Duly Noted

Here's to an Early Spring

2012-02-02T05:00:00.000-05:00

Sleep Write

2012-02-01T05:00:00.001-05:00

On nights that I have trouble falling asleep, my mind seems to be inundated with blog ideas. Scraps of brilliance (or something like) come to me. You probably think I should keep a notebook near for occasions such as this. Yet I’ve never understood the logistics of keeping pen and paper near one’s bed. I tend to sleep in the dark. It’s hard to write when you can’t see, and I can’t see much in the dark. (I’m nearsighted, so I can’t see much in the light either.) The way I see (ha) it, to write down an idea that comes to me as I’m falling asleep, I’d have to turn a light on, grab the notebook, and write the idea down while squinting. None of those activities is conducive to sleep.

Lately, regardless of when I finally go unconscious, I have been having the most wicked* dreams. Dreams where I am on trips, where I am at restaurants, and where I am strangely untroubled by other people despite their proximity to me. I wake up from these dreams incredibly well-rested and ready for the day.

I can only conclude that I am somehow tapping into an alternate universe, and that alt-me is on a really kickass vacation. SHE doesn't get told to write her nighttime thoughts in a notebook, I bet. Then again, it's never nighttime in my dreams. Freud scholars, what make ye of this? Do I even want to know? Why are all my dreams set during the day and almost all of them outside? I HATE THE OUTSIDE!

Does this mean alt-me is some hippie treehugger? Typical.

* Used in the Boston sense, as in "wicked awesome," as in "The Celtics! Wicked awesome!"

Angry Birds, For Real

2012-01-31T05:00:00.000-05:00

Though my favorite Hitchcock film is Rear Window, The Birds is probably the most well-known of his oeuvre. Viewers connect with it on a visceral level, unlike the machinations of my fave (binoculars, Perry Mason, Grace Kelly, etc.). And I think enough of us have had bad avian run-ins to be at least moderately annoyed with the genus, if not outright pissed. I mean, they poop on us, they fly at us, they peck holes in stuff, they give us flu. Egad. They start swarming Tippi Hedren and we collectively Freak Out because It Could Have Been Us.

Then I find out that the film is loosely based on truth. In 1960s Monterey Bay, birds mysteriously started flying into buildings and acting bizarrely.

Um. WHAT?!

Luckily, science has for once proven itself useful and discovered that toxins in the Bay probably caused the erratic behavior. These toxins were likely from leaky septic tanks, so the laugh really is on us…until it turns to horrified shrieking as the avians attack.

The first time I saw The Birds was during my summer of Hitchcock a few years back. I was prepared to be terrified in ways I’d not experienced since I saw Signs, which continues to be the film that most profoundly affected me. Sheer nerves for three weeks. Completely illogical. Anyway, my dad saw The Birds when it was first released, and he talked it up during my childhood as incredibly scary. (Fun fact: His Signs is The Exorcist. A film I will definitely never see, because my dad is a former Marine, and anything that scares the batshit out of him would certainly kill me.)

Then I saw the movie and was relatively unscathed. Part of it was the good-for-the-time special effects, which are less impressive when viewed through the jaded modern lens of IMAX IN 3D NOW WITH 4D AND SMELLOVISION. Not that I’m suggesting they remake The Birds. For one, Hitchcock is dead. For two, a remake of The Birds would probably end up something like Van Helsing. Bad idea.

Basically, unless a bird is selling me cereal, living on Sesame Street, or a friend of Colonel Sanders, I’m going to keep my distance.

Lukewarm Pockets Would Be Ideal

2012-01-30T05:00:00.000-05:00

There are days when you feel like a grownup, and then there are days when you eat nothing but Hot Pockets.

Hot Pockets certainly aren’t the pinnacle of food evolution, because they take entirely too long to cool. I counteract this by splitting them open, thus increasing surface area. Then again, I’m no novice when it comes to Hot Pockets. (Note to self: New catchphrase?)

So when I read that some guy has invented a video game controller that doubles as a Hot Pocket holder, I switched from “grumpy” to “pleased” for several minutes in a row. Though I’m not a gamer, I’ve covered enough keyboards in grease to have learned that humans really need an extra hand. I can’t eat and type at the same time, unless I’m slurping soup with a straw, and really not even then.

You THINK you can do it, at first. “I will just type with one hand and eat with one hand, tra-la.” But if you’re like me, you eat with your dominant hand.* So you’re typing with a single, non-dominant hand. 80 wpm (your mileage may vary) goes to like 20, tops. Oh, you have a password that requires a Shift + combination? HAHAHAHAHA. You’re going to give yourself arthritis, all because you thought you could tweet while eating a pot pie. It’s like Icarus, except for the flying and the sun.

But I’m hoping that this invention will spur others, benefiting the non-gamers. I mean, I do very few things with my hands that wouldn’t benefit from the addition of eating.** Reading. Playing piano. Writing ransom notes. Photography. Corn shucking. And so on. If I didn’t have to stop for meals, well…that’s like one extra episode of Gossip Girl every! single! day!

What is technology for if not the creation of robots that will feed us and cater to our every whim?

* LEFTIES, BOOYAH.
** Get your mind out of the gutter. Honestly.

Sorry I Missed It: Big Shrimpin’

2012-01-26T23:19:00.001-05:00

One of the few benefits of modern reality TV is the opportunity it affords viewers to peek into little-known slices of life. Your humble blogger knew nothing about what it takes to run a pawn shop, buy abandoned storage units, or renovate a restaurant before Pawn Stars, Auction Hunters, and Kitchen Nightmares came along.

While browsing Hulu recently, I found a link for something called Big Shrimpin’. Few things entice me more than shrimp and a terminal apostrophe, so I decided to check it out. What I found was an eight episode program following the crews of three ~~shrimping~~ shrimpin’ boats from Bayou Le Batre, Louisiana. (The show aired on the History Channel over the past few months, but I hadn’t heard anything about it. Probably because I subscribe to neither the History Channel nor TV Guide. Eh.) And while the French student in me cringed every time they pronounced “Batre” as “Bat-ree,” I chalked it up to the South’s general disregard for literacy.

As with Spike’s Coal and its cadre of miners, Big Shrimpin’s shrimpers faced a lot of adversity. A lot. Of adversity. Just when things would be going well, the boat would break down. A net would tear. They’d run out of gloves. A shark would start following the boat. The freezer wouldn’t freeze. Someone’s foot would get infected. Rocks would get caught in the net. The navigation system would stop working. A tropical storm would blow in. A hurricane would blow in. They’d run out of boots. The captain would find out his dad was near death.

YOU GET THE IDEA. Those are all things that happened over the eight episodes!

Frankly, it’s a wonder I get any shrimp at all with which to fill my gullet.*I’d say the ratio of misfortune-to-good times is each episode was about 5-1. I mean, they had plenty of good hauls, and they celebrated and pranked each other and whatnot. But still. You get the feeling that the guys are shrimpers because it was the only option, and not for the love of the game.

And herein lies a fascinating anthropological study of the availability of work in various locations as compared to the chosen professions of the local populations. Or something. It’s like how everyone in West Virginia seems to be connected to coal mining. I doubt it’s because they love risking their lives underground, right? As a citified northerner, I just can’t wrap my head around a community where everyone does one thing, because that one thing is the only work available. Fascinating.

I’ve no idea whether a second season is in the works, either following the same crew again or a different crew altogether or perhaps shrimpers from some other part of the world. I do know that the eight episodes we did get made me appreciate the work that goes into feeding my shrimp addiction.

* Thank you, China, and your giant shrimp farms. Ni-hao!

A True Daily Double

2012-01-24T05:00:00.001-05:00

Online tests for Jeopardy! were held last week. As you may know, I registered for and took the test last year. Nothing came of it, obviously. Not a surprise, since actually getting onto the show involves several hurdles.

First, you have to do well on the online test. It’s 50 questions on topics ranging from geography to literature to history to pop culture. A working knowledge of capitals, large bodies of water, European monarchs, and bands of the mid-20th century is essential. You only get 15 seconds to answer each question, so there’s really no time to Google. Though you don’t have to phrase answers in the form of a question, or spell things exactly right, it’s still not much time. I myself got tripped up quite a few times (once on a BIBLE question, no less!) and can’t say for sure how many questions I got right.

Not that there’s any magic number where the scores are concerned. Do you have to get 40 right? Do you have to rank in the 90th percentile? Those who know aren’t telling. But when you consider that thousands of people take the test and only a couple hundred get on the show, the odds are long. I’m totally cool with that, since the thrill of answering rapid-fire trivia is quite enough for me. That ten minutes will likely end up being the best ten minutes of my 2012.

If you do pass the mysterious screening standard, you get invited to an in-person audition. I’m lucky, because DC is one of the locations where they’re held. Live in Iowa? Tough luck. (For this, and many other reasons.) I’m told the in-person auditions involve playing a sample game, which would be super-cool, if only because I’d get to use a buzzer. And make it a true Daily Double.

No idea how you get from in-person auditions to the actual show. Probably a combination of screen presence and knowledge. Maybe bribes, or Canadian citizenship. But the odds of making it that far are so remote that I’m not chuffed about it.

(See, what I’m doing here is a little thing called “tempting fate.” By making a big deal about how unlikely, nay, near-impossible it is for me to ever make it to Jeopardy!, I’m hoping to in fact end up on the show. If I’m ever going to play a “reverse psychology” card on the universe, I figure I should do it before December 21.)

In case you’re looking to prepare for the next test, some things I wish I’d studied more or at all: Led Zeppelin, Las Vegas magicians, the Mediterranean Sea, Shakespearean characters, the moons of Neptune, and the Spanish-American War. Go.

Our Daily Bread

2012-01-23T05:00:00.000-05:00

Bread bowls are a thing now, I guess? I’ve seen several ads along the lines of “Warm up with soup!” and the soup is always in a bread bowl, so I assume all of America’s meals will soon be served in containers you can eat. Q.E.D. I concede that whether it’s soup, chili, or perhaps a really watery meatloaf, it’s going to taste better in a bread bowl. It’s like those taco salads that come in a giant bowl-shaped tortilla chip. Edible dinnerware makes everyone a winner. (Say that five times fast.)

As a child, I thought one of the most delightful aspects of the Middle Ages was the concept of a trencher. Your lunch was served on a giant slice of bread! C’mon! This infusion of carbohydrates would have completely made up for the diphtheria and Crusades, in my opinion. Why did we stop doing this? Was there a bread shortage? Was it Atkins? Should I blame Tupperware?

Regardless, we have now come full anti-celiac circle and embraced the bread bowl. I hope some day soon to get my Subway sandwich wrapped in a tortilla, and my chips served in a Hot Pocket. Let us not squander the promise of the turducken. Long live food surrounded by additional food. Ideally, starchy food. It seems like a fitting renaissance after years of anti-carb propaganda. As I’m sure you did, I called bs on that some time ago. I knew two people who lost a startling amount of weight while eating little besides butter and bacon, and they have gained it all back. And honestly, if a diet is going to fail, shouldn’t it allow you to have macaroni and cheese?

(Speaking of potatoes, we noticed while in London that the bags of Walker’s chips [a brand whose logo is so similar to that of Lay’s that they must be corporate partners] included a line like “Made with 100% British potatoes.” Is this a sentiment against Irish potatoes or what? How incredibly bitchy. I love it. No filthy Irish spuds in this bag of shrimp-flavored crisps!)

Maybe someday, The Container Store will actually be a restaurant. Here’s hoping.

Snow Daze

2012-01-20T05:00:00.000-05:00

I could really use a snow day. I'm just saying.

Video of the Day (NSFW)

2012-01-19T22:26:00.002-05:00

Caution: there's a bit of language.

Caution: I've said four of these things.

Tie One On

2012-01-19T14:00:00.000-05:00

Try as I might, I have no sympathy for men who complain about wearing ties. And believe me, I’ve heard a LOT of complaints on the subject. The uberstrict religious schools I attended had the harshest of dress codes,* and ties were required for men on a daily basis. Personally, I think they look sharp. Anything that makes my everyday life a little more like Harry Potter’s is preferable.

“But Heather,” men will say, “You don’t know what it’s like. “They choke you. They’re so uncomfortable.” To which I reply, “YOU REALLY WANT TO TALK TO A WOMAN ABOUT UNCOMFORTABLE CLOTHING?” Honestly, if I had to wear JUST one uncomfortable piece of clothing every day, I would be thrilled. The typical woman in a white collar job is constricting at least four body parts during the day and several additional ones during evening cocktail parties. Guys, try on a full-body pair of Spanx and see how fast you turn back to a little discomfort in the neck region.

For those men who’ve accepted the tie as a way of life but dislike paying $100 for 50 square inches of fabric (your mileage may vary), there may be hope. Specifically, TieTry.com. It’s like Netflix for ties. You pay a monthly fee and get between one and five ties at a time. I guess you would supplement your existing tie wardrobe, or perhaps use TieTry exclusively if you have enough disposable income.

I can’t comment on the feasibility of this idea, since there is nothing analogous for women. We do not have bra libraries or pantyhose consortiums. Our shapewear tends to be a little more personalized. Everyone’s is different. (Ironic, since the endgoal is almost always the body size of a malnourished teenager.)

Ties for women never really caught on, did they? My first exposure to the concept was my local Ponderosa Steakhouse, though thinking back on it, I’m guessing those women were conscripted into neckwear. I myself was inspired to at least learn how to tie a cravat,** but my lack of internet meant I just ended up wrinkling one of my dad’s ties. I’ve still no idea (nor motivation) to learn, though I’ve discovered these cool zipper ties that require no knotting at all. Brilliant.

Should the androgynous look ever catch on in the wider world (i.e. with anyone besides Tilda Swinton and David Bowie), I shall be ready. Someone can zip me up, right?

* Among the things regulated: hemlines, fabrics, collar plunges, clothing brands. The not-so-tongue-in-cheek description of the ideal woman’s outfit? “Long, loose, and lots.”
** I use the word “cravat” only because I don’t want to use the word “tie” thrice in a sentence. If cravat turns out not to be a synonym for tie, then the joke’s on me. But the tie isn’t, as we’ve established.

Things I’ve Read: In the Garden of Beasts

2012-01-18T19:55:00.001-05:00

Author Erik Larson writes about fascinating little-known history juxtaposed against famous world events. The first book of his that I read, The Devil in the White City, was about the serial killer running loose during the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair. Indeed, a pseudo-doctor calling himself H.H Holmes was abducting, gassing, and autopsying people (mostly unsuspecting young women) while the rest of the world was riding the first Ferris Wheel and whatnot. Fascinating and grim, you put the book down with disgust and amazement at the human condition. It’s a nice change from my usual straight-up disgust.

In the Garden of Beasts was even more fascinating and grimmer. (Nazis trump serial killers any day of the week.) Set in Germany during the 1930s, it details the experiences of American Ambassador William Dodd and his family in Berlin as the Nazis are coming to power. And you think YOU have problems at the office. Psh.

Dodd was a Chicago professor, nearing retirement yet unable to find time to complete his magnum opus, a book about the old American South. Since he had connections in the Roosevelt administration, he decided to angle for a cushy ambassadorship. He figured that a posting to a second-tier city would give him plenty of time to write, and a decent wage as he did so. Ha.

Once he arrived in Berlin, Dodd was truly a fish out of water. For one thing, he was a frugal academic. At that point in history, most members of the foreign service (and almost all ambassadors) were independently wealthy. They threw lavish parties and ran expensive households because they had the personal means to do so. Whatever the State Department didn’t cover, their paid from their own pockets. Dodd, however, was a fiscal conservative. He had his personal Chevrolet shipped from Chicago, and had his son act as chauffeur. As you might imagine, this embarrassed diplomats in Berlin and in DC.

Dodd also had to contend with the Orwellian nightmare of 1930s Germany. Laws were changing. You never knew what to say to whom. Forget to salute an SS parade, or sit on the wrong park bench, and you’re toast. Hitler’s contradicting words and actions were detailed by Dodd in numerous cables. Yet the US government continued to focus on Germany’s war debts rather than on its obvious preparations for round 2.

(I’m sorry if you’re not familiar with the events leading up to WW2 and this makes no sense. I forget that not everyone was raised by a huge WW2 student. The entirety of my German knowledge is war-related: panzer, stuka, Luftwaffe, lebensraum, Deutschland Deutschland uber alles, etc. When discussing this book with my dad, I would start a sentence with something like “Then Himmler…” and he would finish with my exact thought. It was like freakish history mad libs.)

Dodd wasn’t a huge social butterfly, either. And being an ambassador is all about entertaining the rulers of the nation to which you’re accredited. When those rulers are people like Goring, Rohm, and even Hitler himself, IT GETS AWKWARD. I mean, try to imagine yourself in his shoes. You’re forced to throw a party that you can’t afford, and to invite people that you and the other guests detest. Larson is great at throwing in these little foreshadows, like how seven of the eight guests at one dinner party were dead four months after the fact. Ouch.

Then there’s Dodd’s daughter Martha. She was what one might euphemistically term “a romantic opportunist.” Though technically married when she moved to Berlin, she was linked to fellow diplomats (of several countries), members of the Nazi party, members of the Communist party, and even notable Germans. (Yes, she was set up on a date with Hitler. They were both taken to the same restaurant and she was introduced to him in the hopes that he’d be taken with her. He wasn’t.) Martha proved to be a huge liability for her father, especially since she was later revealed as a spy for the Soviets. She ended up moving to Prague and dying in 1990. TRUE STORY!

So poor Dodd is just trying to do his job, while his colleagues sabotage him by leaking his cables and letters to the press, while DC gives him no support, while the Nazis bug his phones, and while his daughter spies on him for the Commies. I repeat: and you think YOU have problems at the office.

Dodd is “encouraged” to give up the posting by Roosevelt in 1937, which he does in 1938. He returns to the US in the hopes of finally finishing that darn Old South book. He does a bit of speaking to stir up anti-Nazi awareness in the US (remember, we were laissez-faire in the days before Pearl Harbor). But the years in Berlin had taken their toll, and he died a few short years later. The book itself ends shortly after the Night of the Long Knives.

The effusive length of this review should indicate that I found this to be an absolutely fascinating read. Though I knew where it was going, the ominous march to war was chilling. I can only imagine what it was like for the Germans, both Jews and Gentile, as their society changed into a police state under the guise of patriotism. I love novels about an Orwellian future, but this true-life tale of an Orwellian past was even better.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

2012-01-17T20:57:00.001-05:00

Christmas 2011 is behind us, and Christmas 2012 isn’t set to start for another nine months or so. I put my decorations away last week, in fact. My tree-shaped Ikea ornament holder, my Hallmark stuffed Santa, and so on. I once again lamented the absence of a real-live tree, but I just don’t see how the logistics would work for an apartment dweller such as myself. And since my motto is ~~always carry a fork~~ real tree or no tree, ornament holder it is.

Then I read this snippet from the Arlington (VA) Animal Welfare League:

12/2/11 — 1400 block N. Kenilworth St. — A resident purchased a Christmas tree and when she brought it in the house, a wild animal, thought to be a squirrel came out of the tree. Animal control set a trap for the squirrel overnight, and the resident propped her front door open so the animal could exit. The animal did not go into the trap and is no longer in the home so it is believed it ran through the open door.

Holy &*$%.

That must have been some amazing foliage to hide a LIVE SQUIRREL. The trees I’ve purchased have been closer to the Charlie Brown Christmas tree end of the spectrum. The boughs could barely conceal the trunk, much less a small animal. I’m impressed.

I’m also horrified, because this poor woman had to deal with a (probably) rabid squirrel in her home. And when she called the professionals, the best they apparently could do was “We set a trap, just leave your door open.” Yeah, nothing bad will come of THAT plan.

Cue to: the next morning. The trap is empty. Strike one for the pros. (Related: what bait do you put in a squirrel trap? Is it peanut butter, like with mice? Acorn butter? The Geico gecko?) The squirrel can’t be located, so “it is believed” that it’s gone. Now, perhaps that woman is my kindred spirit and searched HIGH AND LOW for that li’l mofo, including the insides of all her coffee mugs. I mean, the squirrel obviously has the ability to remain still for some duration; that’s how it got in the house to begin with.

But since the story refers to a house, it would seem there are literally thousands of places the squirrel could be hiding. With the assortment of creatures that I assume waltzed in that night the front door was left open. Basically, this woman’s house is now hosting a reenactment of “Fantastic Mr. Fox.” Eurgh.

I have nothing against squirrels, since they seem to take pretty good care of themselves. (How many times have you seen a dead squirrel? Zero, amiright?) I just don’t want to share my fruitcake with them.

Dixie Camp

2012-01-16T15:56:00.002-05:00

Living in Virginia, especially for the next few years, will involve a lot of Civil War commemoration. I hadn’t really considered this possibility when I moved in 2008, a mere 147 years after the start of the Civil War. We don’t do a lot with it in Wisconsin outside history classrooms. You’ll note that Sherman marched to the sea, and not to the frozen tundra. Smart chap. (Now Napoleon and Russia? We take grim delight in that one.)

My first exposure to the South and the Civil War came when I visited friend-of-blog Amanda in North Carolina. Kept noticing little “Civil War Trails” signs pointing down roads and whatnot. I’m pretty sure that we have exactly zero such signs in Wisconsin, so I was intrigued. (The plethora of signs seems to indicate that the majority of the Civil War was spent meandering around the Raleigh area, by the way. No wonder it took four years.) Then I realized that there are historic houses and other structures still standing that played a part in the conflict. Too cool!

Move to Virginia, though, and it is a whole other ball of wax. One which could be termed Battlefield-a-palooza. We got forts, we got shrines, we got acres of land where one could reasonably film a remake of “The Red Badge of Courage.”* Saw an advert the other day for a Civil War kids camp at Fort Ward here in Alexandria. Apparently, where I associate Civil War battlefield conditions with gangrene and hardtack, others see fun times for the kiddos. Mmmkay.

TheBoy’s parents’ backyard (stay with me now, I know it’s a lot of possessives) actual abuts a battlefield. They’ve found bullets and things on it. Actual Civil War memorabilia, right in the backyard! We had nothing comparable in Wisconsin. No mammoth bones or Eskimo teeth. I heard that a friend-of-a-friend found an ~~Indian~~ Native American arrowhead once, but I’m sure that’s just an urban myth. Certainly no rebel-maiming munitions.

One of the reasons I moved to the DC area is the history, so it’s a pleasant surprise. So long as the reenactors keep their distance, of course.

* I am referring, of course, to the Wishbone episode.

My Dinner with HFPA

2012-01-13T05:00:00.000-05:00

It's Golden Globes weekend. I've stockpiled a decent pile of appetizers from Trader Joe's. Mac and cheese bites, pork shu mai, etc. I'm ready to see Ricky Gervais skewer some celebrities while eating shrimp corn dogs.

Life is good.

(Fingers crossed for The Help, Boardwalk Empire, Downton Abbey, and 30 Rock, obvs.)

The Cookie Crumbles

2012-01-12T05:00:00.000-05:00

Getting people to buy things is hard. Anyone in sales can tell you this. That clothing/office product/newspaper doesn’t sell itself (items featuring the Kardashians excepted). You’ve got to package it, you’ve got to hawk it, you might even need to discount it. Luckily, these are all areas where the typical people in marketing or sales can have some input.

Not so with Girl Scouts and cookies, my friends. Not so.

Your humbler blogger was indeed a Brownie for several years during the ignominious time I refer to alternately as “childhood” and “my blue period.” I bought a jumper and a sash. I made crafts and got badges. And I sold cookies, a process much more scarring than anything you’d dream up with a hot glue gun and some wire hangers.

I guess the whole cookie selling riot is ostensibly to teach young women entrepreneurship and give them a taste of business. How this is supposed to be accomplished by forcing painfully-shy adolescents to bang on the doors of strangers, I don’t know. I had trouble interacting with people I knew well. Now I’m supposed to not only confront my neighbors, but ask them to give me money in exchange for baked goods? Oh REALLY?

And when I was a kid, we didn’t just set up a table in front of Walmart. For one, I don’t remember there being a Walmart. (I was born in 1867.) For two, you didn’t get the cookies up front. You got a piece of paper with pictures of the cookies, and you had to get your neighbors to sign up and give you money. ‘Twas a more trusting time, obviously. (Ah, Reconstruction.) Ideally, your parents would pass the form around at their workplaces and do the dirty work for you. Yet while my parents spoiled me in the other 99.9% of my “blue period,” this they refused to do. Dastardly!

Anyway, this semi-bitter reflection is all introduction to the fact that there’s a new flavor out: Savannah Smiles. If you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of utter failure on behalf of the people who came up with this idea.

We don’t need another cookie. You got Thin Mints, Peanut Butter Patties, and Samoas (my personal favorite, HINT). Fun fact: other varieties do exist, but no one in America cares. The three aforementioned varieties comprised 100% of cookie sales this past year. We as a nation do not acknowledge the other flavors. It’s not because they’re the moderately-healthy ones (shortbread?) or the vaguely-ethnic ones (dulce de leche?). It’s because the trio of Thin Mints, Peanut Butter Patties, and Samoas satisfies our every cookie need. We are content.

We certainly don’t need a cookie with an indiscriminate name. Savannah Smiles? I think she does the weather on channel 4. I’m all about honoring the founder of the Girl Scouts (from Savannah, apparently) and I’m a big fan of lemon products, but FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, it’s as if these cookies were named via mad lib. “I need a place and a verb!”

While my sole basis to judge is my former membership in Brownie troop 469 (Clement Avenue School), that is way stronger than the nothingness on which my judgments are usually based. I may not have gone on to become an Eagle Scout or what-have-you, but I know Girl Scout cookies. And you, Savannah Smiles, are no ~~Jack Kennedy~~ Girl Scout cookie.

In My Opinion: Mission: Impossible 4

2012-01-11T05:00:00.000-05:00

I can’t claim to be an expert on the M:I movie franchise. Though I’m a fan of the TV series, I’ve only seen the third and now fourth films. Nothing against Ethan Hunt, but he’s no Rollin Hand or Cinnamon Carter. However, as a lover of effects, explosions, and gadgetry, I figured that I’d enjoy M:I 4 on at least a visceral level. Luckily for me, it turned out to be loud and bangy, straightforward, and mostly sexless, which is exactly what I was looking for.

The subtitle of this film, as you may know, is “Ghost Protocol,” which kicks in when the Secretary (which one isn’t clear, but TheBoy voted for Defense) disavows the entire team after a mission gone bad. How bad, you ask? Blowing-up-the-Kremlin bad. So, officially, the IMF (Impossible Missions Force, DO try to keep up) no longer exists, and its former members are considered terrorists of the type usually printed on playing cards.

Team leader Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise) is backed by the lady, the techie, and the Mysterious Analyst-with-Field-Skills. The names and backstories of these characters are not within the purview of this review; knowing them may mean you enjoy the movie more, but not knowing them doesn’t mean you enjoy the movie less. ‘Twere ever the way with action films (see: anything with Bruce Willis).

Let’s talk gadgets. The commercials highlight the crazy gloves Hunt uses to scale the world’s tallest building. These are apparently based on actual technology and it is just as “gee whiz” as you’d expect. The camera work in these scenes is phenomenal, btw. When one of Hunt’s gloves shorts out and he’s hanging like two miles above the ground by a single hand, you’re not sure whether you want him to survive or plunge to a gruesome death. I imagine spectators in the Coliseum felt similar.

My favorite bit of high tech is a projector Hunt and the Techie used while in the Kremlin. The projector reflected what was behind it, like an invisibility cloak. Apparently this too is based in reality, which means it’ll be the hot Christmas toy circa 2025.

My favorite bit of low-tech was a bellhop uniform worn by the Techie that had two fake hands in it, so that he could do trickery (diamond swapping, to be precise) with his real hands while using the fake hands to serve tea. Trust me, it makes sense when you see it. It also made me laugh out loud, to the possible chagrin of my fellow IMAX patrons.

(Oh, and speaking of IMAX. Funny story. We went to this on New Year’s Eve, which you may remember was a Saturday night. Hence the showing was pretty crowded, perhaps even sold out. TheBoy and I were one of the first in line, and ended up sitting next to a youngish (mid-teens?) fellow who was saving like six seats. As the theater filled up, numerous people approached the seats and were turned away by the youngish fellow. This became increasingly awkward as we approached showtime and those six seats remained empty. I’m sure late arrivers saw them as a sort of seating mirage. People got testy: “You’re saving the seats? For who? Are they here?” Finally, after the lights had dimmed (!), his companions finally arrived. I think the moral of this story is, if you’re going to do something that annoys a large crowd of people, send a kid to do it for you. They are less likely to be accosted, and cheaper to treat if anything does in fact occur.)

This film didn’t really have any double- or triple-crossing, and I liked that. Good guys were good. Bad guys were bad, and often Russian. It couldn’t have been simpler, unless they’d worn pinnies or colored hats. Also missing: sexual tension, unresolved or otherwise. Despite the presence of an attractive female team member, no one was trying to get it on with her. Just like, y’know, EVERY ACTUAL WORKPLACE. Thank you.

So, yeah, this turned out to be a pretty good flick. Easier to grasp than the last one, with its rabbit’s feet and its Phillip Seymour Hoffman and its bombs exploding in people’s heads. This was good guys vs. bad guys, using gadgets, sometimes in sand storms. As in days of yore. Ooh-rah.

Posh Nosh

2012-01-10T19:37:00.000-05:00

My (free) subscription to Bon Appetit magazine is only occasionally helpful. I don’t use it for cooking inspiration, since I don’t really cook. I don’t use it for eating inspiration, since the recommended restaurants are usually in New York City. I don’t use it for entertaining inspiration, since I hate people. But every once in a while, the mag will suggest something that I actually can enjoy. This month, that thing is Posh Nosh.

As far as I can tell, Posh Nosh was a 2003 series of cooking webisode parodies. The co-hosts are spouses the Honorable Simon Marchmont and his wife Minty. They run a fancy restaurant called The Quill and Tassel. As you might guess from his title, Simon is heir to one of those fancy estates people in Britain seem to have. (Apparently, there’s an entire subtext about how Minty is just a social-climber. It has to do with her accent and phraseology and whatnot. Crazy Britons.) Other running gags: Simon’s thinly-veiled homosexuality, the couple’s obsessive love for their dog, and a penchant for using only the best ingredients. Like Greek olives. That must be purchased in Greece.

Oh, and a confusing use of overly-florid verbs to describe cooking techniques. You don’t skin the potatoes, you “embarrass” them. You don’t boil the water, you “interrogate” it. And so on.

There are eight webisodes, each about 10 minutes long. Not a huge commitment. Here’s one of my favorites:

As a fan of Britons, food, satire, and the 1%, I find a lot to love here. Won’t you join me?

Things I’ve Read: The Girls of Murder City: Fame, Lust, and the Beautiful Killers who Inspired Chicago

2012-01-09T05:00:00.000-05:00

Chicago is a great town, innit? To call it “the New York of the Midwest” wouldn’t do it justice. Sure, it’s the Second City, but to anyone who grew up with casseroles and snow pants, Chicago was the place to be. If you were lucky, your parents took you there to see the Field Museum and the Adler Planetarium. To marvel at the Sears Tower. To peruse the wares on Michigan Avenue (and an actual American Girl store, squee!). If it weren’t for the snow, I would quite possibly be living there now.

Yet for all its current charm, Chicago has a pretty sordid history. Erik Larson’s The Devil in the White City recounts serial killings during the Chicago World’s Fair in 1893. Everyone knows about the political corruption, which apparently continues rather unabated. Chicago is the kind of town where gangsters, bootleggers, and stockyard workers co-mingle with those American Girl fans. The kind of town where Roxie Hart could kill a man and get away with it.

Oh, yeah, did you know that Roxie Hart was a real person? As the intern at my office would say, totes true.

Douglas Perry’s The Girls of Murder City: Fame, Lust, and the Beautiful Killers who Inspired Chicago describes a string of women who committed various murders in 1920s Chicago and got away with it. (Technically, they were found “not guilty,” but we all know what THAT means.) The cases of Belva Gaertner and Beulah Annan inspired one female reporter to create Velma Kelly and Roxie Hart. Chicago, which was first a (non-musical) stage show, then a silent film, then a talking film, then a Bob Fosse musical, then a 2002 movie, lifted plotlines and even dialogue directly from the trials. If you’re at all familiar with any of Chicago’s iterations, you’ll have no problem following this book. They’re that similar.

(I myself personally love Chicago—it is my absolute favorite musical. While reading this book, I found myself mentally singing “They both, they both, reached for the gun, the gun, the gun, the gun, the gun, the gun, for the gun” on an almost constant loop.)

So what factors allowed for the egregious injustice? How could Belva, Beulah, and the handful of others mentioned in the novel go free, even when evidence, testimony, and their own confessions pointed to guilt? Turns out it’s all about a pretty face. In 1920s Chicago, only men were allowed to serve on juries. And it’s just not gentlemanly to sentence a woman to death, you know. Hanging is so gruesome. And in ~~Roxie’s~~ Beulah’s case, you have the unborn baby to think about.

These women (and their counsel) knew how to play to the crowd. They purchased new clothes, they got makeovers, they displayed the posture and voice of helpless innocence. Sure, maybe they’d shot someone….but only because he was going to shoot them first! Or hurt them! Or ruin their virtue! They both reached for the gun!

The era’s sensational journalism just stirred the pot. In those days, reporters sat in on prison interviews, hung out at the police station, and even got close enough to murder scenes to get blood on their shoes. Since TV was non-existent, movies were silent, and radio was still young, newspapers were the shiznit and they knew it. A string of beautiful murderesses, sometimes rich and high society, were like a gift from above.

The epilogue, always my favorite part of any non-fiction work, reveals that most of the freed murderesses died shortly after the ‘20s, in relative obscurity. They left their husbands (again), moved far away, or both. The reporter who covered much of the trials, Maurine Watkins, never equaled the success of Chicago. But oh, what a one-hit wonder.

Pastimes of Auld Lang Syne, Day 4: Choose Your Own Adventure

2012-01-06T21:15:00.002-05:00

The open of a new year is a good time to look forward at all you hope to accomplish during the next 365 days. Unfortunately, since the world is ending this year, there’s not a lot to look forward to. So I’ve decided to look back instead, writing about various phenomena I pursued as a youth. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. This is sorta like that.

I’m not sure where or when I was introduced to the Choose Your Own Adventure series of books. They were ubiquitous at my public schools, so it was probably there that I first learned to make decisions like:

To take the elevator to the roof, turn to page 43.
To wait in the lobby for your guide, turn to page 119.

And you obviously chose the elevator, because a) there was a rocket on the roof and b) choices that far towards the end of the book almost always mean death.

(Yes, Virginia, there IS a strategy.)

We all know these books, right? A crazy scenario (you’re on the moon, you’re under the sea, you’re microscopic) whose plot is propelled by the choices you make. Some plotlines have a happy ending, some have a sad ending, and some send you flipping back and forth between the same two pages for all eternity because you’ve fallen into a wormhole or something.

Real life turned out to be a disappointment after all that excitement. Let’s be honest.

Even as a child, I was impatient and enamored of office supplies, so I had a bookmarking system for these books. Every time I came to a choice, I would mark the page with a Post-It. Once my current path reached an end, I’d go back to the first decision point, remove the Post-It, and follow the other choice. Through this process of elimination, I’d ensure that I followed every possible path in the most efficient way possible. Take THAT, Microsoft Project. Someone hand me a PMP certification, for real.

(Plus, if reincarnation turns out to allow for a similar system, I AM GOLDEN.)

They stopped making these books in 1998. A shame, though they certainly wouldn’t do as well in today’s digital age. When I was your age, the only virtual worlds we had were in our heads. No Facebook, or Farmville, or Words with Friends.* We used our imaginations, darnit, and we liked it!

* I’m medevam on Words with Friends. We should totally play a game.

Pastimes of Auld Lang Syne, Day 3: The FRIENDS Name Game

2012-01-05T05:00:00.000-05:00

The open of a new year is a good time to look forward at all you hope to accomplish during the next 365 days. Unfortunately, since the world is ending this year, there’s not a lot to look forward to. So I’ve decided to look back instead, writing about various phenomena I pursued as a youth. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. This is sorta like that.

What’s your comfort TV show? I’m not asking about your favorite show. Your favorite show is the one you dress up and trot out at parties. The critically acclaimed and/or fantastically popular one. The one you take home to mother. When people ask me what my favorite show is, I say Mad Men.

But my comfort TV show? That’s Friends.* When I’m feeling depressed or bored, I turn on “The One With the Embryos” and all is well. You know who I’m NOT turning to when I’m depressed? Don Draper. I’m just saying.

A good comfort show is one you’ve seen so much of that you can quote scenes (yes, entire scenes). You should own at least one piece of memorabilia. You should know some serious trivia, too.

In fact, I realized that I knew so frakking much about Friends that I started a trivia website called “The FRIENDS Name Game.” It was part of that defunct GeoCities dealio I mentioned earlier, but it has been archived in all its Technicolor glory (sans pictures) here.

Really, I wanted to give other fans a reason to a) watch television even more obsessively, b) prove their superior intelligence, and c) be rewarded by public identification as A Smart Cookie. Coincidentally, these are also my personal life goals.

When I realized that I learned Chandler Bing’s bank account number (7143457) before I learned my own, I knew I had to use that power for good. And until GeoCities went bust, I did. Or at least, I tried. I composed a series of topical quizzes (food, animals, romantic relationships) whose answers could all be found in the shows.

Because let’s be real: grading people involves a lot of judgment calls. And I hate people, so only 1-2% of my judgments will be in favor. (As a jurist, I would be a prosecutor’s dream.) None of my questions were multiple choice, so people had to use spelling and logic skills.

HAHAHAHAHA.

Example: The answer to one of the questions was “Chanandler Bong.” (If you don’t know, don’t ask.) Now, I was willing to give people without closed captioning a break, so I’d take anything close. But, like, “George”? No. “asdf”? Really no. Why? Why would you not put in even a modicum of effort? Now I’m deleting your submission email because you’ve pissed me off. At least the “George” guy made a (poorly-educated) guess. Eesh.

*Runners-up: The West Wing (reminds me that government service has its moments) and Will & Grace. In fact, I prepare for my parents’ annual Thanksgiving visit by doing a marathon of W&G episodes. Keeps me from becoming completely homicidal when three people are shoved into 767 square feet and I have to wait to use my own effing bathroom.

Pastimes of Auld Lang Syne, Day 2: A Treasure’s Trove

2012-01-04T05:00:00.000-05:00

Pastimes of Auld Lang Syne, Day 1: The “A.I.: Artificial Intelligence” MMORPG

2012-01-03T05:00:00.002-05:00

The open of a new year is a good time to look forward at all you hope to accomplish during the next 365 days. Unfortunately, since the world is ending this year, there’s not a lot to look forward to. So I’ve decided to look back instead, writing about various phenomena I pursued as a youth. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. This is sorta like that.

It was a different world in 2001. We as a nation had no consciousness of the Kardashians, or Twitter, or 3D movies. Our entertainment was limited to two channels, talkies were just coming to fruition, and a young fella named Steven Spielberg was preparing to release a film called “A.I.: Artificial Intelligence.”

While there were probably commercials, interviews, and Entertainment Tonight segments created to promote the film, the marketing people also decided to create an online game, later nicknamed the Beast. Clues were hidden in movie trailers and posters. Elaborate websites were involved, with entire plotlines and dozens of characters tangentially related to the film yet not part of it.

The gist of the game: in 2142, a man named Evan Chan died while on his AI-enhanced boat. All is not how it seems, of course, and players who investigated the death uncovered a world of conspiracy, weather control, anti-robot sentiment, pro-robot sentiment, education, and architecture. Many of us joined a Yahoo! Group (remember those) called the Cloudmakers. We pored over the internet, called phone numbers (and were called back!), and even rallied in person as part of the game. The blurring of reality and game was what put the experience over the top. Since the game creators (nicknamed the Puppetmasters) were just a step or two ahead of the Cloudmakers, questions and issues raised by the players would later show up in the game. The 1% were actually engaged with the 99%. (Did I just solve the Occupy movement?)

A guy named Adrian Hon wrote a guide to the game here. Sort of a narrative “this is what happened” type of deal. I printed it out, ten cents a page, at my local library. I still read it sometimes; it so perfectly encapsulates the Beast. The film itself turned out to be a letdown after its hoopla. MMORPG stands for “massively multiplayer online role-playing game,” and the twelve weeks of the Beast were certainly all of those things.

Farewell 2011

2011-12-31T05:00:00.000-05:00

And thus we come to the final day of 2011, the last full year before the end of the world.

It's okay. We had a good run.

I'd like to take a minute to thank each of you, the handful of faithful readers who amuse me by tolerating my rants on hand soap, books, commuting, and the other 598 things I've complained about this year. Also, my love of food, film, and Britannia.

So to M, N, W, R, J, S, A, P, and the rest: you guys rock. Don't go too crazy tonight. I need you to make it to the apocalypse, so I can sell you to the robots for wifi and peanut butter.

Wait, what?

This…is…NPR

2011-12-29T23:11:00.001-05:00

Though I prefer my home environment as close to silent as is possible when living in a big city, I like a little background music at work. The 800ish songs on my non-iPod Creative Zen Stone Plus (no longer in production) usually do the trick. I try not to sing along to them since my co-workers at Cabinet Department That Shall Not Be Named do not yet love me unconditionally. Just wait until they hear me doing the harmony on “Monday, Monday,” amiright? Delightful.

Now that I listen to music via earbuds rather than through speakers (again with the whole “not wanting to disturb co-workers” thing), I’ve realized that I can crank it up as much as I want. Which in turn means I can listen to podcasts. Which in turn in turn means three letters: NPR.

I never miss a “Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me.” It’s a weekly trivia show based on the news. The most recent episode was a year-end summary that focused on British topics. In my world, that’s a win-win. People can call in as contestants on the show, but I’d be way too nervous for that. Gotta follow my cardinal rule: admire from afar. If only “Wait Wait” weren’t taped on Wednesday nights in Chicago. I could handle being in the studio audience. Sigh.

I keep an eye on “This American Life,” which has the apparent mission to simultaneously inform and horrify. Nothing against Ira Glass, though I personally find him pretty soporific. It’s more the structure of alternating touching stories with tragic ones that throws em. You could have a show about…birds, for example. Act one: Big Bird. Act two: the bird that ate its young at the Cincinnati Zoo. Act three: Lawn flamingos. You just never know where TAL is going to go with something, which is why I only listen to the shows on topics I’m passionate about (mostly food).

If “The Delicious Dish” were a real program, I would mention it here, with a special shoutout to those shows featuring Pete Schweddy.

(I listen to non-NPR podcasts, too, but that’s not really the gist of this entry, is it?)

Any other NPR fans out there? What programs do you recommend?

Similarities Between Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings

2011-12-28T05:00:00.002-05:00

As I have stated elsewhere, I am an avid reader. The Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings books bring me profound joy. (Sad, maybe, but true.) As such, I have read both series numerous times and have noticed that striking similarities exist between them. I here list what I have noted so far. Please note that these similarities apply to the books, not the movies.

This list originally appeared on my GeoCities website, back when GeoCities existed. I recently realized that should re-post it on a domain that actually exists, so as to assist literature students henceforth.

If you are a student who will be using this list in a paper or project, please email medevam@yahoo.com for further information for your bibliography. (Are those still a thing?)

	*Harry Potter*	*The Lord of the Rings*
Dark Lord Fearfully Named and Attempting a Return to Power, Who Placed Part of His Soul in a Ring	Voldemort	Sauron
Concept the Dark Lord Cannot Comprehend, Ultimately Used Against Him	Love	destruction of the One Ring
A Birthday Sets Events in Motion	Harry's 11^th	Bilbo's 111^th and Frodo's 33^rd
Wizened Old Wizard	Dumbledore	Gandalf
Strong Non-Parental Connection	Sirius Black, godfather	Bilbo Baggins, "uncle"
Annoying Relatives	Dursleys	Sackville-Bagginses
Scar That Won't Heal	Harry's forehead, given by Voldemort	Frodo's shoulder, given by the Witch King
Inherited Invisibility Device	Cloak	Ring
Eerie Prison Controlled by Dark Forces	Azkaban	Dol Guldur
Treasure-Hoarding Goblins	work at Gringotts	one of the evil races of Middle Earth
Long-Distance Communication Method	Floo Network	Palantíri
A Dog Named Fang	owned by Rubeus Hagrid	owned by Farmer Maggot
Mischievous Pair	Fred & George Weasley	Merry & Pippin
Liquid-Filled Basin of Seeing	Pensieve	Mirror of Galadriel
Troll	attacks Hermione in a girl's bathroom	attacks the Fellowship in Moria
Dendrophobia Causer	Forbidden Forest on the edge of Hogwarts	Old Forest on the edge of the Shire
Feisty Tree	Whomping Willow	Old Man Willow
Underground Meeting with a Foe	in the Chamber of Secrets	in Moria
Hidden Cave Door	In the horcrux cave	In Moria
Intense Wizard Conflict	Dumbledore vs. Voldemort	Gandalf vs. Saruman
Elves	house-elves do chores	eldest speaking race of Middle Earth
Inn	The Leaky Cauldron	The Prancing Pony
Friendly Barkeeper	Madam Rosmerta	Barliman Butterbur
Great Hall	in Hogwarts	in Edoras
Longbottom	a wizarding family	a type of pipe-weed
Possesses a Scar on His Forehead	Harry	Merry
Seer of That Which Is Beyond	Sybill P. Trelawney	Malbeth the Seer
Worm-y Bad Guy	Peter Pettigrew (Wormtail)	Gríma (Wormtongue)
In Charge of Keys	Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys	Húrin, Warden of the Keys
Pitiable Creature, Speaks in Third Person	Dobby	Gollum
Giant Spider	Aragog	Shelob
Life-Saving Swords	Godric Gryffindor's sword	Andúril, Sting, Glamdring
Flying Creatures that Come in the Nick of Time	Fawkes, a phoenix	Gwaihir, Lord of the Eagles
Winged Escape from a High Place	Sirius, on Buckbeak, from Hogwarts	Gandalf, on Gwaihir, from Orthanc
Creepy Hooded Figures That Cause Chills	Dementors	Nazgûl
Do Not Disturb the Water Because of...	giant squid in the lake	Watcher in the Water outside Moria
...Loses a Hand	Peter Wormtail	barrow-wight
Scruffy Bad Guy Who Turns out to Be a Good Guy	Sirius Black	Aragorn
Humans Who Transform Into Animals	Animagi	Beornings
Burning Drink That Clears the Head	Pepperup Potion	given by orcs
Group of Wizards That Fights Evil	Order of the Phoenix	Order of the Phoenix
Tree Guardians	Bowtruckles	Ents
Producer(s) of Wondrous Fireworks	Fred and George Weasley	Gandalf
Healers	work at St. Mungo's	work at Minas Tirith's Houses of Healing
Dark, Winged Steeds	Thestrals	fell beasts of the Nazgûl
Draining Heirloom, Worn Around the Neck	Locket	Ring
Item Specifically Noted as Not Able to Be Made from Nothing	Food	Fire
A Woman Both "Beautiful" and "Terrible"	Hermione	Galadriel

Disclaimers

I mean in no way to suggest, intend, or imply that J.K. Rowling has in any way taken ideas or material from J.R.R. Tolkien. I respect both of these authors immensely and post this list solely for the pleasure of those who love these great books.

Unfamiliar terms should be checked in the Encyclopedia of Arda or the Harry Potter Lexicon. I'm not just making this stuff up.

The Neverending Story

2011-12-27T05:00:00.001-05:00

The saga of the bathroom continues.

Non-industrial soap has once again made its appearance. I now know that it’s only temporary, but I’ll take it. Every day of hands that smell like apple or lemon is a day closer to retirement, I say.

For some reason, I recently ended up using the bathroom on another floor. As Chris Traeger would say, it was literally a world of difference. There were Bath and Body Works products. Scents. And lotions. It was as if the three wise men had left but moments before. Did I try some of the shimmer hand lotion? Yes. Did it make my hands look like the tin man? Also yes. But still!

I have so far ventured to the bathrooms on the floor directly above and below my own. I of course want to try every single bathroom, because I bet one of them is hiding something even better, like a portal to Narnia or the recipe for Kentucky Fried Chicken.

But do I really want to be the girl who takes the elevator down 8 floors just to use the bathroom? This sounds more like a plotline from 30 Rock than an actual life goal. Maybe the key is to make your life goals more like sitcom storylines. Keep that in mind for New Year’s.

Why Such Angry Birds?

2011-12-26T17:19:00.004-05:00

So it turns out that a side effect of getting a Kindle Fire is a complete addiction to Angry Birds. I dream about it, I want to play it all the time, and I get judgmental when I think other people are better at it than I am. Rovio, what have you done to me?

Once again, I know I’m late to the party. I don’t have a smartphone; I had to wait until I got a tablet to discover the joys of hurling tiny birds into pigs. (Why? I don’t know. Is there a big Angry Birds backstory that I missed, or are we all just pissed at pork in general?)

Then there’s the merchandise. Angry Birds stuffed animals, and lunchboxes, and clothing. People have constructed life-sized versions of the game. Christmas light odes to it. I am not alone!

[In the movie version of my life, I want the me character to celebrate her 30th birthday by renting out her high school gym and turning it into a life-sized Angry Birds game. I also want to do that in real life, but it seems like so much work.]

I’ve started playing Words with Friends, too, but it’s not as addicting. I have a handful of games going with Facebook friends, and I’m almost positive they’re cheating. These people are playing words I’ve never even heard of, and I know they aren’t THAT smart. Some random internet person? Maybe. But I went to college with these people, and you know who was valedictorian of our class? Me. ME. If I don’t know the word, you did not come across it via legitimate means, and should not be allowed to use it in a game. I believe they call that a syllogism, which just goes to show how broad my vocabulary really is.

Best to stick to the simple elegance of Angry Birds.

Merry Christmas, Baby

2011-12-24T20:44:00.001-05:00

The 19 minutes before and 20 minutes after this clip were painful. But this 2:30 is solid gold.

Extreme Couponing

2011-12-23T05:00:00.000-05:00

It seems as if there’s a reality show for every slice of life these days, doesn’t it? Whether you collect things, sell things, restore things, bake cakes, eat cakes, or train seeing eye dogs, you can find a channel all about it. This is not necessarily a bad thing; I believe ‘twas the Romans who demanded bread, circuses, and the Dog Whisperer.

The best reality shows appeal not just to the people in “the community,” so to speak, but to the rest of us. I’ve never used a pawn shop, but I love Pawn Stars. I’m a renter who isn’t allowed to make home improvements, but I could watch HGTV from dawn to dusk. (While staring at my cream walls, as per the aforementioned ban on painting. Hmphf.)

Then I come upon the show Extreme Couponing, and I wonder why the robots haven’t already taken over and put an end to this nonsense.

Prima facie, Extreme Couponing has all the elements I love. Cheapness. Organization. Food. One could naturally assume that I’d find these extreme couponers delightful, as they buy $1200 of groceries for less than a dollar over the course of four hours. DELIGHTFUL!

Or not. Yes, I enjoy using coupons. Yes, I enjoy keeping my canned goods neat. Yes, I enjoy eating. But somehow, people like those on this program have made these behaviors grotesque.

Extreme couponers often buy a store’s entire supply of something when there’s a good deal. Maybe it’s buy-one-get-one-free on mouthwash. I go into Safeway, 50-cents-off coupon in hand, hoping to get two bottles. As I approach the aisle, I’m passed by a woman with two shopping carts containing a total of 96 bottles of mouthwash.

Look, lady. No one in their entire lifetime will use 96 bottles of mouthwash. Not even OCD tooth models. And now you have successfully screwed me over.

Extreme couponers often keep their purchases in meticulously organized shelving/storage, often referred to as a “stockpile.” Sometimes they’ll have store-like racks and hooks to display the merchandise. Especially useful when their friends and family members come over to “shop.” Despite this generosity, though, the stockpiles are usually quiet large.

If only there were a word for enjoying the misfortune of others, because that’s what I will feel when one of these stockpiles a) rots, b) expires, c) falls victim to flooding or other natural disaster, or d) is incinerated when the robots take over. Keep what you will use in the next 3 months, and donate the rest to charity. Our national debt could probably be erased if the value of our nation’s stockpiles were put back into circulation.

But my most intense disapproval is focused like a laser beam of judgment on extreme couponers at the checkout. Because they will readily admit that the checkout process takes hours. Plural. Just at the register. Often, the cashier will run out of receipt paper, or have to start a new transaction, or need a manager’s assistance.

I’m not annoyed for me, the girl who’s buying a bottle of salad dressing and a loaf of bread. I’m annoyed for the cashier who’s at her wits’ end trying to deduct your 800th coupon. I’m annoyed that they had to open a special register just for you. I’m annoyed that you thought shopping in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, would somehow make any of this more bearable.

So I guess it’s not so much the Extreme Couponing program itself I take issue with (though the manufactured drama is a bit much). It’s the behavior documented therein. Other countries teach their children physics. We teach them how to triple coupon.

Hell is other bidders.

2011-12-22T05:00:00.001-05:00

In the spirit of Donna Meagle's “Treat yo’self,” I have been perusing eBay for another travel mug. Like any other purchase, this one has very stringent requirements. My morning coffee has to survive for 60-90 minutes, on a bus and a train, in cold and hot temperatures, and possibly periods of zero gravity. Basically, it needs to seal tighter than the space shuttle.

Why eBay, you ask? For one, it strikes me as a gigantic virtual thrift store, and I love few things more than a thrift store. But mostly, because Starbucks has discontinued the style of tumbler I require in all continents except Asia.

Unfortunately, the Asians know what they have. So do experienced eBay users. That’s where the title of this blog entry comes in.

Just when I’ve navigated through dozens of listings for $80 tumblers (not happening, Asia), I find a “Lot of Starbucks tumblers” for $10. Perfect! Four tumblers in the style I want, shipping from nearby Quantico, Virginia! As extra insurance, I set up an Auction Sniper (sort of an automated bidding program) to bid at the last minute up to my (what I thought very generous) maximum.

Since I’m such a control freak, I logged into the auction as it was closing to watch the carnage live. And was astonished to see myself outbid by a***9 who was also using an automated program. (They keep the identities of other bidders secret; I assume so that the losers can’t hunt that person down in cases like this, because WHERE IS MY PITCHFORK?)

(Am I secretly pretending the “a***” stands for “asshole”? You betcha.)

Turns out that a***9 has bid on 90 items over the past 30 days. And the 579 feedback score after her name means (I assume) she has participated in that many eBay transactions. You know what my feedback score is? 9. Single digits, because I obviously am not doing enough treating of m’self.

Look, I just want this one thing. And because the universe decided to screw with me a little, this one thing has to be purchased over the internet from someone in or around Hong Kong.

Sit this one out, internet? Let me have a win?

In My Opinion: Tower Heist

2011-12-21T05:00:00.000-05:00

Man, everyone really hates the 1%, don’t they? The bad guy du jour is a corrupt financier (is there any other kind?) who takes pleasure in sticking it to the little guy. The little guy who, of course, is blameless. The little guy is in debt because he’s feeding his family on meager wages! Not because he frittered away his money on fancy clothes, electronic gadgets, and a house he knew he couldn’t afford!

Obviously, the struggles of the 99% are Not Their Fault. Obviously.

But let’s not get political. Let’s just accept the trend of framing anyone who does anything in finance as Evil with a capital EVIL.

Like the bad guy in Tower Heist. A thinly-veiled version of Donald Trump played with great relish by Alan Alda. The man lives in a lower-Manhattan penthouse. Swims in a rooftop pool. Has Steve McQueen’s car in his living room. Drinks fancy wine and cheese.

*cue booing from the huddled masses*

Yet the employees of ~~Trump Tower~~ The Tower love him, because you don’t bite the hand that feeds you, especially when you aren’t allowed to take tips.

Until they find out that he swindled their pension money.

THEN IT GETS REAL.

So a motley crew, led by former building manager Ben Stiller, decides to break into Alda’s apartment to get $20 million they believe is hidden there. The complications? It’s near impossible to get into the apartment. Nor are they professional thieves. It’s sort of Ocean’s Eleven performed by the staff of a Hilton.

They’re smart, though, these Tower employees. They use the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade as cover (Snoopy!). They know how to work an elevator. And the entire building. As one character points out, they’ve been unintentionally casing out the building every day they’ve worked there. They know everything about every apartment and resident. They.can.do.this.

[Side note: Is the level of service at an exclusive residence/hotel really that face-meltingly awesome? I want to live in a building with an elevator operator and a cheery doorman and staff who get me my favorite treat on my birthday! At my current rate, it will only take me another 80 years to achieve that income level!]

Understand, though, that this movie has a very slow build. The crew must assemble. They must train. They must overcome doubts about each other. By the time they finally make it into the apartment to discover (spoiler alert) that the $20 million is not in the safe as expected, you’re ready to get 4 million of your closest friends to each chip in five bucks to get it over with already.

Does Alan Alda get his comeuppance? Of course he does. Our nation’s Occupying zeitgeist wouldn’t have it otherwise. But at least we get to meet some fun characters (Eddie Murphy, Matthew Broderick, Tea Leoni) along the way.

Back to Middle Earth

2011-12-20T22:24:00.000-05:00

SO. MUCH. YES.

A little Thorin Oakenshield is exactly what's been missing from my life lately.

Stamped Out

2011-12-20T05:00:00.001-05:00

Whatever happened to savings bonds? And ration coupons? And Subway stamps?

Call me old-fashioned, but I long for a time when anything worth doing was worth doing well, and involved saving and pasting little bits of paper inside a folded piece of flimsy cardboard. Those were the days.

There’s just something about the collecting/saving/redeeming process that appeals to the human spirit in all of us (me especially, hello). Look at the Extreme Couponers, with their massive binders. While I disapprove of them on many levels, those people certainly do know how to work a system.

History lessons about company towns (mining, manufacturing, etc.) often cite the use of scrip (company-issued currency redeemable only at the company store) as a factor in the eventual fiery crash and burn of the hamlet. I, on the other hand, am enamored of the scrip concept. It’s like Monopoly money BUT IN REAL LIFE. The fact that I can only use it in one place just makes it that much easier for me to shop. Also, if everyone pays with scrip, the chance that I’ll get stuck behind an old woman paying with a check goes way down.

(WHY ARE PEOPLE STILL PAYING WITH CHECKS AT THE GROCERY STORE?)

Everything is electronic these days. Gift cards, and reward cards, and interfaces that beam directly into your brain through your retina. When I was your age, my aunt got me a gift certificate for the local mall that was an actual certificate on an actual piece of paper. No plastic involved.

(Don’t even get me started on the new version of Monopoly that uses debit cards, because IT WILL GET REAL.)

Please tell me that stocks are still issued on certificates. Please tell me that if I someday buy 500 shares of stock in Google, I will get a ream of stock certificates from Google Inc., 123 Google Drive, Google, CA (exact address may vary, phone number is probably 1-800-GOOGLE). I don’t want to live in a world where my future Google stock is shot via laser into my eyeball. I really don’t.

When I was your age, my parents were pretty poor. (Thus began my love affair with thrift stores.) I remember the day they decided to sell a savings bond my grandpa had left them when he died. I got to actually look at it for once, since it was usually stored away from the kid who kept spilling and/or coloring on everything (a.k.a. me). I believe my actual quote was, “It’s so fancy!”

And I totally miss the Subway sub club, not least because it rewarded me with free food. Sure, I had to figure out how to affix tiny pieces of impossibly-thin paper to a holder the size of a business card, but that was all part of the challenge. They say that only the strong survive, but I’d add that only the smart get that free sandwich after 8 stamps (double stamps on Wednesdays).

Quick Hits

2011-12-19T05:00:00.000-05:00

My winter coat is filled with down. Down is great at keeping you warm, which is the main thing I look for in a winter coat. Down is also great at pushing through the outer layer of my jacket and sticking to my shirt. Add my new chenille gloves (super soft but super prone to shedding), and I’m basically walking around the office covered in feathers and black fuzz. Tres charmant!

I recently read books by Sarah Silverman and Adam Carolla. Apparently, my reading choices are linked by six degrees of Jimmy Kimmel. Reading either of these books before bed was a bad idea—they made me laugh so much I was too keyed up to sleep. Plus, weird dreams.

Let’s be honest: you’re going to get some terrible presents. But maybe you’ll get a gem. Of the many Christmas gifts I’ve gotten over the years, one I still use weekly is a coffee mug from an old Milwaukee Fire Department co-worker. It’s pink, the capacity and handle feel are just right, and it gives no sign of being an Avon product other than the “Avon” stamped on the bottom. Best regift that woman ever made (I’m assuming).

Had a woman sit down next to me on the train the other day, pull out a bag of peanuts, and start eating. She must have noticed my dirty sidelong glances, but completely misinterpreted them, for she turned to me and said, “Isn’t it terrible when lunch is a handful of nuts at 4:30?” Now, you KNOW I’m devastated by the very idea that someone would miss a meal. But even I, me, your humble blogger right here, would never (NEVER) eat on a train. It’s against the rules, it disturbs other passengers, and the sanitary conditions are akin to a bathroom stall.

My mom survived recent wilderness survival training. After hearing her descriptions of it, I certainly wouldn’t make it past the first day. I’d always assumed wilderness training was like that episode of The Office when Michael wanders out into the woods and Dwight hides nearby to make sure he’s okay. Then my mom used phrases like “our water bottles were frozen solid” and “they gave us a bag for our poop.” If you and I are ever trapped in the wilderness, please kill me right away and use me as food and fuel.

Speak to Me

2011-12-16T05:00:00.000-05:00

Found myself researching languages for a work project recently. I was shocked (shocked, I tell you) to realize just how many languages are out there. Without getting into dialects and all that, you’re talking hundreds of languages. Lingua franca though it may be, English has a lot of company.

One of my high school math teachers had a big diagram of the Indo-European family of languages on her classroom wall. (If you’re wondering why a math teacher had English-themed room décor…me too.) The language names were written on little pieces of paper, connected by strings that all eventually led back to a little box labeled “Indo-European.” While waiting for my classmates to finish their algebra problems, I puzzled over this diagram, intrigued by its apparent lack of tape (how was it sticking to the wall) and its neat classification of ideas.*

1. Whatever happened to the continent of Indo?
2. Isn’t Manx a disease?
3. Why does Albanian get its own branch? It’s such a tiny country.
4. What are the odds that Saxon makes a comeback?

And so on.

It’s a funny business, language. I mean, we’ve been around for somewhere between six thousand and a quadrillion years, yet we still have more languages than flavors of Diet Coke. Shouldn’t we all speak the same thing by now? Are we waiting until technological advances make speech obsolete? (I would ask similar questions about the continued existence of blondes and people with blue eyes, but those characteristics are shrouded in genetic mystery and Punnett squares.) You can’t pick your kid’s hair color, but you certainly can choose to teach him Mandarin. GET ON IT, PARENTS. (I own several sets of Korean flashcards, if you’re interested.)

While we’re talking about kids and languages, I’d also recommend teaching them how to read music and program in C#. You’re spending a lot of money on your child. Maximize the investment. Increase future earnings viability. We’ll all thank you later from our climate-controlled brain jars.

But anyway, more power to the people who not only knew about the whole Indo-European thing (minus one if that’s only because you went to high school with me) and mucho bonus points to people who speak multiple languages. I hope [country of your second language] comes out on top after the apocalypse. I took French in high school, so it’s not looking good for me.

* You know I love me some classification. I did so well in biology because it’s the Container Store of sciences). Kingdom, phylum, class, shelf, and shoebox.

Deck the Halls with Shrimp and Meatballs

2011-12-15T22:21:00.003-05:00

‘Tis the season for holiday parties. I know this because The Office aired its annual Christmas party episode (which, by the way, AMAZING), and because I’ve already attended one myself. With two to go. You know it’s gotten out of hand when even someone like me is invited to multiple events. I understand when YOU are invited to Christmas parties, but I go out of my way to avoid socializing with other human beings in unstructured environments. (Where is the Christmas party with an agenda, I ask you?)

The best events, of course, have incredible mounds of expensive food. TheBoy’s work party was such an occasion. He’s employed by Defense Contractor That Shall Not Be Named, and they have a little something I like to call “private sector money.” This allowed them to rent out a DC landmark (I can’t say which one, but it’s one of the ones that holds priceless national treasures), and fill it to the brim with a DJ, multiple open bars, and (the part I was most concerned with) SO MANY FOOD TABLES.

I had boneless beef ribs, curry chicken, three types of mac and cheese, pita chips with hummus, and baked chicken. One my first plate. Of, like, four. Because there was also a milkshake station, a sushi bar, multiple carveries, dessert tables, and did I mention the milkshake station?

What hath the military industrial complex wrought? Verily, it is beautiful.

[This is an actual picture from the party, though not taken by me. I was told that cameras were not allowed, so I didn’t even try to sneak one in. I was carrying one of those almost-useless tiny party purses, and I wanted to leave as much room for leftover shrimp as possible.]

Towards the end of the evening, I had to pass up shrimp. I HAD TO PASS UP SHRIMP.

In government, you get a potluck and a gift exchange with a $10 limit. And since they passed that law banning federal swag earlier this year, don’t expect a coffee mug or pen with the agency’s logo on it.

Whereas the private sector has, y’know, enough shrimp to make me full.

Remind me again why I chose government work?

Things I’ve Read: The Millennium Trilogy

2011-12-14T05:00:00.001-05:00

Now that trailers have started popping up for the American movie adaptation of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, those people who hadn’t read the book are starting to have some awareness of it. There’s a scary-looking girl, with dark hair and facial piercings. There’s an old guy. There’s ~~James Bond~~ Daniel Craig. The sets appear furnished by Ikea.

Not too far off, really.

The scary-looking girl is Lisbeth Salander, who is as talented at computer hacking as she is lacking of social comportment.

Daniel Craig plays Mikael Blomkvist, a sort of sexpot journalist. The old guy (played in the movie by Christopher Plummer) turns out to have a mystery that he wants Blomkvist to investigate. Salander gets involved. Hijinks ensue.

Oh, and the Ikea vibe? The thing is set in Sweden.

The subsequent books, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest and The Girl Who Played With Fire, follow Salander and Blomkvist as they work with, against, and around each other, uncovering grotesque acts of violence against women.

Because, rest assured, there is a lot of grotesque, a lot of violence, and a lot of women. I think the bleak Nordic setting really sets the mood here. You can understand how men (and women) could be driven to do horrible things. If an Ikea couch is slashed to pieces in the woods, does it make a sound? Though I could have done with fewer graphic rape scenes. I read that the author, Stieg Larsson, saw a woman get gang raped when he was young, and that started him on a crusade. A worthy cause, certainly, and one backed with shocking statistics. I’m proud to be an American, our lack of Ikeas aside.

I had a little trouble following the characters, for they are many. And they make cultural references I don’t always understand. And they have names with entirely more vowels than I am used to. Seriously, my last name as a “czk” in it, and I was completely befuddled by some of these surnames. Need to buy a vowel? ASK A SWEDE. Kidding aside, reading something that wasn’t written in English, nor for Americans, was refreshing. It reminds me that the rest of the world has more to offer than Hello Kitty.

[But then there’s this.]

Like many people, I found the books compelling and read them as quickly as I could. The mysteries themselves became less of a concern (not that I don’t enjoy watching someone taking down a corrupt financier or solving a murder mystery, but I got Nancy Drew for that) as I found myself drawn to Lisbeth. Would she avenge those who’d wronged her? Would she reconcile with Mikael, or Mimmi, or Camilla? Lisbeth’s existence seems impossible; she’s such a contradiction of features, skills, and appearances. Yet there she is. I believed in her, I rooted for her, I wanted her to stop sunning herself in Gibraltar and GET ON WITH THE WHOOPASS ALREADY.

I’m not particularly interested in seeing the film(s), since I assume the grisly scenes with be even grislier in a dark theater full of strangers. But the books? Those I’ll read again someday.

In My Opinion: The Other Guys

2011-12-13T05:00:00.000-05:00

The Other Guys, a buddy cop comedy starring Will Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg, wasn’t nearly as funny as it wanted to be. Don’t get me wrong: I laughed plenty of times. But many of those laughs were of the “That makes no sense and completely lacks verisimilitude” variety. If you have no problem laughing at people instead of with them, read on.

Ferrell and Wahlberg’s characters are, like, the D-team at the precinct. Ferrell is a former accountant. Wahlberg shot Derek Jeter (long story). So they’re the misfits who never get the good assignments. The other guys, ba DUM bum.

The A-team, played by The Rock and Samuel “L. Yeah” Jackson, nabs the bad guys while crashing cars and demonstrating all-around master cop skillz.

It’s apples and oranges, and never have the oranges looked more pathetic.

Until the A-team’s testosterone gets the better of it and they both (spoiler alert) die during a chase. The D-team, following an accounting-related lead, rises to the occasion magnificently. They even get to have a car chase! In a Prius! (Hey, oranges are still oranges.)

Couple of fun side gags: Ferrell’s character, despite being a sort of adult Napoleon Dynamite, is catnip to hot women. Wahlberg’s character knows ballet. The captain is played by ~~Batman~~ Michael Keaton and works at a Bed, Bath, and Beyond in his spare time. What a hoot, right?

Yet zanier isn’t always better. The ratio of lines that made sense to lines that didn’t was about 2:1. While I’m all in favor of the occasional non sequitir, you can’t try to fit a square peg into a round hole every single time. It’s like people who mistake “raunchy” for “funny.” Our laughter is only masks discomfort at your inability to create actual humor.

The Other Guys may not be the greatest cop movie ever, but it’s an amusing diversion. Plus, the graphics during the closing credits explain things like how a Ponzi scheme works and what TARP did/didn’t do. Brilliant.

Ring-a-Ding

2011-12-09T17:10:00.002-05:00

A recent episode of FOX’s “New Girl” revealed that the main character, Jess, leads a handbell choir in her spare time. I wasn’t paying strict attention, so I have no idea who the kids were. I believe Jess is a teacher, though, so maybe they were students at her school or whatnot.

Anyway, I was pleased as punch to see someone putting handbells on TV. As someone who grew up at very musical schools (I was the person who played “only” two instruments), I’m still surprised when I meet people who can’t read music or carry a tune. When you’re in the bubble, you tend to forget that normal people grow up learning things like social skills and video gaming.

But handbells—and their high-tech counterparts, hand chimes—hold a special place in my heart. One of the first things I remember asking Santa for was a hand chime. I didn’t know exactly how to describe it, so I just drew a picture which aspired yet failed to look like this:

I had just been exposed to them at church, and I was FASCINATED. Which is odd, since chimes are a social instrument. You need a slew of people doing two chimes each, or a slightly-smaller slew doing four. But the lowest ones are really huge and can require two hands, so…yeah. You need a bunch of people.

And I hate people.

But when you’re in a chime choir, you don’t have to interact with the other players at all. I believe this is the key to my social success. Not having to be social.

You won’t be surprised that I didn’t get a set of chimes. Or even one lone chime. (Which, again, looking back, makes no sense. You don’t ask for a single crayon. You don’t ask for a single lego. You ask for the whole set. It must be that I knew they were expensive, and even as a child, I was cheap.) But I continued to play them when I could get my hands on them. Mostly in church and school settings. And I rocked. You'll notice from the video below that everything is regimented, from grabbing the chimes to lifting the chimes to playing the chimes.

Man, I loved it.

In case you’ve never heard, here's what they sound like:

I hope you appreciate how many sucky videos I had to sift through to find that one. There are a lot of mediocre chime choirs out there. Thank goodness for the Asians.

[This is probably a good time to discuss the point at which I started to suspect Santa wasn’t real. I was about 6. It was St. Nicholas’ Day (December 6), which is a big deal in Milwaukee and apparently nowhere else. One day, as I went down for a nap, I decided that if Santa were real, there would be a full-size Snickers bar in the stocking hung above my bed when I woke up. There wasn’t, and I realized that Santa either didn’t exist outright, or wouldn’t cater to my whims. Either way, I knew he wasn’t worth the bother.]

[I have always viewed candy bars as the most decadent food in existence. I have no problem with doughnuts, ice cream, or any other food. But hand me a full-size candy bar and I will hesitate to indulge.]

[I have issues.]

Tempting Fate

2011-12-08T05:00:00.000-05:00

By preparing (in my own meager way) for unexpected holiday guests, I'm hoping to get none.

I find the universe usually works in that sort of way.

Marcel the Shell with Shoes On

2011-12-07T05:00:00.000-05:00

Do you still watch Saturday Night Live? I do, though I tend to skip over the musical guests; more often than not, I have no idea who they are. My favorite segments remain Weekend Update and anything featuring Kristen Wiig. Like Tina Fey and Amy Poehler before her, Kristen shows that women can indeed amuse, and don’t even require singing/dancing/funny hats to do so.

One SNL alum who’s also proving this point is Jenny Slate, whose blink-and-you-missed-her stint on the show gave her the means and opportunity to give the world Marcel the Shell with Shoes On.

I know, I know. You’ve been aware of this for AGES. My beloved Entertainment Weekly mentioned it, like, EONS ago. Once again, I am mercilessly behind the times, what with my non-smartphone and love of fossil fuels. I know you’d disown me if not for my freezer full of Trader Joe’s food.

So, anyway. Marcel the Shell with Shoes on. Marcel combines several of my favorite things. He is tiny. I love things that are tiny. One of my former co-workers used to send me pictures of tiny men from news articles because they made me giggle. Look at the tiny man, lifting a single hand weight! Look at the tiny man, driving a toy car! And so on. So many things that are merely tolerable when normal-sized become astoundingly more pleasant when made freakishly small.

Marcel knows his limitations. As you’ll see in the clips below (and you WILL see, because you MUST watch), Marcel at one point talks about transportation. Marcel sometimes rides a bug. But since bugs are pretty simple, the ride usually ends up at the sticky mess in the kitchen. So, really, if you ride a bug, your objective needs to be “going for a ride,” and not getting to any one place in particular. Marcel doesn’t complain about this. He just goes with it. Inspirational.

As far as I can tell, there are only two parts so far. Each one is just a couple of minutes long. Check it:

Please tell me they’re making more of these. I would watch a feature about Marcel. In solidarity, I have started searching for a tiny pair of shoes for the seashell figurine given to me by friend-of-blog Patricia after her recent beach vacation.

Tourism in Your Own Town

2011-12-06T19:28:00.002-05:00

It was mild (upper 50s) and overcast (with light occasional drizzle) in DC today. Perfect tourism weather, in my opinion. Though plenty of things irritate me about DC, I still love it, and am often tempted to skive off work and take in a museum. It’s one of the best times of year for it, you see. No field trips. Few tourists. It’s the between-holiday lull. Yet all the museums are open as usual, and Union Station is even all decked to impress you as you walk through it to get to the National Postal Museum.

Sure, it’s not ideal conditions to walk the National Mall and look at the monuments, but (reason alert) I’ve always found them a teeny bit overrated, anyway. I much prefer the Smithsonians (NOTE: THERE IS MORE THAN ONE) and their kickass collections, with the additional benefit of bathrooms and soft drink vendors.

But let me not forget those attractions north of Constitution and south of Independence (the streets, not the concepts). The Bureau of Engraving and Printing, where you can literally see money being made. Then buy a bag of shredded bills (great packing material, or GREATEST packing material?). Ford’s Theatre and the Peterson House. The International Spy Museum and the (not as good) National Museum of Crime and Punishment. (Why we spy internationally but apply justice only domestically, I cannot say.)

All of which isn’t to say that some things are better left to summer. The zoo. Arlington Cemetery. Anything on bicycles or segways. (Please don’t take a tour on a bicycle or a segway. It’s even more inconvenient for the rest of us than the people with strollers.)

I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels this way. Your own hometown probably has equally interesting stuff (not quite, but I’m trying to be nice). You just have to find it. If you’re lucky it might even be free and uncrowded this time of year.

Hint hint.

A4...Bingo

2011-12-05T05:00:00.000-05:00

As if I didn’t have enough evidence that America is slowly falling behind the rest of the world in areas where it really counts, I recently learned that we are the only country not using A4 paper. Here I was, thinking that A4 was just something quirky they use in Europe, like coins with holes in them, Parliamentary government, and the metric system. It’s cute and all, but the grown-ups will stick to solid coinage and inches, thankyouverymuch.

But when the entire rest of the world has caught on to something, I have to wonder whether our “first in friendship, fourth in obesity” mindset (Parks and Recreation joke) is doing us some harm.

I did not realize that A4 paper is just one member of an entire class of math-induced paper sizes. To wit, Wikipedia:

ISO paper sizes are all based on a single aspect ratio of square root of 2, or approximately 1:1.4142. The base A0 size of paper is defined to have an area of one m². With the given aspect ratio of square root of two, this corresponds to a piece of paper with a longer side of one metre multiplied by the square root of the square root (that is, the fourth root) of two and the shorter side being the reciprocal of this value. Rounded to millimetres the A0 paper size is 841 by 1,189 millimetres (33.1 × 46.8 in).

Successive paper sizes in the series A1, A2, A3, and so forth, are defined by halving the preceding paper size along the larger dimension. The most frequently used paper size is A4 (210 × 297 mm).

Now, obviously, we see some warning signs here. First of all, you’re asking us to do math. A tricky proposition even on our best of days. Ratio? Square root? FOURTH ROOT? Are you pulling my leg or what? In addition, you’re giving numbers in metric, which…no. Just no.

Yet there’s a sort of elegance in the way all the paper sizes scale. It reminds me of high school math, when we looked at the ratios of the spirally seashell (a nautilus, maybe?). Or the Fibonacci sequence. The whole point of the ISO paper system is that you can fold a piece of A4 paper in half and get two A5 papers. I feel like this would revolutionize both the greeting card and PowerPoint industries.

Maybe I’m just feeling friendlier towards our European brethren because I’ve blown through the entire Millennium trilogy (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and so on) in like a week and a half. It’s like, maybe a society where people all live in apartments, eat nothing but sandwiches and coffee, and put little lines through their o’s is not so bad after all. They invented Ikea over there, so they’re already shown us that there is A Better Way.

And if even the Brits are doing it, well, c’mon. Those people drive on the freaking left. Their system of currency is so complicated, tourists pay for things by dumping a fistful of coins on the store counter and hoping the cashier picks out the right amount. If the Brits can get their act together with this paper sizing stuff, America really needs to get its game on.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that Canada stands with us on this. But they also have a coin called the tooney. So, tough call.

White Elephant

2011-12-01T05:00:00.002-05:00

Chances are, you’ll be asked to participate in at least one gift exchange this holiday season. Perhaps at the office, or church, or Al-Anon. There will be a price limit, maybe a theme. Also likely, a couple of a-holes who ruin it for everybody else.

YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

Having been involved in more than a few gift exchanges myself, I’ve come to believe that certain types of people should be banned, or at least branded as people who don’t play by the white elephant* rules. Do you know any?

(I would here suggest that you watch my very favoritest episode of The Office ever ever ever.)

I’m talking about the person who puts a piece of junk in a plastic grocery bag and passes it off as a present. If I wanted some of your trash, I would ask a British journalist.

I’m talking about the person who contributes a dollar store item despite the exchange limit of $10 (or $20 or one million rupees or what have you). You know that sticker on the bottom that says “Distributed by Greenbrier International”? We know that means you bought it at Dollar Tree. There better be a $10-bill taped to that puppy.

I’m talking about the person who ignores/forgets the exchange theme (if applicable). Someone carefully planned a theme, whether it be “edible items,” “red items,” “musical items,” etc. People who play by the rules seek to stretch (but not break, NEVER TO BREAK) the rules of the theme. Then there’s the idiot who is going to regift a pair of socks NO MATTER WHAT.

As you can imagine, with my penchant for order and my fundamentalist-begotten regard for rules, I get irritated when people ignore the spirit of a gift exchange. This is not war, people. You’re not trying to “win.” You’re trying to maximize the fun for everybody.

Unless your boss puts in an iPod. In that case, it’s every mofo for themselves.

(Happy holidays!)

*Or, YAAAAAAAAAAANKEE SWAP.

In the Year 2000

2011-11-30T18:27:00.000-05:00

Traveling to the future is one of mankind’s universal dreams. If offered the chance to see what civilization is like in 20, 50, or 100 years, who wouldn’t be tempted?* Soon after we figured out how to use technology to travel in space, we started trying to use it to travel in time.** Because, you just KNOW the future is full of really cool crap, right?

Here is the video that inspired me to believe that humanity has hope after all, and that by Jove, anything is possible!

Chills, people. CHILLS.

After watching this things, I made a list of stuff I hope to see when I travel to 2112**:

- A cashless society. Or at least one free of checks. I’m not talking a full-on “mark of the beast” situation here. But can’t we relegate checks to history, like telegrams and the Postal Service***?

- Video calling everywhere voice calling is available. It could be turned off, of course, but I pretty much want teeny webcams on every phone, computer, and device in existence. My dry humor is even more impressive when it come with a complete lack of facial expression.

- Teleporters. Self-explanatory when you spend 3 hours a day in traffic.

- Medical treatment based on genetics. As I understand medicine today, we seem to be playing a lot of defense. Once we’ve sequenced the genome or what-have-you, we should be able to pre-treat everything with fancy drugs, right? (I would also like these drugs to be available as gummies. They’re fun.)

- Free Diet Coke for everybody. Not necessarily a technical advancement, but y’know.

I was pretty optimistic that this was all possible. It was a new feeling for me.

Then I saw a similar video from back in 1993. I can only assume that it too made people All Excited:

Is it just me, or do we have all of these things already? And while we are technically living in what the people of 1993 would have considered the future, it doesn’t seem full of cool crap at all.

%&$@.

Now my only hope lies with Oprah, and I’m not at all comfortable with that. Sigh.

* Though this question is intended as rhetorical, I understand that “Mayans” and “the Tea Party” would both be acceptable answers.
** Oprah told me that The Secret is to think positively, and positive things will happen to you. I am POSITIVE that Oprah could pay to build a time travel machine. It’s one of my favorite things, O!
*** Too soon?

Slug It Out

2011-11-29T05:00:00.000-05:00

Though I’ve written quite a bit about my adventures in commuting (note to self: possible memoir title) on Metrobus and Metrorail, I hardly ever mention the commutes of others. Chalk this up to my general misanthropy, because there are some really interesting ways for people to get around the DC area. You’ve got your fancy commuter buses (padded seats! functional A/C! alert drivers!). You’ve got your commuter rail (for those living so far away, their state starts with “Delaware”).

And you’ve got slugging. (Sounds dirtier than it is.)

See, in the DC area, we have these things called High-Occupancy Vehicle lanes (HOV lanes). During rush hour, a vehicle must have 3 passengers to use the HOV lanes. Since our traffic is so bad, this can cut your travel time by a good day and a half.

The rub, of course, is finding two other people to ride with you. If only there were a way to pick up strangers who claim to also be headed in your direction.

Thus, at designated pick-up points—including the Pentagon, and certain streets in DC and Arlington—people will line up at destination signs and wait for a ride. In places where queues are discouraged, they will walk around with signs proclaiming their destination. In either case, a car will pull up, the person will get in, and they will wake up the next day in a bathtub full of ice missing all their vital organs.

Well, sometimes they just make it home quicker. Same dif. I mean, does this sound like organized hitchhiking to you, too?

To its credit, slugging is Really Organized hitchhiking. There’s a website where you can map routes, print out destination signs, and read up on the etiquette. As my bus leaves the Pentagon every day, I see hundreds of people in the slug lines. I assume that only forty, maybe fifty percent of them end up in grisly murders.

I’m the first to admit that Metro has a lot of problems, overcrowding among them. I rarely mention the benefit of crowds: lots of witnesses discourage a gruesome death at the hand of “Bob” from “Springfield” who would “love” to “give you a ride” “home.”

People are weird.

Fired Up

2011-11-28T05:00:00.000-05:00

As I hinted earlier, I’ve been given a Kindle Fire. Though we’re still getting to know each other, I’ve found some definite advantages to an e-Reader versus my beloved regular books. Keep in mind that 90% of my reading is done during my commute (ie in public places that are often crowded). Your mileage may vary.

Books are available on demand. Now, I’m as big an advocate for libraries as you will find. I have spent literally thousands of hours in libraries. When I go on vacation, I stop at the local library. I have library cards in five jurisdictions. I still remember my card number from the Milwaukee Public Library (25260001812164, no longer valid). I am a huge supporter of this, the only part of public infrastructure I use and care about.* But browsing the fiction section at the library only goes so far. (What, you expect me to read nonfiction on a regular basis? About, like, science and stuff?) Another thing about libraries: they aren’t always open. So when I finish a book during the week, I tend to grab something from my own collection to tide me over until the weekend. Thus how I end up reading Nancy Drew books in front of the Pentagon. Suck it, terrorists!

But with a Kindle and the internet, I can access Great Literature any time I want. Also, Angry Birds.

No one but me knows what the book looks like. Remember how I said earlier that I read a lot in public? And how my fellow passengers are often more interested in my book than I am? That becomes a problem sometimes. Like when I read this:

Now, the book itself was a sort of modern-day Lord of the Flies, with beauty pageant contestants. But I’m pretty sure the typical assumed subject matter is…how can I put this delicately…boobies.

With a Kindle, I don’t have to worry about titillating covers. When your commute involves the Pentagon, you have to think about these things. I have probably inadvertently offended a lot of members of the armed forces. Suck it, terrorists!

Size doesn’t matter. Large books are heavy. Logistically, this makes reading while standing difficult. And my commute, even on its best days, involves a fair amount of standing. (On a bad day, I waited 50 minutes for a bus before giving up and taking a train.) Since I have the upper-body strength of a two-year-old, I much prefer the weight of a Kindle.

Large books are also large. (QED) Now, you car people don’t think about this, but we public transit folks must be able to carry all of our stuff during the commute. Beverages, work items, lunch, gadgets, all of it. Ideally, we must also be able to carry it while sprinting 100 yards to the other end of the Pentagon bus bay, because the 7Y IS JUST ABOUT TO LEAVE THE STAND.

Anyway.

One of the main reasons I checked out and immediately returned Doris Kearns Goodwin’s Team of Rivals was its immense size. (Also, nonfiction, bleh.) That thing was like a Gutenberg Bible. I couldn’t fit it AND my lunch, so obviously the book had to go.

But now I can fit even the Gutenberg Bible on a tablet the size of a Nancy Drew book. Suck it, terrorists! (Less appropriate here, but I feel as if I have to live up to the trend.)

Kindles help you look busy. Granted, any tablet or smartphone achieves the same end here, which is to discourage conversation or communication of any sort. My fellow commuters, I am not interested in discussing the weather, the traffic, the upcoming holidays, sports, news events, the economy, elections, your family, or health issues. While you used to be able to see that I was obviously Not Busy when I was reading a fluorescent yellow Nancy Drew book, note that I am now tapping on a tablet. I am probably recalculating** the nuclear launch codes, which requires MY FULL FOCUS. Suck it, terrorists!

Look, I’m as surprised as anybody that I’ve come up with such a full-bodied defense of an e-Reader, which is what I consider the Kindle Fire to be (alert: soapbox coming). It’s a souped-up e-Reader. It’s not a tablet computer, or an iPad, or a portal into the future. It’s a way to read books and occasionally use the internet. So stop comparing it to full-bodied 3G-enabled devices, OKAY?

I’m not yet a convert (I think books with pictures would be better in regular form), but I’ve definitely come around.

* I don’t go to the hospital, use the schools, or call the police. I own no property and have no dependents. Election ads focusing on the use of my tax dollars don’t go very far.
** You think they don’t need to be recalculated? Ah, the innocence of youth.

TURKEY!

2011-11-24T05:00:00.000-05:00

Northern Aggression, and Crisps

2011-11-23T05:00:00.001-05:00

When the stresses of city life threaten to crush our spirits, TheBoy and I like to find a vacation rental near the Blue Ridge Mountains and far from any Occupy movement. Most recently, we stayed here:

Now, I realize that you probably live in a home like this. You have a garage, maybe a pool, definitely a grill. But for me, an apartment dweller making the most of 767 square feet, it is heaven.

There was a giant TV!

And two tables!

Stairs!

Basketball hoop!

The hits, they kept on coming.

So we obviously spent 80% of the weekend watching cable TV and eating hot dogs. But we spent the other 20% visiting the Route 11 potato chip factory, WHICH WAS NOT IN PRODUCTION THAT DAY AND LOOK HOW THRILLED I WAS ABOUT THAT.

But, also, the site of the Battle of new Market:

Which was the only Civil War Battle involving cadets (from the Virginia Military Instute), and only the second historical attraction I’ve visited (after the Duke Homestead) where I felt overwhelming southern sentiment.

The North won. Get over it.

Alas, we had to bid the mountains farewell all too soon.

The Sing-Off Clip of the Week

2011-11-22T18:44:00.002-05:00

No, I haven't forgotten this show. I just haven't been sufficiently impressed to post a clip for the past few weeks.

Hoy, here's one.

They didn't have the chick sing lead, and that takes guts.

Sorry I Missed It: Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares

2011-11-21T20:03:00.003-05:00

One of the side benefits of getting a Kindle Fire is one free month of Amazon Prime.

(Oh, did I not mention that I got a Kindle Fire? Believe me, that will be a separate story unto itself, not least because of the many similarities between caring for that li’l fella and what I imagine parenthood to be. Cut to me, at 12:30 a.m.: “Why won’t you sync? Sync! Sync, dammit!”)

So, anyway, Amazon Prime. The chief benefit of which is the ability to stream lots of movies and TV instantly. While I’ve already seen 24, Lost, and Arrested Development (Prime, you do have good taste), I had not seen any episodes of Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares. Note that this isn’t the FOX series, with overscored tension and bleeping. This is the original UK series in all its unbleeped and uncensored glory. Seriously. During one episode, Gordon takes the restaurant owner to some sort of adult show and I saw more boobies than I ever cared to.

The gist is the same, of course. Gordon visits a failing restaurant. Tries the menu. Observes the staff. Makes recommendations for new food, décor, and/or staff. Ideally, the restaurant then takes these suggestions to heart and turns over a new leaf. In reality, it appears that most of these places later close anyway. So…yeah.

Now, where the UK version really differs from the US version (boobies aside) is in Gordon’s behavior. In the US, as you might know, he’s a furious, profane fireball in chef’s whites, turning even the most seasoned cook into a quivering mess. He’s made contestants on both Hell’s Kitchen and MasterChef cry and collapse. It’s right up FOX’s alley.

But in the UK? In the UK, Gordon seems…subdued. Sure, he swears up a storm, but apparently the Brits aren’t nearly as prudish about that as we are. Other differences:

UK version: Gordon eats the restaurant’s “signature dish” and throws up

US version: Gordon eats the restaurant’s “signature dish” and throws up on the chef

UK version: Gordon throws most of the refrigerator’s contents in the trash

US version: Gordon throws most of the refrigerator’s contents at the chef

UK version: Gordon plays football with the staff and scores a goal

US version: Gordon plays soccer with the staff and scores a goal off the chef’s head

You get the idea.

Perhaps it’s that stiff upper lip that encourages Gordon to keep his composure. Perhaps FOX encouraged him to “trash it up” a little to appeal to their demographic. Which is the real Gordon Ramsay? I dunno.

If you ever have to meet him, let’s hope it’s in the UK, okay?

"I'm a Big Open Book!"*

2011-11-15T22:20:00.003-05:00

Note: Your comments about e-readers and tablet computers are not welcome. Paper or death!

I’ve finally taken a small step on the bandwagon of hoopla that is “The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo.” I’m not ready to review it yet; I’m on the third chapter. The first few pages didn’t impress me; I figure you probably need to be more Swedish to fully appreciate it. The closest I get is the $2500 or so I’ve spent at Ikea so far this lifetime. However, things did get more interesting once Lisbeth showed up. (Question to fans: Will I ever stop reading it as “Salamander” in my head?)

Anyhoo, the fact is that I’m reading a LARGE PRINT edition of “The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo.” Not because I have eye problems (nearsightedness notwithstanding), though I’m definitely going to get some looks during my commutes. It just happened that the only copy of this book available at the Alexandria Public Library was the large print edition.

I’ll be honest: I didn’t even know where that section of the library was at first. It’s like the microfiche section, or the career assistance section, or the section where they do puppet shows for kids. I know they exist, but I am not among their devoted demographic. Until, y’know, I am.

Other than some ancient Reader’s Digests at my (also ancient) great-aunt’s house, this is my first true experience with the world of LARGE PRINT books. For one thing: it appears that italics become bold print. I’m not sure on this, but every time I’ve come upon a periodical title or a scientific name in “The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo,” it’s been in bold instead of italics. Maybe italics are harder to read? Bold is certainly easier to read. Which makes one wonder why we aren’t all using bold instead of italics. Let’s take a page from the old people, people!

I have no idea how big the book is in regular print. I can tell you that in LARGE PRINT, it’s not nearly as big as I expected. I mean, I think LARGE PRINT book and I picture something resembling a Gutenberg Bible. This book is smaller than some non-LARGE PRINT books I have read. Probably helps that it’s a paperback.

I’m a bit concerned that the LARGE PRINT will make it even easier for fellow bus passengers to “share” my reading experience. I’m used to it by now: people scope out my Bloomberg Businessweek, they read along with my Real Simple, and they ogle my Town & Country. No one has yet asked me to stay on a page until they finished the article, but I figure it’s a matter of time.

Buses are fun!

But I’m told that this book features adult activities that I will be inwardly horrified to read about. Never mind the fellow passengers who are minding my own business some Tuesday morning as we all read about hacking and rape in LARGE PRINT. My best choice is to hope I sit next to people who can’t read English. Or who can’t read. Or who can’t see. Or who are headless.

Rarely do I wish my fellow passengers were actually weirder.

* A million points to anybody who got that reference to "The Librarians" and Book Week.

Chill

2011-11-14T23:26:00.005-05:00

I recently saw a great article showing office fridges from your (and my) favorite TV shows, blogs, and other media producers. I found it fascinating, and not just because it was about food. You can tell a lot about what a person keeps in the fridge at home, but perhaps even more about what they keep in the fridge at work.

Your home fridge contains the stuff you need to survive. Eggs. Bread. Medication for that weird skin thing. Your kid’s science project. It’s routine. It’s boring.

With a work fridge, you have the option to put your best foot forward. You can choose to have a fridge filled with fancy waters and tinfoil swans. Imported honey. Coffee creamer made in small batches by blind nuns. “What’s this, you ask? It’s just a mason jar of agave oil my friend Caspar had smuggled out of Mexico. He knew I liked it in my tea.”

Working as I do for Uncle Sam, I forget that a good number of workplaces allow the occasional (if not frequent) possession and consumption of alcohol. Perhaps your office fridge is nothing but PBR.

Now, disliking people and commingling of possessions as I do, I’ve opted to purchase and maintain my own minifridge. I believe this is the way to go. Everything in there is YOURS. YOUR STUFF is the only stuff in there. The stuff that’s in there is ALL YOURS. Get my drift? Don’t ask to put the other half of your $5 footlong in my fridge. I will eat it. In return, I won’t ask you to keep my coffee warm by holding it in your hands for the next two hours. I believe it was the Communists who said, “From each according to his ability, to each according to his need for climate-controlled food storage,” and I am no Communist.

Plus, you get to buy great fridge magnets that subconsciously proclaim your world views. (Please, no magnetic poetry.)

I feel like there should be a branch of anthropology dedicated to office fridges. Whose lunch will rot over Thanksgiving? Has the yogurt that’s been in there for two years actually turned to cheese? How many packets of ketchup can fit in the door until they attack each other, “Lord of the Flies” style? The drama! The tension!

I keep a small jar of relish in the communal refrigerator just to keep a hand in the action.

Video of the Day

2011-11-11T05:00:00.001-05:00

Seriously, how tall is Travie McCoy?

'Tis the Season

2011-11-10T05:00:00.000-05:00

Tuesday was Election Day in Virginia. Despite the fact that 2011 is a pretty quiet year around here, I voted. Democracy is the best system we have until the robots turn sentient, and I like to support it every year. Plus, they give me candy and a sticker.

Ideally, I would be allowed to vote absentee in Wisconsin for the rest of my life. Moving away from my hometown has showed me that I you can never really connect to a municipality unless you learned to read and drive there. While Virginia is a lovely vice-ridden state,* the only bits of its infrastructure I care about are the roads and the libraries. This is the lot of a single person without child or property. It’s hard to care about who’s ruling the schools, hospitals, and law enforcement when you don’t use any of those things.

Nonetheless, I won’t let my lack of standing keep me from the candy and the sticker. It’s best to have a backup plan when you vote. Some people write in things like “Mickey Mouse” or “99%” or that symbol that Prince used to go by. Some people vote for the first name. You get the idea.

Me? In races where I have no strong feeling, I vote for the Republican. (Am I the only person you know who has voted in times past for both Mitt Romney and Sarah Palin?) In non-partisan races, I vote for the incumbent. (I’m a Republican: no news is good news when it comes to elected officials.)

Though parties (when applicable) and incumbents were ALWAYS CLEARLY MARKED in Milwaukee, I pride myself on doing just enough homework and sample ballot studying to make sure that I know what to expect when I step up to the futuristic Vote-a-tron 4000 here in Virginia. Between not knowing the local corridors of power and working that machine, it can be a bit much.

This year: utter fail.

The first two races on the ballot were for state representatives, with clearly marked parties. No problem.

The final race on the ballot was for clerk of courts. No parties were denoted. The incumbent was not denoted. I had not done any homework on this race, nor had I seen signs, advertisements, or campaign workers.

I concluded that we had a rare breed here: the incumbentless non-partisan race for an office not high enough to warrant significant press.

Crap.

Luckily for me, my mojo kicked in and I ended up voting for the Republican anyway. Close one.

There were no poll workers at the exit table, so I didn’t know what to do. Remember from a prior experience that they are VERY PICKY about what you do after you have voted. I was afraid that if I just threw away my voter code, took a sticker, and left, they’d be on me like [insert Herman Cain joke here]. But after another voter mistook me for a poll worker and thanked me, I threw caution to the wind.

However, I have saved the best for last. Here, the conversation I had with that voter while walking out of the building:

He pulls out his wallet and shows me a faded sticker on its cover.
Him: Now I can replace last year’s sticker.
I’m very impressed that he still has the sticker from last year.
Me: Wow, good for you!
Him: Actually, I think this is the sticker from 2008.
I quickly walk away.

First of all: ew. Second of all: you haven’t voted since 2008? 2008?! There have been at least two major elections since then and now, dude! You know what they call people who only make an effort once every few years? Members of Congress. C’mon, man.

(Note that if I had accidentally voted for the democratic Clerk of Courts—who happened to be the incumbent—this entry would have been titled “The Accidental Democrat.”)

* Case in point: this recent “Vices of Virginia” event, where people drank wine, smoked cigars, and sold relatives into indentured servitude. Or two of the three.

Quick Biscuits

2011-11-09T05:00:00.002-05:00

This past weekend, I attended the 2011 Metropolitan Cooking & Entertaining Show. This was my fourth one, and I like to think I’ve got it down to a system by now. Though I forgot my camera (so much for the system, huh?), pictures from a prior visit are here. Basically, you need to arrive early to get a good look at and taste of the vendors. During the middle of the day, you attend workshops both to get away from the crowd and to rest your feet. Oh, and also to learn something. Then, at the end of the day, you shop and get more samples, since the vendors will inevitably have put out a new round of stuff.

TheBoy and I made it through round 1 of the vendor floor in about an hour. Among the things we tried: cheese, cake, nuts, hot sauce, mustard, hot tea, cold tea, chicken, and beef. The usual, really.

Time check: 11 a.m.

Our workshops were about Indian food, coffee, styling a buffet (TheBoy skipped out on that one), pairing tea and chocolate, and cookies.

We watched a local chef prepare scallops and listened to a story about how he recently set his hair on fire.

We were ready for the second and final round of the convention floor.

Time check: 5 p.m.

Now, I never go in expecting to buy, since I’m notoriously cheap and the food at this show is too classy for my blood. But I’d seen something that caught my eye, something that I’d been wishing for, something that I figured was logistically impossible but oh. if. only.

The booth said: “Fully-cooked microwaveable biscuits.”

See, the one redeeming value of the south (imo) is biscuits. As a Wisconsinite, the best I got were proffered either by a man in a white suit or a stuffed doughboy. But STILL. They were delicious—warm and buttery and flaky. Of the many delicious forms of carbohydrates, biscuits are absolutely in my top three.

But unless you have a live-in servant, making biscuits takes time. I’d be totally fine with popping a can of Pillsbury if it didn’t also involve 15 minutes of toaster oven time, during which I consume an entire can of Pringles in anticipation. And in the morning? Forget about it.

So God bless Cathy Dunn, proprietress of the Biscuit King Restaurants in Lexington, North Carolina. She has somehow figured out how to make biscuits that can be frozen and microwaved FOR FORTY SECONDS without losing any of their flavor. Oh, and they are only 169 calories each. Did I hug Cathy? No. Did I buy biscuits from her? Yes.

I bought four dozen biscuits, people. Honestly, I should have gotten more. I really hope they come back next year.

The website is here, though I don’t see anywhere to order. You’ll just have to drive to Lexington, I guess.

WTF Product of the Day, Volume 14: The Traveling Toddler Car Seat Travel Accessory

2011-11-08T05:00:00.002-05:00

The train was particularly crowded this morning. Not sure if that was related to the end of Daylight Savings, the fact that it was Tuesday, or the earthquake in Oklahoma. Perhaps a combination of all three. Many Typical Metro Types were quite literally in my face as I rode: businessmen, students, quite-possibly-homeless, and so on. No tourists today, thank goodness, because there is frankly NO GOOD REASON for tourists to ride the train before 8 a.m. The museums don’t open until 10, people. Let the workers settle in before emerging from your hotel rooms. Tuck into an extra plate at the continental breakfast buffet. You know I would.

So, anyway, what WAS unusual this morning was the presence of a baby. I’m not certain of its age. It was small enough to fit in a chest carrier, but old enough to make comments as we rode. I found the child less-annoying than usual for two reasons: One, it was both physically and audiologically contained. Two, its mother spoke to it as an adult. Her tone, volume, and vocabulary were all the same as if she’d been speaking to me. (Which, mercifully, she did not attempt.)

Parents, take note! If you MUST use public transit during the rush hour, treat the child as an extension of your body. Keep it quiet, off the ground, and close to your torso. Under no circumstances should you ever use this:

So many bad ideas combine in this single product.

It takes up a lot of space. Space that instead could hold two or three commuters. I am already uncomfortably intimate with people’s messenger bags on a daily basis. Your child shouldn’t have to suffer through it, too. But if s/he kicks? Make no mistake: WE WILL KICK BACK.

It could easily get caught in the train doors. I have seen people lose backpacks, beverages, and lesser extremities in train doors. As Metro will oft remind you: “Our doors are not like elevator doors.” See, unlike elevator doors and politicians’ pants, they stay closed. Best case scenario: your kid makes it onto the train while you end up a smear on the platform. Unfortunately for your kid, you’re probably the one with the farecard and he is going to have a lot of trouble reaching the Exitfare machine.

It substantially increases the chance that your child will accidentally get shipped to Orlando. I ride the blue line, one of two that services the airport. Blue and yellow line riders see an unattended bag? As soon as the doors open at the airport stop, we chuck it onto the platform and carry on.* Our other option is calling it in as a potential bomb threat, and that’s going to shut down the line and add several days to our travel time.

We realize this is an inconvenience for you, too. Maybe your daycare was closed for the day or your child has a job interview downtown or something. The girl from those Verizon commercials probably got her start riding orange line from Dunn Loring. I get that. Just please do what we all try to do: keep out of the way.

* It’s little-known that the saying is “Close only counts in hand grenades, horseshoes, and the DC Metro. We put unattended pets at the zoo stop, unattended books at the Library of Congress stop, and unattended sporting goods at the stadium stop. It’s like a giant filing system.

Easy on the Hands

2011-11-07T19:02:00.002-05:00

We seem to be having a bit of a controversy in the bathrooms at my workplace.

(Not that kind of controversy, ew.)

Soap-related controversy. It’s a tense passive-aggressive battle, really. That’s what I tell myself, anyway, because it makes for a better story.

The facts are these*:

Our bathroom sinks have pumps built into the countertop. These pumps are filled with pink soap. I assume the soap is standard industrial supply. It doesn’t have any strong odor or distinguishing features. I mean, to quote Chandler Bing, “Soap is soap.” I took no notice of it until the kerfuffle started.

Which happened when someone bought one Spa Originals liquid soap for each sink. Fancy soap. Soap that smelled like coconut, or the ocean, or the dreams of children named after flowers. Soap that was obviously meant to substitute for the inferior standard-issue soviet soap. So we used it. And the bottles slowly emptied. Until I thought it was going to be victory for the communists and their skin-melting soap.

Then new bottles of freedom soap showed up. This time, WITH MOISTURIZER! Oh the things a free market has to offer! Once this soap was gone, who knew what would show up? Foaming soap? Soap with glitter in it? Soap dispensed by a trained panda? Man, remember when we thought all soap was pink, smelled like turpentine, and turned our hands purple? HA!

Then, a chilling development.

For, today, the soap bottles had indeed been refilled.

With pink soap.

Those fascists were obviously just biding their time. Brilliant.

Soon, I will forget the smell of coconut, and the ocean, and the dreams of children named after flowers. Do those things still exist somewhere? I hope so.

* RIP, Pushing Daisies.

Television Internationale

2011-11-02T18:46:00.006-04:00

Hulu is a boon to avid entertainment consumers. You know this. I know this. Most people know this, CBS and sports fans excepted. While I appreciate the fact that it’s free, and legal, and lets me watch episodes of network shows I missed, I really love Hulu’s recommendations feature. I love it almost as much as I love Amazon’s “You Might Also Like.” I mean, do you know how many amazing books I’ve found because Amazon’s AI knew I would like them? Yet another reason to open our robot overlords with open arms. They want to entertain us, in exchange for the inconsequential matter of harvesting our bodies’ natural resources! It’s not so bad being an organic cog in the machine if you have a really good book to pass the time.

Anyway, I’ve gone on a Hulu recommendation binge lately, and here’s a report of my findings. The most highly-recommended stuff is at the top.

Program: The Librarians
Country of origin: Australia
It’s a lot like: The Office, set in an Australian library
Watch it because: Michael Scott couldn’t even imagine this place. You’ve got library-related hijinks (literal crap in the bookdrop, hilariously-inappropriate weeknight workshops, etc.), you’ve got a cast of employees that put Creed Bratton to shame, and you’ve got words that should end in –er ending in –re! This is my number one suggestion to you. Everything below is just gravy.
I knew it was for me when: The first scene of the opening credits showed the main character, head librarian Frances, making a week’s worth of sandwich lunches at once. I’M NOT THE ONLY ONE!

Program: Goodnight Burbank
Country of origin: USA
It’s a lot like: SportsNight, but with local news.
Watch it because: The quips come fast and furious. Politics, race, sex: nothing’s off the table. Imagine if Sarah Palin and Ricky Gervais anchored a local news program. And there you go.
I knew it was for me when: The female anchor made a stunning Muslim joke, and the Muslim makeup artist gave as good as she got.

Program: The Palace
Country of origin: UK
It’s a lot like: The Tudors, set in the modern day
Watch it because: Royals are people too. The Palace is a bit high-concept: it’s not the merry Windsors we watch here, but a fictional royal family. There are two young guns, similar to pre-wedding William and Harry. In the pilot, one of them ascends to the throne as King Richard IV.
I knew it was for me when: The opening credits showed a servant measuring the distance between huge place settings at the royal table.
Caveat: One of the major plotlines involves the scheming eldest sister, who was passed over by the rules of succession. Those of you who follow monarchy news (I’M THE ONLY ONE!) know that these rules were recently changed to allow rule to pass to the eldest child, regardless of gender.
Caveat #2: This show only ran for one season. Apparently the Britons found it tawdry. Not respectful enough of the royals and all that.

Program: Spy
Country of origin: UK
It’s a lot like: Chuck
Watch it because: Sometimes good guys finish first, but can’t tell anyone about it. The main character is working a dead-end computer store job. His son despises him. He’s a perennial screwup. Until he ups and quits, and the employment agency refers him to a “civil service exam” that turns out to be a recruitment test for MI-5. He aces the exam and BOOM DIGGETY he’s in. Except no one can know about it.
I knew it was for me when: The main character completely overturned his desk in the MI-5 testing room. I laughed so hard I cried.

Program: Campus
Country of origin: UK
It’s a lot like: Community
Watch it because: The dean (here called the Vice Chancellor, or VC) is simultaneously evil and hilarious. He could quite literally be the boss from hell—he has some weird telekinetic powers.
I knew it was for me when: Not sure on this one yet. It’s definitely amusing, but there are many characters and not all of them are hits.

Program: Party Animals
Country of origin: UK
It’s a lot like: The West Wing
Watch it because: Parliament is even crazier than Congress. Drunker, too.
I knew it was for me when: Still waffling, actually. Knowing that this show only ran for one season lessens my enthusiasm.

In My Opinion: Everything Must Go

2011-11-01T18:20:00.003-04:00

Will Ferrell received this year’s Mark Twain Prize for American Humor. The Kennedy Center-hosted ceremony was taped last week and broadcast on PBS last night. If you didn’t catch it, I encourage you to look for the repeats. It’s PBS, so you KNOW there will be repeats. Though not as funny as last year’s event (feting Tina Fey), guests such as Conan O’Brien, Adam McKay, and Gwen Ifill (there’s that PBS thing again) got in some good lines.

Paul Rudd made passing reference to the film Everything Must Go, joking that Will was great in it even though no one saw it. Well, I saw it, and I really liked it. Then again, I also saw and liked Stranger Than Fiction, so perhaps I am just weirdly out there.

The film opens on a very bad, no good, horrible day for Nick Halsey. He loses his job. He goes home to find that his wife has left him, locked him out of the house, and thrown all his stuff on the front lawn. His car gets repossessed. His bank accounts are locked. His phone gets turned off.

Basically, this is a man with the clothes on his back, the money in his wallet, and a really big LP collection.

He sits on the lawn for a while, pondering what to do, until a neighborhood kid bikes by. Long story short: they become friends, and Nick uses the kid’s bike to make grocery runs to the local convenience store. That’s the short-term plan.

The long-term plan is to sell all his belongings and start fresh. If you see an overt metaphor there, well done! During the selling process, complications arise with the attractive neighbor lady, Nick’s cop friend, his former supervisor, and so on.

And now, some reasons I really liked this movie.

1. It didn’t have a happy ending. Call me cynical, but I firmly believe that things rarely work out. Probability just isn’t that friendly. In this film, Nick doesn’t reunite with his wife. He doesn’t get his old job back. He doesn’t even go out in a blaze of vengeful glory. Quiet desperation is the name of the game here.

2. Speaking of quiet desperation, Will Ferrell underplays this character in a really effective way. I know that subtlety is not a characteristic you typically associate with Ferrell, he of the “more cowbell” and the Old School streaking. Trust me: he can do subtlety, and he does it here. There’s something about the manic comedians that makes their calm roles more effective (see: Jim Carrey in The Truman Show).

3. It’s efficient. At 92 minutes, this film makes things count. I mean, I also recently saw Transformers 2: Electric Boogaloo, and I believe that film had 92 minutes of extraneous robot battle. Here, it’s about dialogue and character development. No narrative tricks, flashy bangs, or bangy flashes. In fact, I’d love to see this film done on stage. I think the limited number of characters and sets make it doable. It’s just that tightly executed.

Is there a third option?

2011-10-31T05:00:00.000-04:00

Hey, look, it's time for trick or treat. What will you be doing tonight? Handing out full-size candy bars? Passing out raisins and pennies? Religiously abstaining from heathen revelry?

Good for you.

I’ll be watching tv quietly and avoiding anyone who knocks on my door. It’s not because I dislike people or sharing my food*. It’s because I have nothing good to share. Seriously. A quick inventory of my foodstuffs reveals the following “treats”:

1. Sugar-free hot chocolate packets: approximately 50.
2. Applesauce cups: 4.
3. Twinkies: 2.
4. 100-calorie guacamole packets: 5.
5. Mint Chap-Stick: 23.
6. Diet Coke cans: 15.

Of those, only the twinkies could reasonably be called treats, right? I only have them because they’re leftover from the mummy cakes I made for TheBoy’s Halloween party.

But if I give those out, I can satisfy all of two kids. Not acceptable. I imagine the rest of the children would form a horde and egg my apartment door.

So I have chosen to binge eat the twinkies myself and pretend to not be home. Win-win!

*Though I totally do.

Pop the Cork

2011-10-27T22:28:00.015-04:00

I’ve written before about the show Good Eats, and its unique blend of science, food, and humor. The show recently stopped production, but that doesn’t mean the world has seen the last of Alton Brown. He’s now finished the third and final book about the making of GE (Good Eats 3: The Later Years) and is on the matching book tour. Though I haven’t yet read the book, I knew I had to see him when he swung by DC.

Technically, he swung by McLean, Virginia, which is sort of DC’s richer, boozier uncle. The people of McLean are the 1%. I wasn’t sure that they’d let me in, despite making sure my shirt was yogurt-free. Thought about taking copies of my master’s degree and the literary analysis papers I wrote in college, but that turned out to be unnecessary.

As I settled into my seat, I was surprised to see a stage that was frankly bedecked with apparati:

I was expecting a stool and a glass of water. It appeared that I was in for some actual cooking, despite the fact that we were in a theater-like room definitely not designed for fumes. M…kay.

Alton started the show promptly on time, then noted a group of four empty chairs right in front. Markedly irritated, he proceeded to heckle the people when they came. That’s right: he heckled them. He sat on the freaking stage and interrogated them about their tardiness.

For those of you wondering if the arrogant “The Next Food Network Star” persona is just schtick, I assure you, he’s just as bitchy in real life.

Once everyone arrived and was suitably slandered, Alton began showing us some wine applications. It being a wine festival and all.** First, how to chill your wine quickly:

Yep, you need a power screwdriver and a bucket.

Also, how to make wine caviar (really a mixture of wine and gelatin).

Then, how to open a champagne bottle with a sword. That’s right: sabering!

(Sorry I lose the cork at the end. It was really dark.)

Finally, champagne sorbet. Chilled with liquid nitrogen, obviously.

I’m not the hugest fan of science, but even I can’t resist edible chemistry.

* He prefers that term to “recipes.”
** I don’t drink at all (I have this), so the irony of my attending alcohol-focused events is not lost on me. I make up for it at the food-based ones.

Spooky Scary Werewolf Bar Mitzvah

2011-10-26T22:01:00.004-04:00

Forgive me if I’ve written about this already, but am I the only one who grew up with a trick or treat that involved coat wearing on Sunday afternoons?

Those of you who grew up in the Midwest, Northeast, or Alaska know that by the time the end of October rolls around, you’re more likely than not to have wind chills in the 20s and some snow on the ground. No matter how phenomenal your costume is, it’s going to be covered by outerwear. I’ve given candy to “SWAT team member wearing coat,” “Jeff Gordon wearing coat,” and “princess wearing coat.” Heck, I’ve *been* “princess wearing coat.” I never thought a thing of it. (Plus side: coat pockets mean more candy-carrying capacity.) The only time you got my costume’s full effect was in my own living room. I'm the one on the left.

Here, in solo glory:

(I still have that outfit.)

(It no longer fits.)

Anyway, I always envied the kids who lived in multi-family buildings (not a ton of those in Milwaukee, but a few 8-apartment buildings exist), because they could possibly hit several places without their down jacket, scarf, and gloves. What luxury!

To add insult to injury, Milwaukee doesn’t hold trick or treat on Halloween. Halloween’s usually a weekday, you see, so it would have to be done after school. And that far north, after school means after sundown. Hundreds of children walking around in the dark? Not so much. Hence why you’d find me dutifully taking my “princess wearing coat” schtick to the streets on the Sunday before, usually from 1 to 4ish. Houses with candy would turn their porch lights on. (I admit that makes a lot less sense when it is already light out.) When my dad was a kid, Milwaukee had trick or treat at night (as, apparently, the rest of the freaking country does), but that was Back in the Day. Now we have to check for razorblades in our gluten-free apples and whatnot.

It’s just one of those things you never think twice about as a kid, because that’s the way things are. And then you meet people from other lands and realize that they do things differently. (Or-the horror—not at all.) It is not a small world after all, Disney. It’s a large world where some people got to collect candy in fewer than 5 layers of clothing.

In My Opinion: The Trip

2011-10-25T20:35:00.003-04:00

Overseas flights are good for several things. (1) They’re one of the best ways to get from here to there, if an ocean exists between here and there. (2) They’re a great time to remind yourself never to have children. (3) They provide an opportunity for serious media consumption. When flying abroad, I take advantage of all three.

Hence my recent viewing of The Trip, starring British comedians (personalities? performers?) Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon playing versions of themselves. The plot is pretty simple: Steve and his girlfriend plan to take a food-focused tour* of the Lake District and write about it for The Observer. Just before the trip, girlfriend decides the relationship needs a break. Steve can’t find any friends to go on the tour with him, so he takes Rob.

Now, I’m an American who knows Steve Coogan as “the other guy from Around the World in 80 Days” and Rob Brydon not at all, so I’m sure I missed a ton of references, in-jokes, and the like. But some things are universal. The buddy road trip. Small-town tourism. The crises of middle age. One-up-man-ship.** When Steve and Rob discuss the career of fellow Brit Michael Sheen with thinly-veiled jealousy over appetizers at a teeny place in Whatevershire, no sound track or special effects are needed to make it a great scene. So much of this film is funny, and poignant, and sad, often all at once.

Plus the backdrop of the breathtaking Lake District, where I’d love to retire.

Plus plus spontaneous quoting of Coleridge, Wordsworth, et al.

Plus plus plus several scenes involving the difficulty of touring places off the beaten track. I could write an entirely separate blog about the hijinks I’ve gotten into trying to tour places that can count their monthly visitors on two hands. I’ve been personally guided through historic homes. I’ve gotten lost in their construction sites. I’ve locked myself out of them. Wandering lonely as a cloud is all well and good until you need a clearly-marked restroom.

* The best kind, innit?
** One-upmanship? One-up-manship? One-upsmanship? This word turns out to be incredibly difficult in written form.

London, Day 7: Spending the Last Pence and Heathrow

2011-10-24T22:47:00.005-04:00

(Day 6 can be found here.)

Day 7: Saturday, October 8

My 28th birthday. I started off by finally ordering the full English breakfast at the hotel. (I’d previously been getting bits and pieces of it, or just opting for the continental offerings.)

No pancakes, alas.

The train to Heathrow was surprisingly crowded. I suppose this is why the Tube runs so frequently. No matter when or where I rode that week, I had company.

Airport security at Heathrow seemed no worse or better than in the US, though removing shoes appeared to be optional. I’m so used to being scanned and groped that I took them off anyway.

Once at the gate, I had about £4 to burn. I bought a sandwich, a Diet Coke, and some Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. Final tally: took £300 to London and came back with 31p.

The flight home was about 7 hours. I watched Bridesmaids, a great little British film called The Trip, and finished my book. I had foolishly read quite a bit of it on the train to Heathrow, so I found myself bookless for a good part of the flight. (My reserve book was in the overhead compartment. Poor, poor planning, I know.)

There appeared to be a large contingent of young British men on our flight coming to America for a visit. No idea whether they were staying in the DC area or what. Wondered what they were planning to do, and whether the amazing water pressure of our sinks and toilets would befuddle them. I myself was missing it very much. Never have I been so glad to see a Dulles bathroom.

I had a touch-and-go moment at customs when the official remarked on my “difficult” last name and I just agreed with him instead of pronouncing it. Was that a test? Did he think I was impersonating Heather Mrockosockwiczkashavicz? Who can say? (I got a similar test at Heathrow. Just look at the picture and stamp the darn passport, people. No small talk.)

Came home to a pile of mail. I really need to start resisting free magazine subscriptions.

And now I’m back. Spent the next week waking up at 4:30 a.m. and walking around tired most of the day. But it was totally worth it.

My top 5 notes from the trip:

1. Britons love lining up for things. It’s a whole field of etiquette.
2. In Britain, arugula is called rocket.
3. Piccadilly Circus is a great place to people watch, a la Times Square.
4. Every bus should be a double decker bus.
5. Britons see no need for air conditioning anywhere or elevators in their hotels. Prepare accordingly.

London, Day 6: Books, Elgin Marbles, and the Eye

2011-10-20T17:45:00.008-04:00

(Day 5 can be found here.)

Day 6: Friday, October 7

We started day 7 at the British Library. It took longer than expected to get there because our nearest Tube station, Victoria Station, was evacuated for some reason. Then our bus aborted its route (no reason given) so we had to transfer. A catalogue of errors.

Anyway, we finally made it to the Library and saw various ancient documents, including a Magna Carta, Gutenberg Bible, and original Beatles lyrics written on an envelope. Don’t get me wrong: these were all super-cool. However, living in the same city as the Library of Congress and the National Archive gave it a bit of a “been there, done that” feel. (Sounds terrible, I know.)

Before we caught the bus for the British Museum, I went rogue to check out nearby King’s Cross and find platform 9 ¾. No true Harry Potter fan could do otherwise.

After weaving my way through the commuters to platform level, I walked the length of both 9 and 10 and found nothing. Then I saw the sign:

Yes, why wouldn’t you relocate a platform-related attraction to A RANDOM EXTERIOR BUILDING CORNER?

I exited King’s Cross incorrectly and had no idea where I was, nor how to find either York Way or Euston Road. Pulled out my compass and everything. Really needed a “point me” spell. Luckily, I chose the right direction and found 9 ¾, which (I think you’ll agree) was underwhelming at best.

The British Museum, though, was much better. I can’t think of anything comparable here, though I suppose New York comes closest. Does it, though, have the freaking Elgin Marbles?

The upside of ruling the waves: you get to keep a lot of awesome stuff.

Our group was having a farewell dinner that night, so TheBoy and I dedicated our afternoon to one thing: the London Eye. We were prepared to invest some time in waiting, because it seemed like something not to miss. Luckily, the lines for both ticket purchasing and riding the wheel were quite manageable. Yes, it’s pricey and touristy, but they really know how to keep the lines moving, and the views are great.

At the farewell dinner, our group gave guide Gillian a few gifts and read a poem composed by one of the group members. I had lamb, duck, and fudge cake; TheBoy had soup, pasta, and ice cream. Sorry to see it all end, but I was also missing America.

Tomorrow: Spending the last pence and Heathrow.

London, Day 5: Windsor and War

2011-10-18T17:55:00.007-04:00

(Day 4 can be found here.)

Day 5: Wednesday, October 6

We began bright and early so as to catch the train to Windsor. It’s about an hour the way we rode. On the plus side, we passed some lovely countryside.

The town of Windsor was a bit too quiet for my taste, though the local establishments looked promising.

Windsor Castle itself is HUGE. It’s good to be Queen. TheBoy and I joined a guided tour of the grounds, and then walked the State Apartments, several of which I had seen on the many documentaries I’ve watched about the castle. We also walked through St. George’s Chapel, where I got to see the graves of Henry VIII, Jane Seymour, and Charles Brandon (palm raise for The Tudors).

I also got a picture with a royal guard. He appeared to be about 12.

That afternoon, TheBoy and I went to the Imperial War Museum. He because he wanted to see it, me because my dad has been talking about going to this thing as long as I can remember.

It had lots of heavy equipment in it.

On the plus side, we didn’t get mugged, despite being on the South Bank!

We had considered going to the IMAX, but it turned out to be pricey and unimpressive. Some things are best left to the Americans. We went to Covent Garden instead, a great market of retail and restaurants. Watched a mime, browsed some trinkets, ate a great Italian dinner.

For dessert, though, we went to Harrod’s instead and finally got our £15 ice cream creations (Travelcard for scale).

We were pretty tired after that, so we went back to the hotel and enjoyed some British television. Turns out their game shows are ridiculously hard, and screamingly funny.

Tomorrow: Books, Elgin Marbles, and the Eye.

London, Day 4: St. Paul’s, More Museums, and Another Round with the Beefeaters

2011-10-17T17:27:00.005-04:00

(Day 3 can be found here.)

Day 4: Wednesday, October 5

Our day began with a guided tour (by a friend of Gillian’s named Brian) of St. Paul’s Cathedral. As a great fan of Mary Poppins, I searched high and low for the birdwoman selling feed for tuppence a bag. Alas, I found neither birdwoman nor birds. As I later learned regarding Trefalgar Square’s lack of pigeons, the birds have been ushered out of a great many parts of London. Sanitary concerns or some such. Bah, I say! Bah!

I preferred St. Paul’s (no interior pictures allowed) to Westminster Abbey. Though it had fewer famous burials and shrines, it was brighter, more colorful, and calmer. When I learned that Queen Victoria had once ordered the altar painted pink, its status as my church of choice was cemented.

Lunch was with the group, at a bank-cum-restaurant called The Counting House. On the way, Brian walked us through the financial district. Think Wall Street, but sans bull statue.

I had bangers and mash. Bangers were no good; mash was fantastic.

The afternoon was free, so we went to the History Museum and the Science Museum. They are conveniently located next to each other.

The History Museum, as with any natural history museum, holds one main attraction for each of us. TheBoy goes for the dinosaurs. I go for the sparkly rocks.

The Science Museum was a hodgepodge of interactive exhibits and weird memorabilia (Thomson’s brain, apparently). I enjoyed learning that the UK once had a lottery whose numbers were chosen by a robot named ERNIE. Those crazy Brits.

Now here’s where I brag a little. During my studious research for this trip, I learned that you can get tickets to watch the nightly Ceremony of the Keys at the Tower of London. The Beefeaters make a bit of a show of locking up the Tower and handing over the keys. There are bugles, and rifles, and so on. The catch is that you have to write at least 6 weeks in advance, and enclose two international reply coupons—the global equivalent of a self-addressed stamped envelope.

Well, I did it, and we went (no pictures allowed once the Ceremony started), and it was pretty cool. Except the bugler who had obviously learned to play only for this assignment. As a lifelong band member, it was pretty painful to hear. Here is someone else's video:

I proudly note that OUR Ceremony of the Keys was presided over by the world's tiniest Yeoman Warder. I was at least a head taller. Pocket size!

Also on the plus side: we did not get mugged despite being near the East End after dark!

Tomorrow: Windsor and war.

London, Day 3: Churchill, Van Eyck, and Attempt 1 at Harrod’s

2011-10-13T22:33:00.005-04:00

(Day 2 can be found here.)

Day 3: Tuesday, October 4

We started the day by seeing part of the Changing of the Guard. Specifically, the marching of a band and the movement of the horse guards. Apparently, the entire ceremony takes an hour, and you have to arrive quite early to see the good stuff. Eh.

Our next stop was the Cabinet War Rooms and the Churchill Museum. Anyone who’s seen The King’s Speech knows that WW2 was one of Britain’s finest hours. In my opinion, Americans under similar duress wouldn’t have fared nearly as well. We just don’t have the same mettle. The Cabinet War Rooms are the underground quarters where Churchill and his staff worked and lived during the height of the bombings. The eerie “we could die at any minute” atmosphere is preserved, along with lots of furniture, pictures, etc.

We passed on the Churchill Museum, though I’m told it tells you everything you ever wanted to know about the man, and lots you didn’t.

That afternoon, we enjoyed a bit of Trafalgar Square’s ambiance before Gillian guided us around the National Gallery. This was the first of several times when I compared the American version of a thing to the British version of a thing and found I preferred the American version. It’s not that the British National Gallery is lacking. It’s just that the American National Gallery is one of my very favorite museums, ever. I would’ve enjoyed looking around a bit more after our group dismissed for the day, but I was dead on my feet by this time.

We went back to the hotel (picked up sandwiches en route) and relaxed for a bit. Our hotel was pretty close to Harrod’s, so we decided to give that a try. Unfortunately for us, it closes at 20:00 and we got there at 19:30. At least we were able to pick up a store guide (you need one at that place) and study the menu at the ice cream parlor.

We didn’t give up so easily, though, and headed instead to Piccadilly Circus. It’s the Times Square of London. M&Ms Store, Ripley’s Believe It or Not, street performers, the whole shebang. Felt a bit like home: overlit, crass, and commercial.

Tomorrow: St. Paul’s, more museums, and another round with the Beefeaters.

London, Day 2: Beefeaters, Cockneys, and Saints

2011-10-12T20:11:00.007-04:00

(Day 1 can be found here.)

Day 2: Monday, October 3

Our day started at the Tower of London. I was expecting a single Tower, with a winding circular staircase, at the very top of which were the Crown Jewels. Somewhere partway up, a small plaque would mark the burial place of the two princes who’d been done away with while being held there.

It turns out that the Tower of London is a complex of several buildings, and it’s huge. It is also famously guarded by the Beefeaters. Here’s ours:

After walking us around the complex and discussing some of the more notable gates and whatnot, he left us to examine the Crown Jewels (no pictures allowed), look at the Museum (we walked the walls instead), and generally while away the rest of our time there. We chose to get lunch at a traditional British place.

Our group’s next stop was Westminster Abbey. We got there via narrated Thames boat cruise. I took a ton of pictures of buildings along the way, but I don’t remember now what most of them were. I will say that I learned the Thames is a tidal river, and it rises and falls quite a bit during the day. People beachcomb there, though I can’t say I was tempted.

Westminster Abbey was impressive. Many famous people are buried or commemorated there. Royalty, politicians, artists, and so on. It was terribly crowded, though our “group” status allowed us to bypass the lines. Gillian did the best she could to show us the highlights, but this is not a building that was meant to service large groups of tourists. It’s a lot smaller in real life than it looked during the Royal Wedding—must be the wide-angle TV cameras—but seeing things like poet’s corner was pretty darn cool.

Our group dined together that evening on fish and chips. It wasn’t as traditional as I’d been led to believe—traditional fish and chips is served in newspaper, is it not?—but I was pleased to get a piece of cod the size of my forearm. Also: spotted dick, much better than the version in a can.

While the rest of the group headed back to the hotel, we went to nearby Baker Street to find 221B. I’m told it does exist, though all I could find was 219 next to 231. (Wikipedia tells me 221B is commemorated between 237 and 241. That’s just silly.)

Tomorrow: Churchill, Van Eyck, and attempt 1 at Harrod’s.

London, Day 1: Orientation and Cake

2011-10-11T18:33:00.005-04:00

Cheerio.

I am once again back in the United States of America, land of the free and home of the brave. Also, I would now hastily add, decent water pressure and people who drive on the right. Those two things I missed most while in London.

But let me not so casually dismiss what one could call…

An Awesome Week in London (With Time Also in Windsor) Experiencing a Range of Temperatures, Seeing Many Historical Sights, and Consuming a Great Number of Sainsbury’s Sandwiches

I think probably the best way to recount my trip for you is to take it day by day, including only the best pictures. It’s not like you’re interested in all 800 photos, and it’s not like every single second of my trip involved doing something fascinating. (In fact, we were twice stymied by the complete shuttering of Victoria Station IN RUSH HOUR.)

Day 1: Sunday, October 2

Though my flight left DC on Saturday, October 1, seven hours on the plane plus a five-hour time difference meant I arrived in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Due to Heathrow’s curfew policy, our plane wasn’t allowed to land before 6 a.m. By which time, I was prepared to pledge allegiance to Charles Dickens if it meant I could finally get on land.

No complaints about the flight itself, during which I watched “The Hangover, Part 2” and some “30 Rock.” The meal (questionable beef) and snack (yogurt, pastry) tided me over, combined as they were with my UTTER DELIGHT to be going to the UK.

So I slept not at all. This would later turn out to be an unwise choice.

We landed at LHR, figured out how to get Tube tickets into the city (thanks, internet research!), and got to our hotel in the posh Belgravia neighborhood about 8:30. (Excuse me, 08:30.) Our room wasn’t ready, of course, but we dropped off our bags and set out to explore the city.

First stop, Victoria Station, for actual food at an actual table.

Then, past Buckingham Palace and the Mall for some good pictures.

Next stop, Oxford Street, to check out the Disney Store and observe the hordes of shoppers. England was experiencing record heat (low 80s), so they were out in full force.

Then, we walked back towards the hotel, passing the US Embassy on the way. You just never know when diplomatic privilege will be necessary. I’m just saying. (Times we were almost hit by cars while trying to cross a traffic circle: 2.)

Our hotel room opened up around 2 p.m., so we unpacked and prepared for the tour group meet-and-greet that afternoon. Luckily, it was 90% adorable older people/retirees (including an Aussie couple I adored), 5% single lady travelers, and one other “young” couple. Several other people hailed from the DC area, had worked for the government at one time, and/or watched a lot of PBS.

In short, these were my people.

Our guide, Gillian, took us for an introductory neighborhood walk. I did not mention that TheBoy and I had already walked quite a bit of London earlier that day. Not sporting to be too showy, you know. The group dinner was at a place called Grumbles, where I had rabbit, chicken pie, and a dessert that involved cheese and crackers.

(Side note: The female half of other “young” couple mentioned earlier had her 30th birthday that day, and they had a small cake for her at the dinner. Yes, she totally stole my birthday thunder. I refused to have a slice of cake out of protest. Then I had a small bite of TheBoy’s piece, because principles only go so far when cake is concerned.)

On the walk back to the hotel, I realized that I had been up for about 30 hours straight. My longest ever. (I was a good student in college.) Never mind that our hotel room was a closet at the top of 6 flights of stairs—I was just happy to find a place to sleep.

Tomorrow: Beefeaters, Cockneys, and Saints.

Even Outlook is Excited

2011-09-30T08:01:00.002-04:00

Things I’ve Read: The Help

2011-09-28T22:22:00.004-04:00

Whenever a book or other written work gets adapted to movie form, I try to read the book first. In 99% of cases, the book is better (the exception here being a novelization of “Lara Croft: Tomb Raider,” but I probably should have seen that one coming). It has more time to develop the characters, more storylines, sometimes even a completely different ending. I’m of the opinion that it’s better to get the details first, and then watch the simplified Hollywood version with understanding provided by the book. (No surprise that I was not a fan of CliffsNotes in school.)

However, with Kathryn Stockett’s “The Help,” I ended up seeing the movie first and reading the book afterwards. Lemme tell ya, I’m glad I did. Without mental pictures of Aibileen and Minny, and without a gist of what was coming (Terrible Awful Thing, I’m looking at you), I daresay I would’ve been quite confused. Maybe it’s because I grew up in Wisconsin. Maybe it’s because I grew up long after the dawn of Civil Rights. Maybe it’s because I grew up in a city. But there’s not a whole lot I identify with in a tale of 1960s Mississippi. That’s neither a good nor a bad thing; it just is.

You may already know that the book’s about a white woman (Eugenia “Skeeter” Phelan) who decides to write from the POV of the colored maids in her town. They tell her How It Is and she writes it down, sends it to New York, and gets it published (spoiler alert). This was a pretty radical thing to do back then and there, and everyone involved spends most of the book nervous about getting caught.

Of course, no good narrative is without a villain or two. The Help finds villains in pretty much all the white women people Skeeter. Her friends. Her mother. Her on-again/off-again boyfriend. It’s as if the town is universally clueless about civil rights. I’m not saying this is inaccurate; I’m just pointing out how much of a broad brush is used. Skeeter and the maids = good. Everyone else = bad.

As for differences between the book and the film, hoo boy. Things were certainly lightened up for moviegoers. The truth of race relations at that time and place wasn’t pretty. The book doesn’t shy away from that. The movie, of necessity, has to. You’re not going to make much money by showing people getting beaten to death. I was also disappointed that so many of the characters as described in the book look nothing at all like their film counterparts. Aibileen and Minny were pretty close. But Skeeter, her mother, Constantine, and Hilly I found to be completely different. Some taller, some shorter, some fatter, most uglier. Ah, real life.

The highest praise I can give a book these days is that it makes me look forward to my commute. Bus doesn’t show up? No problem—more time to read. Subway tracks on fire? I hope I can see through the smoke. “The Help” was one of those books. It made me realize that there have been worse times and places to be than a crowded Metro station.

The Sing-Off Clip of the Week

2011-09-27T22:53:00.001-04:00

I almost went with the Dartmouth team. I really did. But their orange shoes threw me.

Sight for Sore Eyes

2011-09-27T05:00:00.000-04:00

For some of us, wearing glasses is a way of life. There are those who came to it as adults, and those who’ve been afflicted since childhood. Those who need corrective lenses all the time, and those who need them only for certain activities. Those who’ve left the brotherhood by slicing their eyeballs open with lasers or sticking shards of glass ON THEIR EYEBALLS.

Regardless, a great many people have at one time worn glasses. They will commiserate with me when I state that glasses make things difficult.

The logistics of sunglasses when you already wear glasses, for example. You have to switch, or you have to get those transitions lenses that result in 30 minutes of greyness, or you have to clip some sort of ancillary lenses to your main glasses.

Lying on the couch. Every single night, I try to lie on my side to watch three (or four) hours of tv. And every night the pillows push my glasses into my face and require me to either lie on my back, strain my neck, or mount the TV on my ceiling.

Anything involving the face, really. Have you just been accused by the wife of your married work boyfriend* and need to splash some water on your face to keep from throwing up? Good luck if you’re wearing glasses! Itchy eye? Watch out for those glasses.

Plus the whole issue of being ineligible to fly fighter jets. Stupid glasses.

If only the solution wasn’t a choice between LASERS and SHARDS OF GLASS, y’know?

* Note: Inspiration comes from an episode of BBC’s “The Hour” and not my real life. Your mileage may vary.

Public Diplomacy

2011-09-25T22:39:00.006-04:00

Last week, friend-of-blog Patricia and I toured the Diplomatic Reception Rooms at the Department of State. I'd first learned of this tour on a DC-set episode of Antiques Roadshow. The plethora of everyday-joe tourists on my tour leads me to believe that people aren't nearly as stupid as I assume then to be.

The tour is free, and highly-recommended by your humble blogger. (Kids are not allowed. Bonus.) The tour is a series of 6ish rooms filled with fantastic furniture and objets d'histoire.

Then there's the room where Secretary Clinton meets foreign dignitaries:

The desk where Jefferson wrote part of the Constitution:

And the Benjamin Franklin dining room, where diplomacy is served with a side of mashed potatoes.

(Not set up for a banquet that day, obviously.)

I have no idea how other people are discovering this tour, but now you can add it to your list next time you visit.

Here's my card.

2011-09-22T22:24:00.000-04:00

Recently, I was gently mocked for having personal cards made up (for free, at Moo.com). I have sound reasoning. I think.

As you can see from that annoying countdown atop this blog, I will soon be in London, baby. As part of a tour group. In a city full of fascinating British people. I daresay I might meet someone with whom I want to correspond.

Enter my card:

It’s not ideal, but I had trouble getting the design I really wanted to work, and the best I could improvise was a double-sided text card. Just go with it.

And, look, okay, I get that I’m nowhere near as cool as the only other person I know to have gotten these:

But Moo.com ships 10 cards to your door for free. I’ve gotten them before (with business info) and they are really high quality. Thick and sturdy.

Join me and Mr. Ocean. You’ll be the classiest entrant in the “Drop a card, win a sandwich” contest at Quiznos.

Worth Every Penny

2011-09-21T21:21:00.004-04:00

One of the news stories binging around the beltway today is a recent OIG audit of the Department of Justice. Notably, this one’s about monies spent on “conference planning food and beverage costs.” The entire report, if you’d care to read it, is here.

Naturally, I dug right in.

(Perhaps a little background is in order. OIG stands for “Office of the Inspector General,” a component of each department/agency responsible for checking up on everybody else. An OIG typically gets funded directly by Congress (as opposed to receiving money from the department/agency head), so it can report issues without fear of financial reprisal. Though I have not yet worked in an OIG, I hope someday to do so. My attention to detail and precipitous nosiness make me an ideal fit. CDTSNBN*, I will watch the watchmen!

But back to the report. DOJ OIG (see how fast you devolve into alphabet soup) sampled 10 conferences over 2 years. (One could argue against this methodology, but whatever.) They found “costly meals, refreshments, and themed breaks … indicative of wasteful or extravagant spending.” Things like $16 muffins and $8 cups of coffee.

(Researching and compiling a report like this would truly be my magnum opus. You may dream of being an astronaut, but I dream of reviewing ATF conference menus.)

The way I see it, there are a few things in play here:

The cost of catering. I have limited experience with catering, but a survey of my Facebook wall indicates that wedding receptions cost a LOT. Maybe not $5-a-meatball prices, but…y’know.

Government restrictions on buying food and beverages. We have this thing called the FAR, and also this thing called the FTR, and suffice to say there are A Lot of Rules about who can pay how much for what. Throw the concepts of “training” and “conferences” into the mix and it gets dicey.

Common sense. DOJ appears to be lacking common sense when it comes to food and drink. Then again, SO DO I.

Though I’ve only read the executive summary (and skimmed the remainder of the report), I’m fairly certain that the findings indicate some bad choices were made. Also, that DOJ feeds its people really well. Also, that going into catering may be the wisest investment strategy in this economy after 1) winning the lottery and 2) buying gold.

I bet those muffins were good, too.

* Many thanks to friend-of-blog Justin for the acronym.

The Sing-Off Clip of the Week

2011-09-20T23:08:00.002-04:00

I watched them all, so you don't have to.

It's not just that this team is local (Howard University). It's that they melted my face off with this rendition of Corinne Bailey Rae.

Fall 2011: What I'll Be Watching

2011-09-18T12:24:00.001-04:00

I’m not sure about you, but I’m always interested to know what TV shows my friends are watching, what new shows they’re trying, and what old shows they’ve dropped. Though my opinions are in no way authoritative, I hope they’ll give you something to chew on. Here, then, a night-by-night guide to my planned viewing. New shows are in bold.

Sunday
Pan Am

Sunday Summary: In the absence of my Don Draper fix, I will do what I must. (See: The Playboy Club, below.)

Monday
How I Met Your Mother
Gossip Girl
Castle
Hawaii: Five-O
The Playboy Club

Monday Summary: Mostly returning favorites, though Castle is waxing and Gossip Girl is waning. I’m tentatively committing to The Playboy Club only because I’m so desperate for anything a la Mad Men. (The Sing-Off will be viewed via Hulu, and only the actual performance parts. It’s a practice I adopted for this season of Project Runway and it is a FABULOUS time-saver.)

Tuesday
NCIS
Glee
New Girl

Tuesday Summary: I like to think I’m single-handedly bringing down the average age of NCIS viewership by a year or two. It’s millions of seniors…and me. I’ve seen the New Girl pilot on Hulu and found it just this side of Too Twee. Not making any promises, though.

Wednesday
Modern Family

Wednesday Summary: As has been the case a few years running, Wednesday is a light night. I’ll use it to watch two of my three “Monday at 10 pm” shows, since I’m usually only half-awake at that time to begin with. CBS does a terrible job of putting its stuff online, so I typically watch Hawaii: Five-O live.

Thursday
Community
Parks and Recreation
The Office
Whitney

Thursday Summary: The ads for Whitney have amused but not annoyed me. I’m not hopeful the show itself will maintain that record, but I’m going to try it. I’ve started following Whitney Cummings on Twitter, and she est amusant enough to pique my interest.

Tommy Wilson Goes to Washington

2011-09-14T19:25:00.007-04:00

Not too long ago, TheBoy and I found ourselves in Staunton*, Virginia. Now, except for the one-in-a-million of you going, “Oh sure, Staunton,” I realize most people are completely blanking on the fact that Staunton is the birthplace of our 28th President. Hence, it’s home to the Woodrow Wilson Presidential Library.

Since I was unable to see JFK’s library whilst in Boston last year, this was my first (and possibly last) Presidential library. Not a lot of commanders-in-chief from Wisconsin, so I didn’t grow up with many Presidential sites. I bet this is how the Puerto Ricans feel.

The library was by appointment only, and the house didn’t allow photography, so what I have for you are mostly…pictures of the museum. Because there’s something you NEVER see on this blog, I know.

Staunton. Tres charmant, n’est ce pas?

I think I could have navigated the three buildings myself, but I did appreciate the yellow highlighter road.

Gardens were also a big deal on the property. The building behind them is the house where Tommy was born. (Woodrow was his middle name. FACT.)

I couldn’t take any pictures in the house. It was…just like every other old house I’ve been in. The best part was the crotchety old guy in my group who leaned on some furniture (!), dropped his sunglasses at one point, and kept asking questions. It’s quite possible he and Wilson were contemporaries.

Anyhoo, the museum allowed pictures. My favorite objets:

Should you ever find yourself in that neck of the woods, check it out. Also, the Frontier Culture Museum (we had to pass and I'm dying to know how it was).

* The “u” is silent. I keep telling myself that, but pronouncing the “u” anyway.

Mutiple Choice

2011-09-12T14:03:00.002-04:00

As you know, I’m a great fan of dystopian fiction. Give me a book, a film, or a tv show set in a not-too-distant future where technology/government/evil science has taken control, and I’m not coming up for air until I’ve devoured it. Of late, I’ve been on a run of YA-oriented books on this theme. (In case you are keeping score, none of them overthrows my love of The Giver. The Hunger Games came pretty close.)

I’ve noticed that each book/series involves a future where some omnipresent piece of The World As We Know It is missing. Something—whether it’s our loves, our careers, our bodies—is decided for us. This, more so than control via aliens or robots, seems to be the common thread of dystopia. Examples from my recent reads:

In Matched (Ally Condie) and Delirium (Lauren Oliver), people’s mates are chosen for them. No need to worry over matters of the heart!

In Divergent (Veronica Roth), each person selects* a personality-based sector of society to join. Once there, careers and behaviors follow suit. No need to stress about your line of work!

In the Uglies series (Scott Westerfeld), each person receives extensive cosmetic surgery at age 16, resulting in a world of beautiful people. No need to be judged on your looks!

In The Hunger Games (Suzanne Collins) and The Maze Runner (James Dashner) series, certain children are put through rigorous physical tests for the greater good. No need to wonder what you’ll do on summer vacation!

The obvious message in all of these is that freedom of choice is good. The ability to choose (and even to make the wrong choice) is what makes us human. When that freedom and those choices are taken away, we as a society lose our way.

(I am obviously an anomaly, because I am all for rigidity and order. Seriously, I was that one person cheering the machines during The Matrix. Why? Because people are messy and stupid. Machines are clean, always on time, and will brew me “Earl Grey, hot,” if I ask for it. But don’t let my personal opinions dissuade you from reading any of these fine books. I sure didn't.)

* I’ll admit this one is a bit tricky. I argue that while INITIALLY there is a choice involved, once that choice is made, it’s all over. In addition, those who do not/cannot choose become known as “factionless,” a fate worse than death. One could argue that since not choosing isn’t a viable option, this whole process isn’t really a choice at all. *mind blown*

Video of the Day

2011-09-09T08:47:00.002-04:00

S'okay. I still love the X-Men.

Notes from a Commute

2011-09-08T05:00:00.000-04:00

Disclaimer: I’m still ridiculously fond of DC. It is the city that still makes me feel like a scene from West Wing could break out at any moment. I *have* gotten to know it a lot better these past three years, though. It’s sometimes delightful and sometimes dismaying.

I’ve mentioned before that I spend a lot of time commuting. A lot. Of time. Waiting for buses, waiting for trains, walking, and so on. If I’m lucky, I spend two hours a day getting to or from work. If I’m not lucky, we’re talking three to four hours. Yes, there are cases when I could literally walk faster.

But that’s a topic for another therapist.

Since I suffer from abundances of both anxiety and inner monologue, I often find myself internally blogging about things I notice on my commute. Since I started at cabinet-department-that-shall-not-be-named, my new commute has provided ALL SORTS of fodder. It’s the difference between the bus crowd and the train crowd: more space, yes. More space for weirdness.

Allow me to translate a little of my recent inner monologue to a more permanent medium.

Have you ever noticed that people walk more slowly when they’re talking on the phone? I assume it’s a result of the split in focus. I’ve noticed that people also walk more slowly when they’re walking with another person or texting. Sometimes I’ll get stuck behind someone doing two of the three. (I assume that if someone ever finds a way to do all three at once, s/he will actually go backwards in time.) Since the sidewalks I commute on are very narrow (and often clogged with students from THE George Washington University), I have few chances to shoot the gap. Sometimes I gotta walk in the street. Sometimes I gotta richochet off a church stoop. Sometimes I gotta duck under Slowy McSlowerson’s umbrella as I whoosh around him.

Speaking of: umbrellas. It’s been a rainy week in Washington; the universe is crying at the impending collapse of our society. Unlike the British, who face precipitation with a brigade of somber black umbrellas, I have to live not only with garish colors but a multitude of sizes. These umbrellas work equally well as Christo installations. Topped with sharp prods. Some have vents. Handles more ornate than anything post-czar has a right to be. We’re all commuters here, people. If you have to carry an umbrella on the train and then in the midst of a walking crowd, IT SHOULD NOT BE LARGE ENOUGH TO SHELTER YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY.

(And then there is the occasional parent-with-small-child who insists that Little One gets her own teeny umbrella that does more shin-bruising than anything else. Pop a raincoat on the child and call it a day.)

So between all of that and the not-infrequent tunnel floods, sick passengers, traffic-impeding accidents, no-show buses, and track fires, things are always interesting for those working in and around DC.

Enjoy your commute today. I wish I could.

Feed Your Children Well

2011-09-07T09:33:00.002-04:00

A recent opinion piece in the New York Times suggests bringing home ec back as a way to combat obesity. If children learn how to cook real food (the thinking goes), they will not become fat. As someone who has no idea how to cook and was obese for quite some time, I’ll pretend to be uniquely qualified to discuss this idea.

No. Seriously no.

It’s not that I’m against home ec. I attended schools (and one college) where “homemaker” was the highest (and literally only) profession a woman could aspire to. If anything, you got a teaching degree to bide time until the wedding. But seriously, fields such as business, theology, and medicine were best left to the men.

You think I am kidding. I am not kidding.

Despite the fact that I spent most of this time preparing to pluck the forbidden fruit of a business degree, I tried to play along and learn what I could of domesticity. Thus I own and can fully operate a sewing machine. Should it hit the fan at cabinet-department-that-shall-not-be-named, rest assured I could theoretically save the day with a basting stitch and a hidden hem!

While I had no proclivity for cooking, I appreciate those who do. Goodness knows I watch enough of them on Food Network, PBS, and Cooking Channel. I also understand the temptation to link “ability to cook healthy food” and “compunction to eat healthy food.” Yet I don’t believe they’re all that linked. What you eat doesn’t depend on what you can cook.

It depends on what you can afford.

It depends on what tastes good.

It depends on what those around you are eating/want to eat/cook for you to eat.

Kitchen dunces like me know how to add dressing to a bagged salad mix. Or buy a Lean Cuisine to throw in the microwave.

Remember how I said earlier that I watch a lot of TV chefs? The professionals? I will state as diplomatically as possible that these people are not our best shot at outrunning the aliens. I have seen the future, and it is WALL-E.

Find a way to make junk food expensive and gross. I think that’s your best bet.