up with me today. I haven’t seen Sophie in ages. Bernard is a given. He never misses out on a gathering. Sam is a pest but his energy is contagious. I get kicky just being around him. Too bad the others don’t appreciate his drive. Yes, he stole that thing from Twinkie, but Sam didn’t mean it. He just couldn’t help himself. They’re all such good friends. I couldn’t live without them.
Speaking of living, I wonder if that bird out back is still alive. Didn’t look too good last night. What a way to go – a broken wing. Glad I don’t have any wings. The whole flying thing scares me anyway. It doesn’t make any sense. If I run real fast I can’t eventually lift myself off the ground. Sure I can jump real well but not enough to soar through the air. I wonder if birds are some evil spirit and that is how they can fly. Spooky to think about.
I stride into the kitchen for my breakfast. I hate to be left waiting – I get real impatient. As I enter the bright, shiny room I can smell toast, orange juice and the faint aroma of Windex and maybe a splash of stale wine. Through the window I see birds that fared much better than old Broken Wing. They are buzzing all over the backyard. Hey, did they get breakfast already? Before me?
Diana looks over and gives me a big smile. I fell in love with her the moment I met her. You see, I was behind bars at the time. Not a good start for such an intense relationship. But she was able to see past that. Now when she looks into my eyes I feel like she can read my mind. I must have a face that gives me away.
“The usual, Drake?” she asks.
Do I even need to answer that?
She slides the bowl over to me. I don’t know why this routine makes me so happy. I guess I’m easy to please.
“We’re going to the dog park today,” she says. “What do you think about that?’
I bark in appreciation and wag my tail.
This is an assignment I recently submitted. Hope you enjoy it.
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I open my eyes and see that once again I am on the floor. Oh, well. The bed would have been better, but I can’t always choose where I sleep. I’m pretty adaptable and can snooze on the couch, a chair (the recliner is my favorite). Heck, I can even stretch out on the lawn in a pinch.
The only light in the room comes through the slit in the curtains, revealing that it is early morning. Excellent! It’s almost time to eat. Wonder what I’ll have today?
I stretch and yawn. Yes, this will be a wonderful morning. So much to do; so much to explore. I hope my friends will meet up with me today. I haven’t seen Sophie in ages. Bernard is a given. He never misses out on a gathering. Sam is a pest but his energy is contagious. I get kicky just being around him. Too bad the others don’t appreciate his drive. Yes, he stole that thing from Twinkie, but Sam didn’t mean it. He just couldn’t help himself. They’re all such good friends. I couldn’t live without them.
Speaking of living, I wonder if that bird out back is still alive. Didn’t look too good last night. What a way to go – a broken wing. Glad I don’t have any wings. The whole flying thing scares me anyway. It doesn’t make any sense. If I run real fast I can’t eventually lift myself off the ground. Sure I can jump real well but not enough to soar through the air. I wonder if birds are some evil spirit and that is how they can fly. Spooky to think about.
I stride into the kitchen for my breakfast. I hate to be left waiting – I get real impatient. As I enter the bright, shiny room I can smell toast, orange juice and the faint aroma of Windex and maybe a splash of stale wine. Through the window I see birds that fared much better than old Broken Wing. They are buzzing all over the backyard. Hey, did they get breakfast already? Before me?
Diana looks over and gives me a big smile. I fell in love with her the moment I met her. You see, I was behind bars at the time. Not a good start for such an intense relationship. But she was able to see past that. Now when she looks into my eyes I feel like she can read my mind. I must have a face that gives me away.
“The usual, Drake?” she asks.
Do I even need to answer that?
She slides the bowl over to me. I don’t know why this routine makes me so happy. I guess I’m easy to please.
“We’re going to the dog park today,” she says. “What do you think about that?’
I bark in appreciation and wag my tail.
Feb 6, 2010
Heard at the Girl's Get-Together the Other Night
Setting: Monthly gathering of friends for wine, food and gossip. One member of the group is telling a story to the others.
Wino #1: "So I...wait. Hold on a minute. I forgot. I'm consulting my brain."
Wino #2: "Tell your brain I said hello."
Other winos laugh in unison.
Wino #1: "So I...wait. Hold on a minute. I forgot. I'm consulting my brain."
Wino #2: "Tell your brain I said hello."
Other winos laugh in unison.
Feb 2, 2010
B-O-R-E-D
I'm in a post-vacation funk or under the influence of the mid-winter blahs. There is absolutely nothing that captures my fancy these days. Yes, I got back from a European trip last week. So that may have something to do with it. But, facing the dog days of February and March in America's great white north is not something to envy. Let me document some of my recent activities:
- falling asleep on the couch after dinner every single night
- falling asleep on the couch every single weekend
- staring off into space without a thought in my head
- checking the clock to see if it's time to go to bed
One would think my IQ is plummeting. Hell, I think my IQ is plummeting. Why don't I take up knitting or crossword puzzles to stimulate my mind? But that would require me to get my lazy ass off the couch and...well I can't concentrate on what happens after that.
So I'll take the advice of Punxsutawney Phil and hibernate for another six weeks which, in the Upper Midwest, will mark the halfway point of winter. At that point I'll roll over, hit the snooze alarm and wake up in May.
Jan 7, 2010
Mini Book Review - End of 2009
Okay, I'm late with this. Shoot me. My 2009 New Year's resolution was to keep track of every book I finished (note I said 'finished'?). I did that but haven't posted the final handful of books until today. Don't I get points for following through on my resolution? I'm pretty damn proud of this milestone...my first ever completed resolution. This goes a lot further than the year I resolved to use dental floss every day.
Here they are:
To Kill A Mockingbird. If I read this in high school I certainly don't remember. It took me about 20 pages to get into the book because I was hung up on some of the Southern-isms most notably the names. Jem? Atticus? Boo? Once I got past that I couldn't put it down. I sorta knew the plot, but reading Harper Lee's prose was a real thrill. If I wrote a book that magnificent, I wouldn't publish another one either. Every adult must read this one.
Going in a completely different direction, Talk to the Snail: Ten Commandments for Understanding the French, by Stephen Clarke, is about a Brit who has a love/hate relationship with the French. (Don't we all?) In this book he good-naturedly shares his 10 tips for dealing with and living with the French. Even though he is a crusty Brit, he truly loves the French despite their, well, French-isms. You'll learn, for example, how to deal with rude waiters and better understand why the French always seem to be going on strike. I also recommend Mr. Clarke's other books: In The Merde for Love and Merde Happens.
Savannah Blues, by Mary Kay Andrews. Every now and then a girl needs her chick-lit. This one also turns into a murder mystery and a lesson in antiquing. Again I had to get past the Southern stuff this Yankee girl just doesn't immediately understand, most notably the names and the importance placed on who you are (family names) and who you know. If you're in the mood for something breezy with a bit more plot than you usually find in chick-lit, I recommend this one.
Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott, is another writer's guide to the writing life. Along with On Writing, by Stephen King, (see previous review here) B by B shows the human side of what writers face (and put themselves through). Mr. King comes across as a more confident about his writing while Anne Lamott shows us what an insecure bundle of nerves many writers are. I can relate! I found comfort in both books and refer to them often. If you're not a writer but admire what writers do, both of these books provide a glimpse into their solitary yet creative worlds.
There! I'm done. I finished 29 books this year and wrote about them all. There were many more that I started and didn't/couldn't finish. Sometimes the mood wasn't right or the first few pages didn't strike me. Life is too short to read something you don't enjoy. Now I'll contemplate my 2010 resolutions. Maybe I need to revisit that dental floss thing.
Here they are:
To Kill A Mockingbird. If I read this in high school I certainly don't remember. It took me about 20 pages to get into the book because I was hung up on some of the Southern-isms most notably the names. Jem? Atticus? Boo? Once I got past that I couldn't put it down. I sorta knew the plot, but reading Harper Lee's prose was a real thrill. If I wrote a book that magnificent, I wouldn't publish another one either. Every adult must read this one.
Going in a completely different direction, Talk to the Snail: Ten Commandments for Understanding the French, by Stephen Clarke, is about a Brit who has a love/hate relationship with the French. (Don't we all?) In this book he good-naturedly shares his 10 tips for dealing with and living with the French. Even though he is a crusty Brit, he truly loves the French despite their, well, French-isms. You'll learn, for example, how to deal with rude waiters and better understand why the French always seem to be going on strike. I also recommend Mr. Clarke's other books: In The Merde for Love and Merde Happens.
Savannah Blues, by Mary Kay Andrews. Every now and then a girl needs her chick-lit. This one also turns into a murder mystery and a lesson in antiquing. Again I had to get past the Southern stuff this Yankee girl just doesn't immediately understand, most notably the names and the importance placed on who you are (family names) and who you know. If you're in the mood for something breezy with a bit more plot than you usually find in chick-lit, I recommend this one.
Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott, is another writer's guide to the writing life. Along with On Writing, by Stephen King, (see previous review here) B by B shows the human side of what writers face (and put themselves through). Mr. King comes across as a more confident about his writing while Anne Lamott shows us what an insecure bundle of nerves many writers are. I can relate! I found comfort in both books and refer to them often. If you're not a writer but admire what writers do, both of these books provide a glimpse into their solitary yet creative worlds.
There! I'm done. I finished 29 books this year and wrote about them all. There were many more that I started and didn't/couldn't finish. Sometimes the mood wasn't right or the first few pages didn't strike me. Life is too short to read something you don't enjoy. Now I'll contemplate my 2010 resolutions. Maybe I need to revisit that dental floss thing.
Nov 21, 2009
Touching Marital Moment - November version
Me: Hawaii is only a four hour time difference. Yet we'll fly 2-3 more hours to Hawaii than to London which is a six hour time difference. What's up with that?
Hubby: We're flying west and way south. London is more due east.
Me: (Stunned look. Impressed he figured that out before I did.) Gee, thanks, Magellan.
Hubby: (Rolls eyes)
Hubby: We're flying west and way south. London is more due east.
Me: (Stunned look. Impressed he figured that out before I did.) Gee, thanks, Magellan.
Hubby: (Rolls eyes)
Nov 17, 2009
These Boots Were Made for Buying
A four year odyssey has finally ended. It was like searching for the freakin' Holy Grail. I finally, after dozens of failed attempts, found a pair of fashion boots. (Not muck-a-lucks. I do have my standards.) It shouldn't be that difficult. I go into stores that have dozens and dozens of boots. Boots that come up over the knee. Ankle boots that look like they've been amputated. Flat heeled. Spike heeled. Boots with more hardware than my toolbox.
Over the past few years I've seen first-hand how prevalent fashionable boots are, not only here in the States, but in Europe. I began to feel like I was the only woman in Western civilization who was not privy to boots, like my God-given right was being withheld. But I possess a special problem that makes finding boots difficult, if not almost impossible: I have large narrow feet and scrawny calves. Think of a clown with freakishly small calf muscles.
My quest for the perfect boot began more than three years ago in Portugal. Let me tell you, if you want to do some serious shoe/boot shopping, may I suggest Lisbon. There was a plethora of stores that catered to price sensitive, shoe-crazy women. That was the good news. The bad news was that Portuguese women are small in stature...and feet. My big size 9 American feet translated into a size 40 European shoe. Big-footed American women are not who Portuguese shoe companies have in mind. My girlfriend, Susie, had no problem finding great buys and styles for her 7.5 size foot. When I asked store clerks for a size 40 they would look at me sympathetically and shake their head, the universal symbol for 'Sorry, you clown-footed Yankee.'
My overseas search for a fashionable, well-fitting boot continued the next year in Paris where I went to more boot stores than patisseries. The look was skinny jeans in knee high boots with a low heel. It was easier to find mammoth size 40s but the boots swam around my ill-developed calves. I considered calf implants briefly. Okay, for an hour or so. After trying on a couple dozen pair of boots I gave up and turned my attention to croissants and aperitifs.
In Prague the following year I didn't have the heart to waste my precious international time schlepping in and out of shoe stores. Though my lineage is Eastern European, I think the average Czech woman probably has better proportioned calves. So I focused on the liquid chocolate the Czechs call hot chocolate and put my boot quest on hiatus.
This fall I was determined to find something, anything. Maybe I could hire a boot seamstress who could custom fit me. I had a snappy dress that I wanted to wear with tights and boots. So I set off for the local mall and a take no prisoner attitude. Shockingly I found a pair of boots that fit the bill. The irony was not lost on me that I've travelled thousands of miles in search of the perfect boot, and that boot was five miles from my home. You're a funny dude, God.
The trick, I realized, was to have the boots tie in the back. Aha! Custom fit the top of the boot around the calf. Large- and small-calved women are happy. I'd like to send a letter and fruit basket to the designer. I want to live in those boots until the open-toe, strappy shoe season returns in the spring. Instead I hug them every morning like a long-lost puppy. In four or five years I'll go in search of another pair.
Over the past few years I've seen first-hand how prevalent fashionable boots are, not only here in the States, but in Europe. I began to feel like I was the only woman in Western civilization who was not privy to boots, like my God-given right was being withheld. But I possess a special problem that makes finding boots difficult, if not almost impossible: I have large narrow feet and scrawny calves. Think of a clown with freakishly small calf muscles.
My quest for the perfect boot began more than three years ago in Portugal. Let me tell you, if you want to do some serious shoe/boot shopping, may I suggest Lisbon. There was a plethora of stores that catered to price sensitive, shoe-crazy women. That was the good news. The bad news was that Portuguese women are small in stature...and feet. My big size 9 American feet translated into a size 40 European shoe. Big-footed American women are not who Portuguese shoe companies have in mind. My girlfriend, Susie, had no problem finding great buys and styles for her 7.5 size foot. When I asked store clerks for a size 40 they would look at me sympathetically and shake their head, the universal symbol for 'Sorry, you clown-footed Yankee.'
My overseas search for a fashionable, well-fitting boot continued the next year in Paris where I went to more boot stores than patisseries. The look was skinny jeans in knee high boots with a low heel. It was easier to find mammoth size 40s but the boots swam around my ill-developed calves. I considered calf implants briefly. Okay, for an hour or so. After trying on a couple dozen pair of boots I gave up and turned my attention to croissants and aperitifs.
In Prague the following year I didn't have the heart to waste my precious international time schlepping in and out of shoe stores. Though my lineage is Eastern European, I think the average Czech woman probably has better proportioned calves. So I focused on the liquid chocolate the Czechs call hot chocolate and put my boot quest on hiatus.
This fall I was determined to find something, anything. Maybe I could hire a boot seamstress who could custom fit me. I had a snappy dress that I wanted to wear with tights and boots. So I set off for the local mall and a take no prisoner attitude. Shockingly I found a pair of boots that fit the bill. The irony was not lost on me that I've travelled thousands of miles in search of the perfect boot, and that boot was five miles from my home. You're a funny dude, God.
The trick, I realized, was to have the boots tie in the back. Aha! Custom fit the top of the boot around the calf. Large- and small-calved women are happy. I'd like to send a letter and fruit basket to the designer. I want to live in those boots until the open-toe, strappy shoe season returns in the spring. Instead I hug them every morning like a long-lost puppy. In four or five years I'll go in search of another pair.
Are You Hungry, Man?
Getting ready for the big Thanksgiving holiday.
Turkey. Check.
Appropriate side dishes. Check.
Pumpkin pie for me. Check.
Cherry pie for Hubby. Check.
Everything is in the freezer, ready for preparation. Fortunately prep work will only include the microwave and oven. This is the easiest, fastest Thanksgiving meal I've ever prepared. No chopping, roasting or agonizing how to make an edible gravy. Better yet, no guests beside me, Hubby and the cat.
To what do I owe my express meal? Swanson and Sara Lee, of course.
You see, dinner will be served thanks to Swanson's Hungry-Man dinners. Yep, one pound of food per person should cover any hunger pangs. Sara Lee is providing the pies. Just throw those puppies in the oven and, presto, dessert for days. All I need is a can of that whip cream to put the finishing touch on my masterpiece.
Before you think I am void of any cooking abilities, Hubby and I are returning from Maui on Thanksgiving afternoon via the red eye. If I can manage to heat up the super size frozen dinners and not burn down the house making pies, I believe we will have a feast. We'll be so jet lagged I didn't think it would matter if we ate that or a shoe box. There will not be full consciousness in this house until at least Saturday.
The Hungry-Man turkey dinner weighs in at 600+ calories and thousands of grams of sodium. I bet if I counted the calories of Thanksgiving meals past, even the homemade variety, it would be less than what we plan to chow down this year. So I consider 2009 the year of the diet Thanksgiving. Yum.
Turkey. Check.
Appropriate side dishes. Check.
Pumpkin pie for me. Check.
Cherry pie for Hubby. Check.
Everything is in the freezer, ready for preparation. Fortunately prep work will only include the microwave and oven. This is the easiest, fastest Thanksgiving meal I've ever prepared. No chopping, roasting or agonizing how to make an edible gravy. Better yet, no guests beside me, Hubby and the cat.
To what do I owe my express meal? Swanson and Sara Lee, of course.
You see, dinner will be served thanks to Swanson's Hungry-Man dinners. Yep, one pound of food per person should cover any hunger pangs. Sara Lee is providing the pies. Just throw those puppies in the oven and, presto, dessert for days. All I need is a can of that whip cream to put the finishing touch on my masterpiece.
Before you think I am void of any cooking abilities, Hubby and I are returning from Maui on Thanksgiving afternoon via the red eye. If I can manage to heat up the super size frozen dinners and not burn down the house making pies, I believe we will have a feast. We'll be so jet lagged I didn't think it would matter if we ate that or a shoe box. There will not be full consciousness in this house until at least Saturday.
The Hungry-Man turkey dinner weighs in at 600+ calories and thousands of grams of sodium. I bet if I counted the calories of Thanksgiving meals past, even the homemade variety, it would be less than what we plan to chow down this year. So I consider 2009 the year of the diet Thanksgiving. Yum.
Oct 25, 2009
Mini Book Review - Oct Edition
I've been on a nonfiction kick lately. Tried to read Angels & Demons and couldn't get past the obvious formula that makes it so similar to The DaVinci Code. Tried a few other fiction books and decided that my brain wasn't in the mood right now.
But there was one fiction book I did read that I forgot to report about earlier. Unpredictable by Eileen Cook was fun. It's fluffy chick lit but a good read. The main character, Sophie, is desperate to get her boyfriend back. In fact it appears that Sophie may be a couple sandwiches short of a picnic -- she' so shameless. She meets a university professor who studies psychics and soon Sophie is a fake psychic. I'll leave it at that so as not give away the plot. Sophie does eventually take hold of her rationale mind. If she remained all psycho, I might have given up on the book.
I'm reading more books about writing and writers. Susan Shapiro has written a number of books in both the memoir genre and writing guides. Only As Good As Your Word: Writing Lessons from My Favorite Literary Gurus is a broad perspective about the many writers who've influenced Shapiro. Shapiro has been fortunate to have befriended so many influential writers in her career. Makes me want to move to NYC and start networking. But for those of us outside of Manhattan, this book helps us learn from some of the best.
I also read one of Shapiro's memoirs, Lighting Up: How I Stopped Smoking, Drinking, and Everything Else I Love in Life Except Sex. She has the ability to take a serious subject (addiction) and give it heart and humor. Her lifelong love is cigarettes, and when she decides to break the habit she learns how one addiction is often swapped out for another. Dr. Winters, her not-so-conventional addiction specialist, starts her on the slow process of breaking each addiction. While I've never battled addiction, I could relate to the inner struggle to get one's mental house in order. Plus Shapiro is such an honest writer that I was drawn into her struggle and victories.
On a recent trip to the library I picked up a couple of books I may not have otherwise read. The first is What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami. Murakami is a novelist and a long distance runner. In this book he describes what motivates him to run and write. It's a quick read and provides insight into why people run marathons. I'm not a runner but could appreciate the discipline to both run and write.
A book I finished just last night was The Girls From Ames: A Story of Women and a Forty-Year Friendship by Jeffrey Zaslow. This is about eleven girls who grew up together in Ames, Iowa and maintained that friendship into their mid-40s. Their strong bond says a lot about the friendships women nurture throughout their lives. The Ames girls are ordinary in one respect but extraordinary in how they have been a constant support to each other. Smartly written and deeply touching, The Girls From Ames makes you want to contact your girlfriends and give them a big hug.
But there was one fiction book I did read that I forgot to report about earlier. Unpredictable by Eileen Cook was fun. It's fluffy chick lit but a good read. The main character, Sophie, is desperate to get her boyfriend back. In fact it appears that Sophie may be a couple sandwiches short of a picnic -- she' so shameless. She meets a university professor who studies psychics and soon Sophie is a fake psychic. I'll leave it at that so as not give away the plot. Sophie does eventually take hold of her rationale mind. If she remained all psycho, I might have given up on the book.
I'm reading more books about writing and writers. Susan Shapiro has written a number of books in both the memoir genre and writing guides. Only As Good As Your Word: Writing Lessons from My Favorite Literary Gurus is a broad perspective about the many writers who've influenced Shapiro. Shapiro has been fortunate to have befriended so many influential writers in her career. Makes me want to move to NYC and start networking. But for those of us outside of Manhattan, this book helps us learn from some of the best.
I also read one of Shapiro's memoirs, Lighting Up: How I Stopped Smoking, Drinking, and Everything Else I Love in Life Except Sex. She has the ability to take a serious subject (addiction) and give it heart and humor. Her lifelong love is cigarettes, and when she decides to break the habit she learns how one addiction is often swapped out for another. Dr. Winters, her not-so-conventional addiction specialist, starts her on the slow process of breaking each addiction. While I've never battled addiction, I could relate to the inner struggle to get one's mental house in order. Plus Shapiro is such an honest writer that I was drawn into her struggle and victories.
On a recent trip to the library I picked up a couple of books I may not have otherwise read. The first is What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami. Murakami is a novelist and a long distance runner. In this book he describes what motivates him to run and write. It's a quick read and provides insight into why people run marathons. I'm not a runner but could appreciate the discipline to both run and write.
A book I finished just last night was The Girls From Ames: A Story of Women and a Forty-Year Friendship by Jeffrey Zaslow. This is about eleven girls who grew up together in Ames, Iowa and maintained that friendship into their mid-40s. Their strong bond says a lot about the friendships women nurture throughout their lives. The Ames girls are ordinary in one respect but extraordinary in how they have been a constant support to each other. Smartly written and deeply touching, The Girls From Ames makes you want to contact your girlfriends and give them a big hug.
Sep 14, 2009
I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream...
There's a fad I'm not hip with yet. It involves yelling at inappropriate times. The leaders of the current trend include South Carolina representative Joe Wilson, tennis superstar Serena Williams and rap master Kanye West. For the love of John McEnroe, what is going on?
Tourette Syndrome involves tics and may include verbal tics. We usually think of uncontrolled outbursts of profanities. Not true, I've learned during my in depth research. (Ok, I read Wikipedia.) The verbal Tourette's is relatively rare. So that doesn't explain these celebrity rants.
I got to thinking that maybe wealthy people lose their inner filter that screens out inappropriate verbiage and behaviors. Or perhaps this is related to the swine flu epidemic and is an early symptom of the illness. But if that were the case, right now college campuses, where swine flu is running rampant, would be cesspools of profanity (more so than they already are).
If this is the next big thing then I must get on board. Hell, I just bought an iPod Touch and have loaded apps. I'm hip and current. So here's how my yell thing is going to work: At odd times I am going to yell "Nordstroms!" "Bacon!" "Wine club!" Maybe I can get attention and create long, drawn out discussions on news websites or on talking head TV news. I'm sure my coworkers, friends and husband will be delighted. For sure I know Nordies, Oscar Mayer and Napa Valley will be cheering me on.
Tourette Syndrome involves tics and may include verbal tics. We usually think of uncontrolled outbursts of profanities. Not true, I've learned during my in depth research. (Ok, I read Wikipedia.) The verbal Tourette's is relatively rare. So that doesn't explain these celebrity rants.
I got to thinking that maybe wealthy people lose their inner filter that screens out inappropriate verbiage and behaviors. Or perhaps this is related to the swine flu epidemic and is an early symptom of the illness. But if that were the case, right now college campuses, where swine flu is running rampant, would be cesspools of profanity (more so than they already are).
If this is the next big thing then I must get on board. Hell, I just bought an iPod Touch and have loaded apps. I'm hip and current. So here's how my yell thing is going to work: At odd times I am going to yell "Nordstroms!" "Bacon!" "Wine club!" Maybe I can get attention and create long, drawn out discussions on news websites or on talking head TV news. I'm sure my coworkers, friends and husband will be delighted. For sure I know Nordies, Oscar Mayer and Napa Valley will be cheering me on.
Sep 12, 2009
The Longest Bile
The gallbladder is a pouch that holds bile manufactured in the liver. It’s located just below the stomach and squirts bile into the small intestine when recently eaten food passes by. One of bile’s functions is to help break down the fat you’ve eaten so it can be further digested in the small intestine. At times people need to have their gallbladders removed because cholesterol stones block the bile duct. One can function just fine without a gallbladder or so it would seem.
The other night my still intact gallbladder sent me a text message. It read: “Stop the madness, you gluttonous pig!”
My gallbladder was working at a breakneck pace. The reason? I was eating Alaskan king crab legs at a record setting pace. With butter. Lots and lots of creamery, sweet, buttery tasting butter.
The next text read: “Yo, bitch! Don’t think I’m going to let you off the hook. How about a salad or some fruit?”
So the gallbladder did what gallbladders do. It seemingly stopped working leaving undigested crab and butter sitting in my ever expanding stomach. When I woke up the next morning I felt like the snake that ate the mouse. I had what can best be called a Food Hangover. The feeling persisted through the next day: queasy, irritable, fat.
Oh, my god! I thought. I have butter toxicity! I bet a blood test would show that I have pure 100%, USDA Grade A butter circulating in my arteries. Obviously, my body quit trying to digest the butter and let it all go straight into the bloodstream. That would explain the hardening of the arteries that leads to my stomach, causing that organ to stop working too.
If a vampire would want my blood I could only hope he wouldn’t have high cholesterol or I’d kill him before he killed me. Or maybe that’s my defense (instead of the garlic necklace).
I uncomfortably got through the rest of the day and have cut waaay back on my fat intake since. Butter is one of my true loves (along with bacon), but we need a cooling off period for awhile. In the meantime, my gallbladder is kicking back in Cabo trying to get past the whole ugly incident.
The other night my still intact gallbladder sent me a text message. It read: “Stop the madness, you gluttonous pig!”
My gallbladder was working at a breakneck pace. The reason? I was eating Alaskan king crab legs at a record setting pace. With butter. Lots and lots of creamery, sweet, buttery tasting butter.
The next text read: “Yo, bitch! Don’t think I’m going to let you off the hook. How about a salad or some fruit?”
So the gallbladder did what gallbladders do. It seemingly stopped working leaving undigested crab and butter sitting in my ever expanding stomach. When I woke up the next morning I felt like the snake that ate the mouse. I had what can best be called a Food Hangover. The feeling persisted through the next day: queasy, irritable, fat.
Oh, my god! I thought. I have butter toxicity! I bet a blood test would show that I have pure 100%, USDA Grade A butter circulating in my arteries. Obviously, my body quit trying to digest the butter and let it all go straight into the bloodstream. That would explain the hardening of the arteries that leads to my stomach, causing that organ to stop working too.
If a vampire would want my blood I could only hope he wouldn’t have high cholesterol or I’d kill him before he killed me. Or maybe that’s my defense (instead of the garlic necklace).
I uncomfortably got through the rest of the day and have cut waaay back on my fat intake since. Butter is one of my true loves (along with bacon), but we need a cooling off period for awhile. In the meantime, my gallbladder is kicking back in Cabo trying to get past the whole ugly incident.
Sep 7, 2009
Mini Book Review - Labor Day
I cannot believe summer is about to become a distant memory. The college football and all-important preseason NFL stuff should have tipped me off. Maybe the end of summer seemed to zipped by because I had my nose in a book for most of August and this holiday weekend. Lots to share:
Many books have been written about Americans in France. (If you'd like a Brit's take on the French experience I highly recommend the books of Peter Mayle.) The upshot of these books is the different lifestyle and the almost religious devotion to food and drink. I'll Never Be French: Living in a Small Village in Brittany, by Mark Greenside, is a tale of how one man went to France, bought a house on an impulse, and came to love the small village and people who inhabit it. You'll be ready to book your trip and learn more about the little talked-about area of Brittany.
One of the big events of my summer was the movie Julie and Julia. I was there opening weekend with my foodie friend (who graduated from culinary school herself.) The movie is based on two books: Julie and Julia by Julie Powell and My Life In France by Julia Child. I read the Julie Powell book a couple years ago and, around the same time, listened to the audiobook of My Life In France. After seeing Meryl Streep channel Julia Child I just had to revisit her book. And what it treat it was. This was a woman who clearly loved France, their food and her life. If we all embrace life like Julia did, we would be far happier people.
I've never been able to read the horror genre. Too many nights sleeping with the lights on. I don't even see scary or graphic movies since the images sear into my brain for way too long. But I do love Stephen King. I can't read most of his books (due to my queasy brain) but I've been a fan of his other writing (as a columnist in Entertainment Weekly) and the book On Writing. The first third of the book is an autobiography taking us from his not-so-easy childhood to young adulthood where he honed his craft and started selling his addictive novels. The remainder of the book is his advice for writers. I may tattoo King's words of wisdom on my arm so as not to forget anything. A gift to writers and anyone interested in the creative process.
I can't be so enthusiastic about Happens Every Day by Isabel Gillies. Recommended by a friend, it only took me a day to slam through the true story of a wife of a university professor who's husband falls out of love with her and in love with a colleague. I read the book reviews after the fact and readers fell into two camps: (1) those who empathize with Isabel and her rotten husband and (2) those who don't quite understand what point she's trying to make. Count me in camp #2. Yes, it is a sad story and she does survive. But I don't understand what insight she gained or how she grew as a person. In fact, I found some of her behavior odd as she tried to save her marriage. Her denial ran deep and her actions made her look quite sad. Read this one for yourself and see what camp you fall into.
Another quick read was My Stroke of Insight: A Brain Scientist's Personal Journey by Jill Bolte Taylor, PhD. The author was a neuroscientist in her late-30s when she suffered a stroke. The left side of her brain (the area that is analytical and linear) was damaged while the right brain flourished. Bolte Taylor does recover after years of work, but she learned how to keep the insightful and joyful right brain a part of her daily life. If you're left-brained (like me) it's a must read. In fact my head now sits more upright on my neck instead of falling to the left every time I make a list or analyze numbers. Yay right brain!
I'm feeling like some fiction next. Stephen King highly recommends the Harry Potter books. Uh oh. I feel the need to get some round spectacles.
Many books have been written about Americans in France. (If you'd like a Brit's take on the French experience I highly recommend the books of Peter Mayle.) The upshot of these books is the different lifestyle and the almost religious devotion to food and drink. I'll Never Be French: Living in a Small Village in Brittany, by Mark Greenside, is a tale of how one man went to France, bought a house on an impulse, and came to love the small village and people who inhabit it. You'll be ready to book your trip and learn more about the little talked-about area of Brittany.
One of the big events of my summer was the movie Julie and Julia. I was there opening weekend with my foodie friend (who graduated from culinary school herself.) The movie is based on two books: Julie and Julia by Julie Powell and My Life In France by Julia Child. I read the Julie Powell book a couple years ago and, around the same time, listened to the audiobook of My Life In France. After seeing Meryl Streep channel Julia Child I just had to revisit her book. And what it treat it was. This was a woman who clearly loved France, their food and her life. If we all embrace life like Julia did, we would be far happier people.
I've never been able to read the horror genre. Too many nights sleeping with the lights on. I don't even see scary or graphic movies since the images sear into my brain for way too long. But I do love Stephen King. I can't read most of his books (due to my queasy brain) but I've been a fan of his other writing (as a columnist in Entertainment Weekly) and the book On Writing. The first third of the book is an autobiography taking us from his not-so-easy childhood to young adulthood where he honed his craft and started selling his addictive novels. The remainder of the book is his advice for writers. I may tattoo King's words of wisdom on my arm so as not to forget anything. A gift to writers and anyone interested in the creative process.
I can't be so enthusiastic about Happens Every Day by Isabel Gillies. Recommended by a friend, it only took me a day to slam through the true story of a wife of a university professor who's husband falls out of love with her and in love with a colleague. I read the book reviews after the fact and readers fell into two camps: (1) those who empathize with Isabel and her rotten husband and (2) those who don't quite understand what point she's trying to make. Count me in camp #2. Yes, it is a sad story and she does survive. But I don't understand what insight she gained or how she grew as a person. In fact, I found some of her behavior odd as she tried to save her marriage. Her denial ran deep and her actions made her look quite sad. Read this one for yourself and see what camp you fall into.
Another quick read was My Stroke of Insight: A Brain Scientist's Personal Journey by Jill Bolte Taylor, PhD. The author was a neuroscientist in her late-30s when she suffered a stroke. The left side of her brain (the area that is analytical and linear) was damaged while the right brain flourished. Bolte Taylor does recover after years of work, but she learned how to keep the insightful and joyful right brain a part of her daily life. If you're left-brained (like me) it's a must read. In fact my head now sits more upright on my neck instead of falling to the left every time I make a list or analyze numbers. Yay right brain!
I'm feeling like some fiction next. Stephen King highly recommends the Harry Potter books. Uh oh. I feel the need to get some round spectacles.
Aug 30, 2009
Dumb Headlines Are Dumb
I was online this past week catching up on news (and celebrity gossip since my People subscription is now history). I saw a headline that asked:
What's Next For Ted Kennedy?
This was Thursday. The senator had passed away earlier in the week. The first responses that came into my head were:
"Continued death" and
"More of the same"
Really. Who wrote that headline? A fan of 'Weekend at Bernies'? Perhaps the more correct headline would have been:
What's Next for Ted Kennedy's Body?
I mean when you're dead there isn't much of a next thing in store. It's kind of a moot point, right?
Upon further consideration I'm sure the headline writer is a recent college grad making minimum wage to break into online news. The problem is with the editor who let that go out. Unfortunately the headline was changed before I got a screen shot as proof.
So take my word for it. Either that or I was in another allergy-related haze. Which is entirely possible.
What's Next For Ted Kennedy?
This was Thursday. The senator had passed away earlier in the week. The first responses that came into my head were:
"Continued death" and
"More of the same"
Really. Who wrote that headline? A fan of 'Weekend at Bernies'? Perhaps the more correct headline would have been:
What's Next for Ted Kennedy's Body?
I mean when you're dead there isn't much of a next thing in store. It's kind of a moot point, right?
Upon further consideration I'm sure the headline writer is a recent college grad making minimum wage to break into online news. The problem is with the editor who let that go out. Unfortunately the headline was changed before I got a screen shot as proof.
So take my word for it. Either that or I was in another allergy-related haze. Which is entirely possible.
Aug 24, 2009
May I Have Your Pic-a-nic Basket?
Enjoying a lovely late summer evening in America's Northwoods. Good friends, good wine, lots of laughs. All of sudden TJ says, "Oh, my God!" I turn around expecting to see a cool loon or a spiffy boat. Instead I see a bear cub running past us about 10 yards away.
We collectively gasp. Of the 5 in the group, 4 start running for the house. TJ has an armful of wine bottles and Reidel stemware. (If she was on the Titanic, she would have taken a whole lifeboat for her and the wine.) I grabbed nothing but my panic and headed for the safety of the indoors. (See here for how I have handled life-threatening in the past.)
As we're all running for our lives (not because bear cubs are scary but mama bears certainly are) Tam wanted to say hello and "pet the bear." A couple of us stopped in disbelief. This ain't Boo Boo looking for Yogi or Mr. Ranger or a puppy. Tam's hubby grabbed her arm and pulled her kicking and screaming into the house. All evening she has been stating her case as to why we were never in danger and the bear wanted to make some new friends.
The adreneline rush will keep me awake for awhile. Guess I'll surf the Hannah Barbera website to pass the time.
Aug 20, 2009
Is This Man Deranged?
I'm appalled at the circus that is Brett Favre. The future hall of fame, retired-unretired-not-sure, gotta-get-surgery-oh-never-mind-what-the-heck-I'll-play quarterback is back. Again. Of course one needs predictability in life: summer fades into fall, Thanksgiving comes before Christmas, the Big 10 will suck in football bowl games. These are all things I know for sure and can rely on.
A new certainty has sprung into our lives the same way mosquitoes know when to reappear each summer. Brett Favre will retire, unretire, contradict himself and lead us on a wild goose chase each spring and summer. For some reason we care (probably to take our minds off of the latest steroid mess in Major League Baseball).
I don't believe that Mr. Favre is a wavering mess of uncertainty. Each post-season he crafts a well-orchestrated agenda for how the next season will play out.
March: Choose the team; ones close to Wisconsin are favored
April: Make comments to the media about coming back but cloak with vague comments about diminished ability
May: Leak info about health issues; have family make hotel reservations for future games
June: Be sure future head coach is found to have had recent contact
July: Promise to make final decision by month end
Early August: Formally announce intention to stay retired
Late August: Unretire (just as training camp is wrapping up)
And that, my friends, is the reason why Number 4 goes through this mockery each year. Dude doesn't want to go to training camp. This is a long drawn-out precision drill to avoid what he doesn't want: living in a dorm room to be yelled at by coaches and sweated on by teammates. BF would have announced his return months ago if he was given a Get Out Of Training Camp Free Monopoly card.
Why does this bug so me much? Many are outraged that he will play for one of the Green Bay Packers mortal enemies. Others are tired of his wishy-washy ways. Hey, retire or don't. Just make up your freakin' mind. I am most bothered by the manipulation...all in a ploy to get out of two-a-days. This isn't about his heart or the ableness of his throwing arm. It's about having it his way with his own set of rules. That is what we call a true male diva, kids.
I will watch the Packer-Vikings games with interest and look closely at how his teammates, you know, the ones who worked their asses off in training camp, interact with him.
So grab a brat and a beer. Let's see how this gig plays out.
Thanks to the snarky guys at Sconnie Nation for entertaining me to no end with their 'Brent' Favre commemorative t-shirt. You guys are brilliant.
The Latest Touching Marital Moment
Me: Hey, I have a small tear in my rotator cuff just like Brett Favre
Hubby: But you're not going to make $25 million in the next two years
Hubby: But you're not going to make $25 million in the next two years
Aug 18, 2009
More Fun Than A Barrel Full of, er, Cats
My latest fun thing to do is visit the website http://icanhascheezburger.com/. This site always makes me laugh. To appreciate the comedy that is I Can Has Cheezburger one must know a few things:
- Cats speak an odd, almost Eastern European style of English. They also don't spell very well.
- Cats live for cheeseburgers; their favorite food
- Black cats are known as 'basement cats' and want to steal your soul
- White cats are 'ceiling cats' and have heavenly traits
- Each pic is captioned but don't forget to read the secondary caption below in blue
- Dogs are called 'goggies' and aren't completely trustworthy
Besides LOLcats, there are also LOLdogs, LOL celebrities and a Fail Blog on this site. But the cats create the most humor. You don't even need to be a cat lover. For every cute pic there are about 10 smarmy ones.
Above is my LOLcat of MJ, our 12 year old kitteh. He likes only two living beings: me and Hubby. He isn't a nasty cat, just shy and suspicious of strangers. Last year we dog sat the perfect dog, God's dog if you will. MJ was not a fan. To this day Hubby can pant like a dog and freak out MJ. We all need a hobby I guess.
The site posts about 5 pics a day which makes it perfect for quick breaks at work. At some point the IT gods will catch on and block that site like they do YouTube and Facebook. In the meantime you can find me in my cubicle LOLing.
Jul 26, 2009
Reuniting With An Ex
I’m feeling a bit uppity today. An old love recently re-entered my life. We had a heady relationship in my early 20s – lots of late nights and early mornings. It was an exciting, frenzied time when I felt focused and more like myself than ever before (and, in some ways, ever since). When we had to break it off in my mid-20s, I was having heart palpitations and had become increasingly miserable. My too-much-of-a-good thing relationship had run its course. It was time for me to walk away and find my way in the adult world. For a long time I didn’t miss my love; I didn’t dwell on what was in my past. Then the spring of 2009 happened and fate brought us together again.
Yes, my old love, caffeine, is back giving me joy and, uh, alertness like I haven’t had in many a day/month/year/decade. So I know you’re asking: how could a common chemical make you into a swooning teenager again? Don’t you remember how badly it all ended?
This spring I was facing a Sophie’s Choice type of dilemma. You’d probably have done the same thing.
My lifelong spring hay fever kicked in with a vengeance. I was housebound, told to stay in air conditioning and limit physical activity. I was constantly sleepy and a wee bit cranky (ok, a lot bitchy). My whole life consisted of the inside of my house, the interior of my car and my basement work cubicle. The outside world was dead to me –doctor’s orders.
The Herculean challenge was finding an anti-histamine I could tolerate. Like Goldilocks, one made me very sleepy, another made me very uptight, and the third made me as stupid as bucket of sand. I missed work, stared off into space and wondered if I my skin would become so pasty that I would be translucent.
I worked with the allergy clinic on options and we kept coming back to one drug that had helped me in the past but just wasn’t keeping me coherent this time. (see here for more about my prior adventures) We decided to ditch the generic and go with the name brand even thought I had to pay more for it. Bingo! I got a bit sleepy but not all moronic like I had with the generic. Suddenly I could take part in the outside world. I abandoned my plans to live as cloistered nun and rejoined society.
But the sleepiness, while not debilitating, was an undercurrent in my life. Then one day at work I filled a cup with ice and poured in a fully-sugared Coca Cola. In about a half hour I swear I could see the face of god and recite Shakespeare. I was witty, jovial and, most surprising, focused. It was the focus that I had been lacking for, what, months? Years? Now I recall how I got through college.
I need to be careful how much time I spend with my old love. Too much and I am blathering my way to edginess and spending late nights looking for life’s answers on my bedroom ceiling – fully awake.
I see where we went wrong all those year ago. We spent too much time together. By finding that right balance I think we will be a wonderful couple once again.
Yes, my old love, caffeine, is back giving me joy and, uh, alertness like I haven’t had in many a day/month/year/decade. So I know you’re asking: how could a common chemical make you into a swooning teenager again? Don’t you remember how badly it all ended?
This spring I was facing a Sophie’s Choice type of dilemma. You’d probably have done the same thing.
My lifelong spring hay fever kicked in with a vengeance. I was housebound, told to stay in air conditioning and limit physical activity. I was constantly sleepy and a wee bit cranky (ok, a lot bitchy). My whole life consisted of the inside of my house, the interior of my car and my basement work cubicle. The outside world was dead to me –doctor’s orders.
The Herculean challenge was finding an anti-histamine I could tolerate. Like Goldilocks, one made me very sleepy, another made me very uptight, and the third made me as stupid as bucket of sand. I missed work, stared off into space and wondered if I my skin would become so pasty that I would be translucent.
I worked with the allergy clinic on options and we kept coming back to one drug that had helped me in the past but just wasn’t keeping me coherent this time. (see here for more about my prior adventures) We decided to ditch the generic and go with the name brand even thought I had to pay more for it. Bingo! I got a bit sleepy but not all moronic like I had with the generic. Suddenly I could take part in the outside world. I abandoned my plans to live as cloistered nun and rejoined society.
But the sleepiness, while not debilitating, was an undercurrent in my life. Then one day at work I filled a cup with ice and poured in a fully-sugared Coca Cola. In about a half hour I swear I could see the face of god and recite Shakespeare. I was witty, jovial and, most surprising, focused. It was the focus that I had been lacking for, what, months? Years? Now I recall how I got through college.
I need to be careful how much time I spend with my old love. Too much and I am blathering my way to edginess and spending late nights looking for life’s answers on my bedroom ceiling – fully awake.
I see where we went wrong all those year ago. We spent too much time together. By finding that right balance I think we will be a wonderful couple once again.
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