It doesn't take much to make you realize that yes, as the title of this blog indicates, you may the only sane person left on the planet. I had that moment a few weeks ago and since I mostly hate technology, except for electricity, it's not surprising that my moment of clarity was prompted by a computer.
As is our habit in my office, we are required to change our passwords on our computers on a regular basis. The screen even gives you a countdown to remind you that "your password will expire in three days. Do you want to change it now?" I never change it until it's expiring in one day or less. Mostly because I always find it painful to come up with new passwords. I know- it's a waste of time to obsess over something like a password but I do.
At least I used to - until I came up with a little system. I decided I would use the first initial and last name of authors I liked as my passwords, based on something that was going on in my life at that time. Example: last fall, my oldest son was in a stage production of A Christmas Carol. My password: Cdickens. When I had to change it, I had just watched the latest movie version of Pride and Prejudice. So here you go: Jausten. It made sense and they were easy to remember.
Fast forward a few months. One day, I had trouble logging on and called my friendly analyst who came to inspect the problem. Turns out my computer was broken. That's what he called it: broken. I needed another one and he'd have it out to me later that morning.
He called and asked my my password, which I spoke to him over the phone and explained my reasoning. He came by shortly thereafter and set me up while I was out of the office at a meeting.
Later that day, I tried logging on several times and was rejected. I was confused about what had happened with the repair to cause the problem. Feeling rejected and confused (my typical state), I called and tried to solve the problem with him. Turns out I should have spelled the password. He added Jaustin when he programmed my login name. Like Austin, Texas not Austen, Jane.
We laughed about it and moved on. Well, I mostly moved on, really I did. Except it's the little things that diminish you just the slightest bit - just a touch - and make you feel like the world is not quite what you hoped it would be. Everyday, when I would type in Jaustin, I felt just a little bit less like myself. I know it doesn't matter except it does.
I know - I can change it. I will. But not before I finish the book I'm reading by Atrigiani. At least that's spelled exactly how it sounds.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Monday, June 19, 2006
You Can't Win, even if You're Playing in Namibia
I can't stand us.
If the news about Brad Pitt's "popularity" is true, I really can't stand us. According to some poll or some celebrity watchers or someone "in the know," it turns out that Brad Pitt's latest starring role as father of the year is doing his box office appeal absolutely no good.
Let's leave aside the 'are they getting married or what' question for a second, okay? I know that's not going to sit well with many people but that's the way it is. It's not enough that Pitt has adopted (or soon will adopt) the third world orphans Ms. Jolie adopted a few years ago. It's not enough that he skipped his latest movie premiere at Cannes to await the arrival of his newborn. (In the same vein, I can't help but compare this to new dad Tom Cruise who flew off to Europe when his baby daughter was about three days old. Priorities become obvious.) It's not enough that this couple (for once) used the sense God gave P.T. Barnum to make a buck off people willing to part with their money, given the right motive. ("Sucker born every minute - and two to take him," is how Barnum put it I believe.) Good for them for auctioning off the rights to their baby daughter's photos and then donating the proceeds to a charity of their choice. I loved that.
I hate that for all these reasons, Pitt's box office appeal has somehow been depleted. I guess the poll numbers tell us that we like our box office heroes but they can't ever act like real people or we don't like 'em that much anymore. We want Pitt to be our Movie Star, not a dad. We want him spotted at La Costa or at Wolfgang Puck's. We want to see him on a red carpet, not within an African landscape, where he is peddling a bike with one of the kids riding along with him.
Well, it won't make a difference but I still like you, Brad. I've liked you since Kalifornia and True Romance. I really liked you in Troy but let's not get into that right now. Prove everyone wrong and be a great dad and an amazing box office draw. We don't have enough of those guys in the movies.
Talk soon -
If the news about Brad Pitt's "popularity" is true, I really can't stand us. According to some poll or some celebrity watchers or someone "in the know," it turns out that Brad Pitt's latest starring role as father of the year is doing his box office appeal absolutely no good.
Let's leave aside the 'are they getting married or what' question for a second, okay? I know that's not going to sit well with many people but that's the way it is. It's not enough that Pitt has adopted (or soon will adopt) the third world orphans Ms. Jolie adopted a few years ago. It's not enough that he skipped his latest movie premiere at Cannes to await the arrival of his newborn. (In the same vein, I can't help but compare this to new dad Tom Cruise who flew off to Europe when his baby daughter was about three days old. Priorities become obvious.) It's not enough that this couple (for once) used the sense God gave P.T. Barnum to make a buck off people willing to part with their money, given the right motive. ("Sucker born every minute - and two to take him," is how Barnum put it I believe.) Good for them for auctioning off the rights to their baby daughter's photos and then donating the proceeds to a charity of their choice. I loved that.
I hate that for all these reasons, Pitt's box office appeal has somehow been depleted. I guess the poll numbers tell us that we like our box office heroes but they can't ever act like real people or we don't like 'em that much anymore. We want Pitt to be our Movie Star, not a dad. We want him spotted at La Costa or at Wolfgang Puck's. We want to see him on a red carpet, not within an African landscape, where he is peddling a bike with one of the kids riding along with him.
Well, it won't make a difference but I still like you, Brad. I've liked you since Kalifornia and True Romance. I really liked you in Troy but let's not get into that right now. Prove everyone wrong and be a great dad and an amazing box office draw. We don't have enough of those guys in the movies.
Talk soon -
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
a distant hug
Two years ago, I spent the day saying a last goodbye to my dad. Parts of our relationship – the parts that would never have made a Hallmark card - will continue to fade away and perhaps remain unexamined forever. There are others - the kinder, empathetic, truly love-filled parts - that I will relive and hang onto forever. I think those memories, the good and the not so good at all, make us both flawed human beings, who tried to "do better" and move past the mistakes we made with each other.
My dad was a complex man who held simple beliefs. Knowing that I won’t ever fully understand every person and event that shaped his life, I find myself in a place that tells me none of it really matters. Especially during the last ten years of his life, I found plenty to admire about my dad, including his unwavering faith in God. (He was sort of a poster boy for the story of the prodigal son, if you know what I mean.) His faith transcended his life; it actually gave me some peace when he died.
Here’s what I believe. When my Dad arrived in heaven, he found a place filled with the people he had loved and lost here on earth, people who loved him so much during their own lives. First he found his Mom - and he hugged her and kissed her - it had been 56 years since the last time he did that. He embraced his mother-in-law and father-in-law. He looked around and saw family, friends and neighbors whom he had loved so much during life and missed so much here on earth - smiling and waiting to welcome him into this new place of joy and love and contentment and peace that is heaven.
As he settled down into his little corner of his new home, he noticed he was surrounded on three sides by flowerbeds filled with vibrant blooms, and not a single weed. He found birdfeeders that never needed refilling, that nourished beautiful songbirds like the ones he loved to watch every morning from his kitchen windows. He also noticed extremely well behaved squirrels, who never ate the seeds or scared the birds away. He thought he heard the Notre Dame fight song playing softly in the background, as the team seemed to celebrate championship after championship after championship. And finally, he looked behind him and saw Marine Corps dress blues hanging nearby, just his size, that he could wear on special days. But he decided he’d mostly settle for the Semper Fi cap he found in his pocket, and put it on instead.
I believe that even while he felt completely at peace in his new home, he found himself missing all of us - everyone he left behind so suddenly. Sitting on what felt like his familiar old front porch, watching the world go by on what felt like his old street, something wasn’t quite the same. He watched us pass right in front of him - but when he called his usual, "Got a minute?" no one seemed to hear him and when he gave us a wave, no one seemed to notice. He picked up the phone at his side to call a few friends and say hello but never got an answer.
In an instant, he understood. He’s living in our hearts now, not by our side. He’s alive in our memories of him, not sitting in the chair across from us. We hear his voice and his laugh and his standard goodbye of "God bless" now only in our own minds.
And he smiled - that’s just fine with my dad. He touched many people in many ways during his life - and we touched him. He’s content to patiently wait for us to join him in God’s time. I’m positive he’s sitting on his heavenly front porch, enjoying his perfect flower garden, praying for every single person that meant so much to him in life - maybe even praying that all of us take that one minute of human connection he treasured so much, even once in a while, to embrace the people we love.
The last thing I believe is that my dad saw God and gave him a wave, too - but this time, he got a response. And when Dad softly asked, "Got a minute?" God said, "Before I answer you, let me just say this: Well done, good and faithful servant. And yes, I do, but we have much more than a minute to chat. We have eternity."
My dad was a complex man who held simple beliefs. Knowing that I won’t ever fully understand every person and event that shaped his life, I find myself in a place that tells me none of it really matters. Especially during the last ten years of his life, I found plenty to admire about my dad, including his unwavering faith in God. (He was sort of a poster boy for the story of the prodigal son, if you know what I mean.) His faith transcended his life; it actually gave me some peace when he died.
Here’s what I believe. When my Dad arrived in heaven, he found a place filled with the people he had loved and lost here on earth, people who loved him so much during their own lives. First he found his Mom - and he hugged her and kissed her - it had been 56 years since the last time he did that. He embraced his mother-in-law and father-in-law. He looked around and saw family, friends and neighbors whom he had loved so much during life and missed so much here on earth - smiling and waiting to welcome him into this new place of joy and love and contentment and peace that is heaven.
As he settled down into his little corner of his new home, he noticed he was surrounded on three sides by flowerbeds filled with vibrant blooms, and not a single weed. He found birdfeeders that never needed refilling, that nourished beautiful songbirds like the ones he loved to watch every morning from his kitchen windows. He also noticed extremely well behaved squirrels, who never ate the seeds or scared the birds away. He thought he heard the Notre Dame fight song playing softly in the background, as the team seemed to celebrate championship after championship after championship. And finally, he looked behind him and saw Marine Corps dress blues hanging nearby, just his size, that he could wear on special days. But he decided he’d mostly settle for the Semper Fi cap he found in his pocket, and put it on instead.
I believe that even while he felt completely at peace in his new home, he found himself missing all of us - everyone he left behind so suddenly. Sitting on what felt like his familiar old front porch, watching the world go by on what felt like his old street, something wasn’t quite the same. He watched us pass right in front of him - but when he called his usual, "Got a minute?" no one seemed to hear him and when he gave us a wave, no one seemed to notice. He picked up the phone at his side to call a few friends and say hello but never got an answer.
In an instant, he understood. He’s living in our hearts now, not by our side. He’s alive in our memories of him, not sitting in the chair across from us. We hear his voice and his laugh and his standard goodbye of "God bless" now only in our own minds.
And he smiled - that’s just fine with my dad. He touched many people in many ways during his life - and we touched him. He’s content to patiently wait for us to join him in God’s time. I’m positive he’s sitting on his heavenly front porch, enjoying his perfect flower garden, praying for every single person that meant so much to him in life - maybe even praying that all of us take that one minute of human connection he treasured so much, even once in a while, to embrace the people we love.
The last thing I believe is that my dad saw God and gave him a wave, too - but this time, he got a response. And when Dad softly asked, "Got a minute?" God said, "Before I answer you, let me just say this: Well done, good and faithful servant. And yes, I do, but we have much more than a minute to chat. We have eternity."
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
So which one are you?
Several years ago, I learned about some foolproof quiz women of a certain age could take to evaluate their own self worth. The test consisted of one question, and the answer to that question would reveal all you needed to know about your own psyche, your self-esteem and how you ended up where you were in the world. Ready? Here’s the question: who is your favorite Beatle?
That’s right. Your selection of either John, Paul, George or Ringo would reveal more about your personality than any psychological profile you could take. Turns out the most confident women choose Paul. Women with concerns about their own looks but who have a great sense of humor choose Ringo. The most ethereal women choose George and women who regard intellect as the most important quality in themselves and others choose John.
This is nothing more than a quiz-like extension of the long-held notions of John as the smart one, George as the dreamer, Ringo as the clown and Paul as the cute one, designed to make women feel even less in control of their own destinies if you want my opinion. Despite my misgivings, I suppose it makes for interesting discussion. I'm not sure what the same quiz reveals about men who are fans of the Beatles.
But I do know of a different kind of test for men, though. Years ago I read a book that claimed that the path a man’s life follows is basically decided on the ballfield, specifically during Little League baseball. Turns out an inordinate number of CEOs and business leaders were either pitchers or first basemen as young ball players. Assuming there was any offense at all going on during a game, these two players worked most closely together as batters dribbled out hits and tried to reach first base. Backing up these two team leaders was the catcher, who at least interacted with the pitcher every time he threw the ball. Everyone else on the team was everyone else. That’s what they are as adults too, according to this book.
All of this simply begs the question: what would be the equivalent test for people aged fifteen to twenty these days? Who is your favorite Red Hot Chili Pepper? What character did you like to play in Final Fantasy XI?
Doesn't really work, does it. Or maybe I'm just too old. And indecisive. I couldn't even make a definitive Beatles choice. I'm a mix of Paul and Ringo if you want to know the truth. (Mostly Ringo with a dream of Paul in the background.)
I also think the token you choose to play Monopoly tells more about who you are then almost any other meaningless choice you can make throughout your lifetime but that'll keep for another day.
Talk soon -
That’s right. Your selection of either John, Paul, George or Ringo would reveal more about your personality than any psychological profile you could take. Turns out the most confident women choose Paul. Women with concerns about their own looks but who have a great sense of humor choose Ringo. The most ethereal women choose George and women who regard intellect as the most important quality in themselves and others choose John.
This is nothing more than a quiz-like extension of the long-held notions of John as the smart one, George as the dreamer, Ringo as the clown and Paul as the cute one, designed to make women feel even less in control of their own destinies if you want my opinion. Despite my misgivings, I suppose it makes for interesting discussion. I'm not sure what the same quiz reveals about men who are fans of the Beatles.
But I do know of a different kind of test for men, though. Years ago I read a book that claimed that the path a man’s life follows is basically decided on the ballfield, specifically during Little League baseball. Turns out an inordinate number of CEOs and business leaders were either pitchers or first basemen as young ball players. Assuming there was any offense at all going on during a game, these two players worked most closely together as batters dribbled out hits and tried to reach first base. Backing up these two team leaders was the catcher, who at least interacted with the pitcher every time he threw the ball. Everyone else on the team was everyone else. That’s what they are as adults too, according to this book.
All of this simply begs the question: what would be the equivalent test for people aged fifteen to twenty these days? Who is your favorite Red Hot Chili Pepper? What character did you like to play in Final Fantasy XI?
Doesn't really work, does it. Or maybe I'm just too old. And indecisive. I couldn't even make a definitive Beatles choice. I'm a mix of Paul and Ringo if you want to know the truth. (Mostly Ringo with a dream of Paul in the background.)
I also think the token you choose to play Monopoly tells more about who you are then almost any other meaningless choice you can make throughout your lifetime but that'll keep for another day.
Talk soon -
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
what girl??
I know it's me but I've about had it with Marlo Thomas. I can't remember the name of her latest book - something about the right words at the right time - but it almost doesn't matter what it's titled.
May I pose a question here? What on God's green earth makes us want to turn to Marlo Thomas for the right words at the right time? Yes, I know she herself turned to others for her inspiration and help in creating this second book on the same topic, but doesn't that beg the question: couldn't any of us done the same?
I'm wondering what exactly were the rights words at the right time on that fateful occasion years ago. The time when she and her husband Phil explained to his wife that his marriage was breaking up; they were having an affair and he was planning to leave her and his family to marry Marlo. What could those right words have been?
I have not one thing against Marlo Thomas except that fact that she "writes" a book and - voila - it lands on the bestseller list. Could all of us try to be a shred more creative when we're out browsing the bookstores, buying our graduation presents? Please?
I really, really appreciate the mascara tips I picked up from Marlo in 1969 while she played Ann Marie on her TV show, That Girl. I do. But the sad fact is that I have invested more money in mascara than should be allowed by law. I blame her.
Yes, she's a humanitarian and a generous benefactress, caring for the legacy of love and compassion her famous father left behind. Great. Lovely. Isn't that quite enough, Marlo? Isn't it enough that you run foundations, probably sit on boards, and have lived a life that has never known financial pain? You have to write books now? I'm betting she didn't accept an advance for her book, or donated it.
Here's an idea. Next time, write your book and self publish it. Donate the proceeds of the sales. Have this conversation with your publisher: Tell them to split the advance they set aside for you among ten unpublished authors and make their dreams come true.
Those could be exactly the right words at the right time.
Talk soon -
May I pose a question here? What on God's green earth makes us want to turn to Marlo Thomas for the right words at the right time? Yes, I know she herself turned to others for her inspiration and help in creating this second book on the same topic, but doesn't that beg the question: couldn't any of us done the same?
I'm wondering what exactly were the rights words at the right time on that fateful occasion years ago. The time when she and her husband Phil explained to his wife that his marriage was breaking up; they were having an affair and he was planning to leave her and his family to marry Marlo. What could those right words have been?
I have not one thing against Marlo Thomas except that fact that she "writes" a book and - voila - it lands on the bestseller list. Could all of us try to be a shred more creative when we're out browsing the bookstores, buying our graduation presents? Please?
I really, really appreciate the mascara tips I picked up from Marlo in 1969 while she played Ann Marie on her TV show, That Girl. I do. But the sad fact is that I have invested more money in mascara than should be allowed by law. I blame her.
Yes, she's a humanitarian and a generous benefactress, caring for the legacy of love and compassion her famous father left behind. Great. Lovely. Isn't that quite enough, Marlo? Isn't it enough that you run foundations, probably sit on boards, and have lived a life that has never known financial pain? You have to write books now? I'm betting she didn't accept an advance for her book, or donated it.
Here's an idea. Next time, write your book and self publish it. Donate the proceeds of the sales. Have this conversation with your publisher: Tell them to split the advance they set aside for you among ten unpublished authors and make their dreams come true.
Those could be exactly the right words at the right time.
Talk soon -
Sunday, February 19, 2006
the (bird)shot heard round the world
Remember the solid week - or more - of coverage the news media couldn't resist giving us when Diana, the Princess of Wales, was killed Paris? That evening, my husband and I were watching a movie on tape and learned of the crash once we turned off the VCR and the news came on. I'm certain the news would've have flashed on whatever channel came on but since we were watching a tape, our TV was on channel 3.
I remember watching the story unfold for a while, then going to bed. My husband was obviously more curious than I and watched the coverage until the final word from the hospital, then he woke me and told me she was dead.
Well, that was all I needed. I can't explain it but I felt compelled to watch a lot of Diana news for the next week. At one point, Pat walked into the room, saw what was on TV, and asked, "Is she still dead?"
That's kind of how I felt after more than one week of Dick Cheney and the birdshot heard round the world. Everytime I heard someone talk about the hunting accident and the ailing friend of Cheney's recovering in the hospital, I wanted to ask, "Is he still shot?"
God, I can't stand it. Here's all we need think about this "national tragedy:" it's unfortunate, it's unusual, it's an unhappy time for everyone involved. And here's the thing: I don't care when President Bush found out and I don't care when the "news media" uncovered the story. This isn't a threat to national security.
If this had happened to two anonymous citizens, we would have never heard about it and we wouldn't have missed a thing. I don't care if it was Dick Cheney or Dick Smothers who aimed quite badly and wounded a friend. And the rest of us shouldn't care either.
Talk soon-
I remember watching the story unfold for a while, then going to bed. My husband was obviously more curious than I and watched the coverage until the final word from the hospital, then he woke me and told me she was dead.
Well, that was all I needed. I can't explain it but I felt compelled to watch a lot of Diana news for the next week. At one point, Pat walked into the room, saw what was on TV, and asked, "Is she still dead?"
That's kind of how I felt after more than one week of Dick Cheney and the birdshot heard round the world. Everytime I heard someone talk about the hunting accident and the ailing friend of Cheney's recovering in the hospital, I wanted to ask, "Is he still shot?"
God, I can't stand it. Here's all we need think about this "national tragedy:" it's unfortunate, it's unusual, it's an unhappy time for everyone involved. And here's the thing: I don't care when President Bush found out and I don't care when the "news media" uncovered the story. This isn't a threat to national security.
If this had happened to two anonymous citizens, we would have never heard about it and we wouldn't have missed a thing. I don't care if it was Dick Cheney or Dick Smothers who aimed quite badly and wounded a friend. And the rest of us shouldn't care either.
Talk soon-
Monday, February 13, 2006
I'm not wishing hard enough, I guess.
We're three days into the Olympics and I've about had it.
This feeling began late Friday night when Yoko Ono - Yoko Ono of all the people on the planet - took the stage and gave some sort of "welcome - congratulations - I love you all" - speech to the athletes and the entire world tuned into the Opening Ceremonies. I have no ax to grind with Yoko. I'm just mystified about how she fits in here. I don't want to jump on writer / friend Steve Salerno's bandwagon here (www.shamblog.com) - no one nails this quasi-therapy known as "self-help" like Steve - but are you kidding me? Last time I checked, you have to do more than just dream about the Olympics to actually compete at the Olympics. I don't remember Yoko's exact words but they were definitely something along the lines of the "if you can dream it you can do it" nonsense. Ummm, Yoko? Tell Michelle Kwan. I'm thinking she's been dreaming about this competition for the last ten years.
Then, if that weren't enough, Peter Gabriel sits at this enormous piano, growls out Imagine - there's no other word for it, he was growling - and enjoins us to imagine a world with no countries. Could there have been a less appropriate song for the occasion? Was every athlete and coach in the arema sitting there, looking at each other, thinking, "No countries? Why would we be here if there were no countries??"
The music in general drove me crazy during the opening of the games. Why 70's and 80's American dance music? Here we are, in Italy, the land of opera and hundreds of gorgeous melodies and we're listening to the Village People and Donna Summer's I Feel Love? I kept thinking, why aren't they playing some lovely Italian folk songs in the background as the athletes enter?
Then - when I was about to give up - out comes Luciano Pavarotti and brings a beautiful center and a few moments of sanity to this otherwise scattered effort.
Dear god - I'm sure it's not me.
Talk soon -
R
This feeling began late Friday night when Yoko Ono - Yoko Ono of all the people on the planet - took the stage and gave some sort of "welcome - congratulations - I love you all" - speech to the athletes and the entire world tuned into the Opening Ceremonies. I have no ax to grind with Yoko. I'm just mystified about how she fits in here. I don't want to jump on writer / friend Steve Salerno's bandwagon here (www.shamblog.com) - no one nails this quasi-therapy known as "self-help" like Steve - but are you kidding me? Last time I checked, you have to do more than just dream about the Olympics to actually compete at the Olympics. I don't remember Yoko's exact words but they were definitely something along the lines of the "if you can dream it you can do it" nonsense. Ummm, Yoko? Tell Michelle Kwan. I'm thinking she's been dreaming about this competition for the last ten years.
Then, if that weren't enough, Peter Gabriel sits at this enormous piano, growls out Imagine - there's no other word for it, he was growling - and enjoins us to imagine a world with no countries. Could there have been a less appropriate song for the occasion? Was every athlete and coach in the arema sitting there, looking at each other, thinking, "No countries? Why would we be here if there were no countries??"
The music in general drove me crazy during the opening of the games. Why 70's and 80's American dance music? Here we are, in Italy, the land of opera and hundreds of gorgeous melodies and we're listening to the Village People and Donna Summer's I Feel Love? I kept thinking, why aren't they playing some lovely Italian folk songs in the background as the athletes enter?
Then - when I was about to give up - out comes Luciano Pavarotti and brings a beautiful center and a few moments of sanity to this otherwise scattered effort.
Dear god - I'm sure it's not me.
Talk soon -
R
Friday, February 10, 2006
vanity unfair
I just read the "news" story about Keira Knightley and Scarlett Johannsen posing on the cover of Vanity Fair. Like all of the most newsworthy VF covers, neither actress wears any clothing in the photo. Fine. Great. Whatever. I don't care how many actresses appear on VF and I don't really care if they're naked. It's not enough that women the world over feel immeasurably inadequate when faced with actresses and models fully clothed on magazines. Thanks to VF and others like them, now we have to see them without so much as a ribbon in their hair, looking smooth and perfect and slim wearing nothing but a bracelet to hide their flaws. Yahoo.
Then again, I'm older than the two of them put together so why does this matter to me? I can't say. The truth is, I didn't look that good twenty-five years ago and I sure don't look that good now. Then again, I wasn't trying to earn a living at least partly based on how attractive I was when I was 22 years old. Maybe actresses treat their good looks like other professional women treat their considerable skills within the workplace. They hone them; they care for them; they make sure everyone recognizes them and they show them off in their best light whenever they can. Why not - posing for a cover without a stitch and getting their names and images splashed around the media is the same as an attorney showing off her skills as a litigator or a teacher running her classroom. Pays better too.
I guess it's inevitable that Angelina will show up in their studios sometime during her "confinement" and pull a Demi Moore on us; and show off her lovely, ripe baby-carrying form on a headline making cover. Fine. Great. Whatever. I love how pregnant actresses imagine that no one before or since has ever carried a child. And that showing us an extended uterus in all its glory is somehow something no pregnant woman - or the man in her life for that matter - has ever seen before. That this somehow makes her unique.
Don't you just wish VF or whoever wants to make headlines over this baby would do something just a little more surprising than an Angelina portrait? Here's a suggestion: if Vanity Fair wants to put a photo on their cover that would celebrate the soon to be among us Jolie Pitt baby, let'em put Brad on the cover naked. Now that would be worthwhile. I might even buy a copy.
Then again, I'm older than the two of them put together so why does this matter to me? I can't say. The truth is, I didn't look that good twenty-five years ago and I sure don't look that good now. Then again, I wasn't trying to earn a living at least partly based on how attractive I was when I was 22 years old. Maybe actresses treat their good looks like other professional women treat their considerable skills within the workplace. They hone them; they care for them; they make sure everyone recognizes them and they show them off in their best light whenever they can. Why not - posing for a cover without a stitch and getting their names and images splashed around the media is the same as an attorney showing off her skills as a litigator or a teacher running her classroom. Pays better too.
I guess it's inevitable that Angelina will show up in their studios sometime during her "confinement" and pull a Demi Moore on us; and show off her lovely, ripe baby-carrying form on a headline making cover. Fine. Great. Whatever. I love how pregnant actresses imagine that no one before or since has ever carried a child. And that showing us an extended uterus in all its glory is somehow something no pregnant woman - or the man in her life for that matter - has ever seen before. That this somehow makes her unique.
Don't you just wish VF or whoever wants to make headlines over this baby would do something just a little more surprising than an Angelina portrait? Here's a suggestion: if Vanity Fair wants to put a photo on their cover that would celebrate the soon to be among us Jolie Pitt baby, let'em put Brad on the cover naked. Now that would be worthwhile. I might even buy a copy.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
days of the week
Welcome -
Is it me?
I can't abide the notion of "hump day" every week. I don't know what people call Monday or Tuesday which, to me, deserve much more credit than Wednesday. I mean, most of us drag our sorry selves up and out of the house every Monday morning, and most of us would rather have that option every Monday if you know what I mean. We're not exactly lazy and we're not exactly bored but we would welcome the opportunity to choose whether or not to show up that day at the office. I can tell you that I don't get out of bed on Monday just so I can last until Wednesday, then smile and proclaim "hump day!!" to everyone I pass in the hall on my way to my first cup of coffee in the morning.
I call Monday "brooding day." I spend at least part of every Monday tracing my life, trying to figure out where I made the missteps. Like why I didn't hear about Microsoft twenty years ago or Amazon ten years ago or Google ten months ago. Or why we didn't stretch just a little more on the first house so we would have made a lot more money on the real estate boom going on when we sold our very modest first home. Or why I don't have a trust fund. Why I never got into the habit of trading futures on the market - whatever that means. Why I can't seem to develop that exercise habit that everyone says you can develop after just three months. Why every other parent on the planet seems to know more about what's going on at school than I. I'm usually mostly over it well before my second cup of coffee but it's definitely a part of every Monday.
Brooding day makes a special appearance other times throughout the year, always on the first day after vacation. Which is why I always return to work from vacation on a Tuesday. I'm trying to offset the double brooding cloud that would follow me around for the entire day if it were a Monday and my first day back in the office.
By Tuesday, my brooding has ended. Tuesday is usually "envy day." I look around for hours and envy all the people I know who are richer, smarter, more attractive, thinner, funnier, more creative and far more successful than I. Since there are plenty of them and only one of me, this can take upwards of an entire morning on a good (bad) day. I figure that realistically, there are lots of things I can't know about them which make them less that ideal candidates for me to envy but it doesn't really matter. If it's Tuesday, it must be envy. And it's not only their attributes. I confess to the following objects of my envy: haircuts, jewelry, shoes, boots. Pathetic - you don't have to tell me.
I'm evolved enough to know that with more money - something I envy in everyone who is far richer than I - come choices. But those choices usually involve spending more money which means if you have more money you need more money because you have a lot of places to spend it and a lot of bills to pay. Reminding myself of this, more than anything else, abruptly interrupts my envy and I move along.
I'm guessing my nicknames for Monday and Tuesday will never catch on. No one wants to admit to brooding or feeling envious on a regular basis. That's okay. I'll take the fall for all of us.
Talk soon -
R
Is it me?
I can't abide the notion of "hump day" every week. I don't know what people call Monday or Tuesday which, to me, deserve much more credit than Wednesday. I mean, most of us drag our sorry selves up and out of the house every Monday morning, and most of us would rather have that option every Monday if you know what I mean. We're not exactly lazy and we're not exactly bored but we would welcome the opportunity to choose whether or not to show up that day at the office. I can tell you that I don't get out of bed on Monday just so I can last until Wednesday, then smile and proclaim "hump day!!" to everyone I pass in the hall on my way to my first cup of coffee in the morning.
I call Monday "brooding day." I spend at least part of every Monday tracing my life, trying to figure out where I made the missteps. Like why I didn't hear about Microsoft twenty years ago or Amazon ten years ago or Google ten months ago. Or why we didn't stretch just a little more on the first house so we would have made a lot more money on the real estate boom going on when we sold our very modest first home. Or why I don't have a trust fund. Why I never got into the habit of trading futures on the market - whatever that means. Why I can't seem to develop that exercise habit that everyone says you can develop after just three months. Why every other parent on the planet seems to know more about what's going on at school than I. I'm usually mostly over it well before my second cup of coffee but it's definitely a part of every Monday.
Brooding day makes a special appearance other times throughout the year, always on the first day after vacation. Which is why I always return to work from vacation on a Tuesday. I'm trying to offset the double brooding cloud that would follow me around for the entire day if it were a Monday and my first day back in the office.
By Tuesday, my brooding has ended. Tuesday is usually "envy day." I look around for hours and envy all the people I know who are richer, smarter, more attractive, thinner, funnier, more creative and far more successful than I. Since there are plenty of them and only one of me, this can take upwards of an entire morning on a good (bad) day. I figure that realistically, there are lots of things I can't know about them which make them less that ideal candidates for me to envy but it doesn't really matter. If it's Tuesday, it must be envy. And it's not only their attributes. I confess to the following objects of my envy: haircuts, jewelry, shoes, boots. Pathetic - you don't have to tell me.
I'm evolved enough to know that with more money - something I envy in everyone who is far richer than I - come choices. But those choices usually involve spending more money which means if you have more money you need more money because you have a lot of places to spend it and a lot of bills to pay. Reminding myself of this, more than anything else, abruptly interrupts my envy and I move along.
I'm guessing my nicknames for Monday and Tuesday will never catch on. No one wants to admit to brooding or feeling envious on a regular basis. That's okay. I'll take the fall for all of us.
Talk soon -
R
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
here we go....
Hello to all -
If I could just stop playing solitaire on my computer, I think I'd really have something to contribute here.
The truth is, is you want to read anything cogent and somewhat cohesive, you can hop online to www.mcall.com , click on Opinion and Op ed columnists. You'll find my name and assorted columns of mine dating back to early 2005. I've written for The Morning Call in Allentown, PA for more than five years.
If you'd prefer to not tax your brain quite so much and read the random observations of a woman desperately in need of a good night's sleep, stay right where you are.
I don't know much but it does seem that the rest of the world has gone "barking mad" as a colleague likes to say and there is definitely some comfort in feeling not quite so alone in my observations. The newspaper column has given me one forum to do that; this is another.
I hope the people who stop in - share a thought or two - maybe a laugh or a silent nod of thank god I'm not alone - will feel a little more content about themselves when they leave. A little more like they aren't alone in the wilderness of modern life, in search of a kindred spirit.
To that end, I leave you with this small observation. The other day, a friend and I had lunch at a nationwide chain. I picked up their catering menu - you never know when you'll need to order a Monte Cristo platter - and read it while I waited for him to join me. I stopped at what had to be the most interesting option offered: six hot dogs, four servings of macaroni and cheese, and six cookies. Serves 6 to 8. All for $19.95. Let's move past the price for a second. And how six hot dogs serves eight people. Why four servings of macaroni and cheese? What kids don't get the mac and cheese at this imaginary gathering? How do you make that decision? "Well, honey, I know you said you could invite five friends to your party and everyone will get a hot dog. But who should get the mac and cheese? Who do you like the most?"
Or how about a coach handing out the snacks: "Okay, kids, everyone gets a hot dog - here you go. Uh....Tristan? Liam? You've been slouching aroung the outfield; I've watched you boot those grounders. No mac and cheese for you today."
What's this about? Where do we live when a kids meal platter include only enough mac and cheese to serve four people but enough hot dogs for six and claims to serve eight?
That's what's wrong with the world. It's not me, it's you, chain restaurant. Stop it. Just add another two servings of mac and cheese and leave the $20 price tag alone. Don't make me crazy over this.
So anyway, welcome. I wish I'd opened with a post of something a little more uplifting or inspirational but that may have created the wrong impression. You want challenging? Read The New Yorker, the same week it arrives in your mailbox. You want fun, companionship, a little laughter and once in a while, a comment or two that may linger, stick around.
Talk soon -
R
If I could just stop playing solitaire on my computer, I think I'd really have something to contribute here.
The truth is, is you want to read anything cogent and somewhat cohesive, you can hop online to www.mcall.com , click on Opinion and Op ed columnists. You'll find my name and assorted columns of mine dating back to early 2005. I've written for The Morning Call in Allentown, PA for more than five years.
If you'd prefer to not tax your brain quite so much and read the random observations of a woman desperately in need of a good night's sleep, stay right where you are.
I don't know much but it does seem that the rest of the world has gone "barking mad" as a colleague likes to say and there is definitely some comfort in feeling not quite so alone in my observations. The newspaper column has given me one forum to do that; this is another.
I hope the people who stop in - share a thought or two - maybe a laugh or a silent nod of thank god I'm not alone - will feel a little more content about themselves when they leave. A little more like they aren't alone in the wilderness of modern life, in search of a kindred spirit.
To that end, I leave you with this small observation. The other day, a friend and I had lunch at a nationwide chain. I picked up their catering menu - you never know when you'll need to order a Monte Cristo platter - and read it while I waited for him to join me. I stopped at what had to be the most interesting option offered: six hot dogs, four servings of macaroni and cheese, and six cookies. Serves 6 to 8. All for $19.95. Let's move past the price for a second. And how six hot dogs serves eight people. Why four servings of macaroni and cheese? What kids don't get the mac and cheese at this imaginary gathering? How do you make that decision? "Well, honey, I know you said you could invite five friends to your party and everyone will get a hot dog. But who should get the mac and cheese? Who do you like the most?"
Or how about a coach handing out the snacks: "Okay, kids, everyone gets a hot dog - here you go. Uh....Tristan? Liam? You've been slouching aroung the outfield; I've watched you boot those grounders. No mac and cheese for you today."
What's this about? Where do we live when a kids meal platter include only enough mac and cheese to serve four people but enough hot dogs for six and claims to serve eight?
That's what's wrong with the world. It's not me, it's you, chain restaurant. Stop it. Just add another two servings of mac and cheese and leave the $20 price tag alone. Don't make me crazy over this.
So anyway, welcome. I wish I'd opened with a post of something a little more uplifting or inspirational but that may have created the wrong impression. You want challenging? Read The New Yorker, the same week it arrives in your mailbox. You want fun, companionship, a little laughter and once in a while, a comment or two that may linger, stick around.
Talk soon -
R
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