Things We Learn At the Laundromat

Just sitting here at Granada Laundry (where the wireless is free, but the quad-load washers cost the equivalent of the military budget of a small Latin American nation), and am bombarded by three flatscreen televison, each blasting something different -- basketball on the one over my head, a Spanish-language comedy in the Northeast corner, and a Spanish-language talk/reality show in the Southwest corner.

The cacaphone is so overwhelming that, not only can I not understand anything coming from the Spanish stations, I can't even understand the guys who are commentating the basketball game -- and they're speaking English. I do get a glimpse, between shuffling clothes in various degrees of cleanliness from one washer/dryer to the next, though.

Here are a few of my observations:

Televised sporting events -- once so big a part of my life -- have lost all their glamour for me. I mean, I think I'd rather be set on fire than watch another game. This is especially true of basketball.


There are certain sight gags that are universally funny, regardless of the language in which they are narrated. When one of the three phones at a desk of the fat, badly dressed boss rings, and he to answer all three of them, one at a time, before he realizes it's his cellphone that's ringing... golly, that's just plain funny. It does kind of beg the question that, if in our little comedy world of suspended disbelief, we're willing to buy that the boss has cellphone technology, how come he never heard of trunk lines, but why be petty?


Even in Mexico, there are no depths to which people will not stoop -- including a bread-eating contest -- for the promise of being on television with their favorite soap opera stars. (Somehow, I find this oddly reassuring. I'm not sure why.)


Another thing that's universally funny -- losing a contact lens at a crowded fancy restaurant. English or Spanish, seeing two people crawling between the well-dressed legs, searching for a tiny contact lens, while trying to be inconspicuous....? Well, admit it.... just thinking about it makes you chuckle, doesn't it?


• When basketball is on a flatscreen at a laundromat, husbands are rendered useless. (Another good reason to have a washer and dryer at home. On the service porch. As far from a television as possible.)


• The laundromat is a pretty good place to meet single men -- until it occurs to you that they are doing their laundry in the laundromat because, at forty-whatever, they can't afford to buy a house in LA either. Not that that makes them a bad catch but.... yeah. Maybe it does.


• The laundromat is not the place to try and attempt any serious creative writing endeavor.

So, these are the things I've learned from tonight's trip to the laundromat. It really is kind of like going to another country. You don't speak the language, you have to pay for the privilege of being there, but, if you're diligent and lucky, you leave with some cool stuff -- in this case, clean undies.

I spent two and a half hours in another country today -- Vietnam. I had my bi-monthly manicure/pedicure, so I have gorgeous hands and some killer sexy toes, too. But today, I actually indulged in one more thing I'd been dying to have done. I had my eyebrows professionally shaped. It was a more complex process than I'd realized, involving hot wax, tweezers, a brow brush and a small pair of scissors. But I can tell you that, when all was said and done, it was ever so worth it. My eyebrows are totally rockstar. It doesn't seem like much, perhaps, but I really think eyebrows are a radically overlooked facial feature. The ladies at the salon have been bugging me to get it done for ages, and I've resisted. But I finally relented, and experienced, for the first time, the agony that is hot wax hair removal.

Can I ask one question? How in the name of God and all that's holy to women stand bikini waxes? And the idea of Brazilian waxes... I mean, I wear thong underwear, too, but.... Hello! People! Have you never heard of RAZORS!!! To all foreign agents with nefarious intent who might be reading this.... if you are hellbent on getting me to divulge any government secrets, might I recommend a Brazilian hot wax? One strip, and I will reveal any confidentiality I know -- and make a few up besides. A moment of silence, please, for Mr. Schick and Mr. Gillette.

The Vietnamese ladies in the salon had their television turned to HGTV, which was pretty freakin' wonderful, let me tell you. It made me appreciate the joys of homeownership and the fringe benefits that come with same. Like being able to paint your walls real colors (note to self -- chocolate brown and two shades of green in the same room are not only very feng shui, but they actually make a small room look bigger). I love color. I miss color. I'm so tired of beige I could scream. But I won't. Because I live in attached housing, where I share a wall with my next door neighbors (who also happen to be my landlords). The other thing about owning your home is you get to equip it with things that could prove useful in the course of everyday life.

Like a washer and dryer.

~SIGH~

~C~

(cross-posted at MySpace)

LUNCH STORM VEXES FOX (AGAIN)

(In other places, other forms, I have long griped about having to navigate long lines at all the food stations, the salad bar, and then the cashier, just to get lunch. Today was a day, like any other day. But because I'm cranky, I decided to confront my frustration through satire.)

LOS ANGELES, CA -- Twentieth Century Fox Studios was devastated when it was hit with yet another sudden torrential downpour of lunch at approximately 11:42 am Thursday. Caught completely by surprise by the event, chaos ensued as Fox commissary workers scrambled to keep their heads above water, braving cash registers and hot tables to try and stanch the flow of lunch which pounded away mercilessly at the studio's meager resources.

"It was horrible," wept Imelda Nunciago, 26, a commissary cashier. "They just kept coming. Plate after plate, tray after tray, sushi package after sushi package. And the soft frozen yogurts, topped with sprinkles!! It never seemed to end. We have barely been able to hold on!"

Fox emergency supervisor Perry Goldwinkle said, "This has happened before. We thought we were ready for it. But how can you predict something like lunch, for God's sake? And lunch this heavy -- this unstoppable? It's impossible."

News Corp. chairman Rupert Murdoch could not be reached for comment, but an unnamed source close to Murdoch was quoted as saying, "We here at News Corp sympathize with the victims of this lunch, and the company intends to do whatever it can to help people recover and get past it."

The heavy lunch was expected to continue until approximately 2:30 pm Thursday, with scattered snacking and a possible dinner arriving later Thursday night. No word yet on whether Governor Schwarzenegger plans on declaring Fox a disaster area, making it eligible for FEMA assistance.

~A~

Jeeez... She's So Cranky

I am, you know. I've got a one-inch fuse right now, so if you'd like to pick a fight, I'm your girl. Someone here at the office said I had "senioritis." "You so want to ditch today and go get that 'prom tan'." And truer words were never spoken.

8 days. Eight days. EIGHT DAYS.

And yet, miles to go before I sleep. (In.)

~A~

Now They've Gone and Done It.

They sent me the diploma.

Now, they'll never be able to take it back.

Apologies to the recently departed Mr. Heston when I say,
"From my cold, dead fingers...."

(Suckers.)

~C~

(cross posted at MySpace)

Miss Sowards Gripes For The Rest of the Week

I saw MISS PETTIGREW LIVES FOR A DAY on Saturday night, and thought it was very charming.

As many of you know, I never -- I MEAN, EVER -- read movie reviews of films I haven't seen yet (ever since Roger Ebert decided to show his contempt for a movie by revealing it's biggest plot twist without a "spoiler" warning, the rat bastard!).

I figured I'd be safe reading a review on MISS PETTIGREW, because I'd already seen the film, and instead, ran into my second-biggest pet peeve with movie critics. This one -- Hilda Yeshigian from my very own Cal State Northridge's Daily Sundial -- hadn't seen the film. Or perhaps she HAD seen most of the film, but decided to go to the ladies' or make out with her boyfriend during a couple of crucial scenes. In any case, her lapse in attention caused her to make two fairly obvious and egregious mistakes to anyone who had actually seen the film from beginning to end -- and hadn't made out with their boyfriend, or anyone else they happened to be sitting nearby (though I did see it at the DGA, and the guy sitting next to me was tres yummy!).

I won't reveal her errors, lest I pull what I've come to refer to as an "Ebert" for those of you who haven't seen it. Suffice it to say that such review boo-boos are not limited to college/university journalists. I can't tell you how many times I caught Richard Schickel, of no less venerable publications than the LA Times and Time Magazine, in what I've now come to call a "double Ebert" -- an unannounced spoiler that reveals a major plot point that never actually happened in the film! So Miss Daily Sundial is in good company.

Truly, I didn't disagree with the overall premise of her critique, but because she seems to be lacking a familiarity with a certain style of film made in the mid- to late-thirties, she kind of... well... missed the point. Again, this is not at all unusual. There are very few truly good film critics in the world. Schickel's predecessor at the Times, Charles Champlin, wasn't bad. Paid attention. Wrote well. Didn't (as far as we could tell) engage in nookie with the concessions girl instead of actually watching the film. (I should say, "isn't bad" because I think he's still considered "emeritus" at the Times, and reviews special releases from time to time.)

Anyhoo... this is a gripe I've had for a while. I love the movies -- I love going there, I love watching trailers, I love sitting in the theater, waiting for the lights to go out and the film to start. I even love the little dancing hot dog. I love it all. I love the experience of movies. And I generally hate most movie critics, mostly because the vast majority of them not only don't know anything about movies, but don't really like them in general, and it shows. I wonder sometimes how interested most of them are in the history of film. Or even in old films, without the history (I'm not much of a trivia buff, for certain.) I'm sure our Miss Daily Sundial has seen Titanic, but has she seen A Night At the Opera, with the Marx Brothers? Maybe she has. Who knows? I guess the question is really, did she manage to make it all the way through to the end without turning away from the screen to snog her boyfriend?

(sigh)

~C~

And Then, There Was None

I've been driving by the House on Carpenter occasionally to see what the new owner had in store. For a long time, dumpsters in the front didn't indicate whether we were looking at a demo/new build, or just a flip.

Today, I had lunch with Jim B. and his daughter, Maddie (and also Amelia Bedelia, but that's another story -- or two -- or twelve), and as I drove home, I thought I'd swing by and check out the House on Carpenter to see if there was any progress.


I think the question of demo or flip has finally been put to bed.

(FOR LARGE SIZE, CLICK HERE)

Once and for all.

'Night, 'night, house. Glad no one else will be living in you. The house to be built will be someone else's house. That makes me happy. Earlier, while walking back from lunch, Jim pointed out that today is the first day of spring. A perfect day for the dying of the old and the sprouting of new growth.

Closure. An idea whose time has come.

~C~

(cross-posted at MySpace)

ON THIS DAY OF IRISH THANKS

So, perhaps St. Patrick's Day is not the day that one typically associates with gratitude and thankfulness. I would wager that's because one has never sat beside friends one has met at a Santa Monica pub -- your first, their thirty-second (the number 32 symbolically representing, of course, all the counties on the Emerald Isle, which I gather can only be wrestled to unity from British clutches if expatriated Irishmen and wannabes get sloppy, falling-down drunk once a year on March 17th).

All you have to do is sit beside one of these sweet drunkards, especially the one that usually has the most bitter, sarcastic sense of humor, and hear how grateful he is that he has his beautiful wife, and his gorgeous children, and such good friends (at which point, he turns and belches in your face as he squeezes your shoulders so tightly, he tears your rotator cuff), and a good, good life, to know that St. Patrick's Day is a day for giving thanks.

"Thanks for buying this round." "Thanks for (the Orange County Irish band) The Fenians." "Thanks for the corned beef and cabbage." "Thanks for Mr. Guinness and for Mr. Bass (or, if you're a purist, Mr. Harp's*)." But I'm thankful for a couple of other reasons.

I'm thankful that this is the last St. Patrick's Day spent at this desk, in this cubicle, at this job. It's been good to me, but I've spent 13 St. Patrick's Days here. Time to move on.

I'm thankful that I have friends who believe in my art enough to push me to pursue it.

I'm thankful I got a little bit of good, old-fashioned dosh that will allow me to pursue it.

I'm thankful that I have enough friends who are supporting themselves as artists that I can see with my own eyes that it can, in fact, be done.

I'm thankful that I limit myself to, at most, one Black 'n' Tan on St. Patty's Day (and rarely finish that one). (Actually, I'm usually more thankful for that on March 18th.)

I'm thankful that soon, what Owen Wilson makes a day in per diem, how many trailers Jennifer Aniston needs to ready herself for her long, arduous day in the "dog movie," who styles whose hair, who makes up whose face, and how much their assistants get paid will be someone else's problem, and not mine.

I'm thankful that I won't have to choose between writing OR going to the gym, but will be able to write AFTER I go to the gym.

Finally, I'm thankful for this new life that scares the bejeebers out of me, but probably not as much as it should.

Oh, yeah... and thanks to Mr. Albert Guinness and Mr. William Bass (cuz I'm no purist) for the Black 'n' Tan.

~C~

*I know, I know... there was no "Mr. Harp" behind Harp Lager, per se. Please don't write to school me on this. I was being funny. Comics' license. Did I mention I'm thankful I have readers who get humor without trying to muddy with facts? Well, I am, by golly.

Dangerous Suspect Freed on Technicality (i.e., No Proof of a Crime!)

This scary character at the left is Treffly Coyne. She's got a mugshot on file somewhere, though we've never seen it. Oh, sure. She looks pleasant enough. But beware. Treffly Coyne is a wanton, dangerous criminal. No, seriously. Getta load o' this!!! Oh, believe me. This woman is a fiend... A FIENNDDDD, I tell you!

On December 8, 2007, Treffly Coyne, mother of three in the Chicago suburb of Tinley Park, Illinois, was loading her youngest, Phoebe, age 2, in the carseat after a day of Christmas errands in nearby Crestwood, when the toddler fell promptly to sleep. Coyne's two older daughters and a little friend of theirs wanted to donate coins they'd collected for charity to a Salvation Army bell ringer standing on a curb, fewer than ten yards from Coyne's car.

It was sleeting, so Coyne decided to leave Phoebe in the warm, dry car. She turned on her emergency flashers, locked the car doors, activated the alarm, and walked the three little girls to the where the bell ringer stood. The car was NEVER out of her sight. She snapped a few photos of the girls making their donations (because she's obviously a hateful, uncaring, unloving mom), then walked back to the car. As she arrived there, a Crestwood police officer was waiting for her. The female officer -- who has yet to be named, but I can't wait to find out so I can make it public -- began yelling at Coyne that she was endangering her daughter and promptly told her she was being arrested, handcuffing her in full view of her two older children, who were standing on the curb in the sleeting rain. Immediately after hearing she was to be arrested, Coyne telephoned her husband, who (wisely, I think) told her to stay mum and not say a word until he arrived on the scene. Irritated that Coyne refused to speak with her further, including refusing to divulge Phoebe's name to either the officer or the child welfare worker, the cop added "obstructing a police officer" to the charge of "child endangerment." ("You have the right to remain silent....")

The officer called child welfare and had Phoebe taken into protective services -- did I mention that the three older girls were left standing in the sleeting rain -- STILL? Child welfare drove off with little Phoebe. And the three older girls were left standing in the sleeting rain. Still. Ignored by both the police officer and the child welfare worker (apparently, there's a cut-off in Illinois as to how old a child has to be before the city of Crestwood gives a crap. Once you hit three, kid, you're on your own!) Luckily, as the officer was shutting the back door of the squad car with the murderous, dangerous Treffly Coyne safely handcuffed in the back seat, her husband drove up. They were barely able to exchange a few words, when the female cop -- stalwartly protecting the safety of all children in Crestwood (in diapers, that is) -- drove away without a backward glance to make sure the three little girls she left standing in the sleeting rain had been claimed. Coyne's husband found them crying just outside the Wal-Mart. But I'm sure they were perfectly safe, now that they'd been freed from horrifying clutches of killer soccer mom Treffly Coyne by the heroic Crestwood peace officer. (Peace officer? Hmmm...)

This morning, Coyne was set to stand trial, where she faced one count each of child endangerment and obstructing a police officer. Had she been convicted, she could have served a year in prison and been forced to pay a $2500 fine. Instead, amazingly, the prosecutor dropped the charges, stating that his office could not meet the burden of proof that Coyne actually committed a crime.

Timothy Sulikowski, police chief for Crestwood, believed that the prosecutor made a huge mistake letting this hardened criminal go. Why, she'd brought it all on herself, he told reporters, by refusing to give the police officer her daughter's name. Had she simply given the officer Phoebe's name, Sulikowski said, there would never have been an arrest. There is some dispute on this, however, as Coyne claims her call to her husband -- in which he advised her to keep quiet --was a result of being told she was, in fact, being arrested, and she wanted to let him know (lest the remaining three children be left in the SLEETING RAIN! We just can't emphasize that point enough, can we?). It was only after that call that Coyne refused to speak to the arresting officer, so Sulikowski's story does not exactly jibe with both the officer's and Coyne's account of the arrest. "Still," according to CNN, "he claims that while police were obligated to report the case to the state’s child welfare agency, Coyne would not have been arrested had she cooperated and not refused to give them basic information, including the child’s name."

"'By not providing us with that information and the information of her child, at that point we don’t know that that child is hers. We don’t know if that child has been listed as a kidnapped child or a missing child,” he said. “Absolutely, she forced this.'”

Yes, we get it, Chief Sulikowski. I mean, just look at her. She looks like a hardened criminal. That low-slung brow -- those beady eyes -- that wide, slack jaw... Oh, wait... sorry... I was looking at a photo of Curly Howard from The Three Stooges. My bad....

In any case, we can all still see that it's suburban criminal scum like Coyne that really keep the Crestwood police department hopping on sleety, rainy nights when cruising a parking lot full of Volvos and mini-vans at Christmas time is way harder than, say, busting meth labs in downtown Chicago (I mean, those downtown cops have it cherry!). By the way, did she also force the part about your officer leaving her other children on the sidewalk, sobbing -- IN THE SLEETING RAIN? I guess your cop showed that witch Treffly Coyne, huh! Teach her to screw with the Crestwood PD! (Gee, I hope real criminals looking for a place where police presence is kind of soft don't read this.) I do find it interesting that, during initial interviews after Coyne's arrest, when it was pointed out that she had moved away from the car for a very brief time, Chief Sulikowski was quick to say, "A minute or two -- that's when things can happen." Seriously, Chief? It's too bad, then, that Officer Great-Big-Stick-Up-Her-Butt didn't get that memo when it came to the other three children she left as she sailed away, safe in the knowledge that she had just protected Crestwood from the next Bonnie Parker. You remember those kids, right, Chief? The ones you've absolutely failed to mention in EVERY SINGLE INTERVIEW YOU'VE GIVEN, as if they didn't exist -- kinda like your own officer, and the child welfare worker that night.

So, now that Coyne is out on the streets again, free to shop and take her kids to ballet class, Tinley Park can never quite feel safe again, knowing that any day now, she could move more than 30 feet from any of her children (though they're still within her sight), leaving them in the world unprotected and unattended. And then being sure that, should a police officer arrive on the scene, she might then commit the heinous act of refusing to speak to him or her. She's dangerous, I say, and she should be locked up. You know who else should be arrested? That Salvation Army bell ringer. I mean, do we even know who this guy was that lured Treffly Coyne into her infamous crime spree? I think this guy needs some investigating. It could be a ring -- a huge sindicate, where Salvation Army bell ringers lure the older children of suburban soccer moms into their dark web of coin donation, tempting them to leave their toddlers in warm, dry, locked, alarmed cars thirty feet away.

The prosecutor may have given up on this case, but I haven't! I'm determined to save Tinley Park from this frightening thug. It's not too late to rehabilitate Ms. Coyne from her flagrantly felonious life. I'll save you, Treffly. I'll save you and show you the error of your ways. By the way, next week, we'll be surgically attaching all three children to various parts of your body, so you can never be more than 20 to 30 centimeters from them at any given point in time. No need to thank me -- the future safety of your children and hapless citizens of suburban Chicago is thanks enough.

~C~

P.S. and totally off-point: Treffly Coyne gets this quarter's award for coolest name in a blog post subject.

The Small Stuff

It's kind of mind-boggling that people's lives become so inextricably interwoven with yours that, after they are no longer here, you spend months and months stumbling across the little dribs and drabs -- stuff that never occurred to you after the initial loss, that keeps coming up over and over. The responsiblities that fall immedately post-mortem -- the sorting, the cleaning, the disposal of property, the dispersion of assets, taxes, death certificates -- that's all the stuff you're expecting. The Big Stuff.

But there's the other stuff... the stuff that you never think of, until like little emotional Claymore, you trip the wire and everything kind of goes... boom. It's the small stuff that's killer.



Today, my electronic calendar sent me a message to let me know that my father's birthday is a week from tomorrow -- so, presumably, I shouldn't forget it (as I had done in years past) and make other plans, instead of making the yearly pilgramage to the House on Carpenter to either take him to dinner, or when he stopped leaving the house, take him dinner, a card, some chocolate peanut butter ice cream, and then high-tail it out of there as quickly as possible.

This year, there'll be a small gathering to celebrate the event, undoubtedly for the last time ever. I will not be attending the party in Maui, which will culminate in the scattering of his ashes in the lovely, balmy waters of Maalea Bay, just south of Lahaina. I have plans to go in July, when the Hawaiians will take to me to one of the holiest places on the island -- the crater at Haleakala -- where I can say good-bye myself, in my own way.



Meanwhile, I have celebrated the occasion in my own way -- by deleting his birthday from my calendar. (Open the birthday note, click "All future dates," click "Delete"... gone.) I guess after this year, March 18th is just the day after St. Patrick's Day.



~C~

The Death of Common Sense

I'm just wondering when Common Sense passed away. No. Seriously. Because I hadn't even heard It had a cough.

Today in Orlando, Florida, a mother was arrested after a do-it-yourself car wash surveillance video showed her spraying her two-and-a-half year old daughter with a power sprayer. I contemplated whether to put a link to the video in this post, but decided against it. I'm linking to the story instead, which contains a link to the video. I just don't want to have such stupidity so close to my intellect. It might be contagious.

In case you're wondering, most car wash power sprayers push water at about 1200 psi. That's enough to flay a full-grown human at full-blast. The mother claims it wasn't full-blast, but I gotta tell ya... I regularly wash my car at a DIY car wash, and there is no "half-blast/full-blast." You pull the trigger. Period. The water comes out at the pressure it comes out at. It's designed to blast grease and hardened dirt off a car's exterior as quickly as possible, so the next person can move into the space and put more quarters in. Finesse is not a part of the equation. There is little consideration for an automobile's paint job, let alone a little girl's skin.

People, what in the name of God and all that's holy is going on here? People shooting total strangers in fast food restaurants and malls. A Marine throwing (or appearing to throw) a little puppy off a cliff for the sheer entertainment of it. This adle-pated idiot mother power-spraying her toddler for throwing a tantrum.

I'd be willing to bet that this woman is not evil. I'd even be willing to go as far as to say she is a fairly well-intentioned parent most of the time. Any truly honest person who has ever spent all day caring for a cranky two-and-a-half-year old will tell you that sometimes using riot-control measures, like high-pressure water cannons and tear gas, are often considered as possible methods of thwarting chaos and reestablishing order and peace. But once we take a drink of water and have a quick shot of espresso, the more sensible and intelligent among us abandon these strategies as being impractical and uncalled for.

Except Our Lady of Perpetual High-Pressure Water Discipline, of course.

I think this woman just needs to attend some intensive parenting and anger-management courses to teach her better ways of coping with the ups and downs of raising a toddler. And while we're at it, perhaps we can get her into a remedial course in Common Sense.

~C~

02/27/08 My New Boyfriend

Here's a picture of my new boyfriend.

I came home last night after a day of particularly intense upheaval, personally and professionally, only to find that Tivo had, of its own accord, recorded an episode of Mega Disasters entitled Super Swarms, about locusts and their impact on humanity.

"This is stupid," I thought, as I highlighted the entry. "Who in their right mind would want to watch a documentary on loc...." But then I had to shut up, because the narrator was saying something utterly compelling about mandibles. And I was hooked.

This afternoon, Kimberly and I were talking about this. "Been watching Discovery Channel, have we?" she commented on my MySpace. And I remembered that I had no idea what channel it was on, because Tivo had recorded it for me. Just 'cuz. And I joked with her that if Tivo were a man, I'd have to marry him. Oh, sure... it's funny when you say it like this, but... let's think about it.

Tivo thinks of me once or twice during the day. A couple of times a day, something crosses Tivo's path and Tivo thinks, "Gee, I think Amanda might like this." Tivo lets me watch and rewind, watch and rewind, and never loses its patience. Tivo sometimes overdoes the lovin' by taking my Season Pass totally to heart and recording every blessed showing throughout the day of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, when I'd really be perfectly happy with just the 11 pm showing. I get a little peevish about this sometimes, until I remember that Tivo only wants to make sure my needs are being met. And then, I have to smile.

I've decided that these are the qualities I need to find in a man. Someone who puts up with my capricious, oddball ways without complaining. Someone who stops in every so often in the course of his day and says, "I must remember to show this to Amanda -- I think she'd get a charge out of it." Someone to whom my happiness is important. Someone who wants to edify and enlighten me, but in a sweet, entertaining way.

Tivo is my new boyfriend. Until such time as the human version walks through the door.

~C~

(cross-posted at MySpace)

It's All Mary-Mia's Fault!

Back in December of last year, when Mary-Mia from Do They Have Salsa In China was feeling a little punk and decided to try and keep her identical twin 3-year-olds occupied with a video so she could rest, she inadvertently started a bit of row as to whether the girls would watch "Mee-Moss" (Mickey Mouse, Rose's first choice) or "Six Babies" (the DVD of Jon & Kate Plus 8, Marie's preference). As per usual, Mary-Mia videotaped the ensuing smackdown (okay, it was more like an inadvertent elbow to the eye, but still... ) for our amusement.

I'd heard of the former, but I'd never heard of Jon & Kate until Mary-Mia blogged about it. When TLC ran a Jon & Kate marathon a couple of weeks ago, including all three documentaries, starting when the sextuplets were 18 months old, in anticipation of the new series TLC is launching, I thought I'd give it a look-see. I Tivo-ed it. I've watched it. Four times. Then I created a Season Pass on Tivo for the show.

For the uninitiated, Jonathan and Kate Gosselin had problems conceiving and turned to fertility treatments to conceive their twins, Mady and Cara, now 7, born in the fall of 2000. A couple of years later, Kate thought it might be nice to know what it felt like to have "just one baby," so she cajoled Jon into trying for another baby. They conceived SIX -- three girls, three boys -- born in May of 2004. By the time Kate was 28 and Jon was 26, they were the parents of eight children under the age of four. GAK!

And yet.... There's something compelling about them as a family. Kate is an admitted organizational-freak-a-germ-a-phobe with slight OCD tendencies. The episode where Kate is interviewing for a part-time housekeeper has some hilarious moments when she is describing to them exactly what she expects them to do. She'd be obnoxious if you didn't understand that what she's asking them to do a couple of days a week, is what she actually DOES -- every day -- while parenting eight children!!! She isn't asking any of the potential house cleaners to do anything she doesn't do every day -- sometimes, TWICE a day. The looks on the faces of the applicants as she describes what she does is PRICELESS!!

Jon, who is the more laid back of the two parents, gets a little flack from Kate from time to time for his easygoing, time-not-imperative pokiness, especially when they're in the trenches, so to speak -- going to cut a Christmas tree, going to pick out Halloween pumpkins and take a hay ride, taking the kids to their first dentist appointments. Someone somewhere, you can bet, is going to have a first-degree, five-star meltdown along the way, and they both know it. Watching how each parent approaches it, with their vastly different temperaments and personalities is really fascinating and endearing.

They get a bit short with each other and there's a fair amount of bickering at times. But there are episodes here and there where Jon and Kate manage to steal off together, "sans enfants," as it were (the "tummy tuck" episode, the "shopping spree" episode). In these moments (brief though they are) it is obvious that Jon and Kate Gosselin adore each other and make a really good couple. If Kate is the propellant and the rudder for the family -- getting them up and going in the right direction -- it is Jon, with his equanimity and calm under fire, who acts as the retro-fire braking system that keeps them from spinning out of control full-bore into hyperspace. In their confessional-style interview moments, with the two of them in a over-sized armchair, they are like any married couple who have found a way to make it work -- charming, funny, smart, they finish each other's sentences, laugh at each other's jokes, poke, prod and tease each other, but they love. Clearly, they love.

You would have to love to stay. Because, as lovely and adorable and interesting as the Gosselin house is to peak into every week, living there would truly drive the average person round the bend. When Oprah asked Jon and Kate how they coped with the monumental responsibility, Kate replied, "We take it one day at a time. All there is is today."

The truth is, I love the Gosselins. Not because they have eight children. But because they're honest about what having eight children does to a person, to a marriage, to a life (to Kate's belly, hence the tummy tuck episode). One child puts stress on a relationship; eight would break most. In the first episode, during a confessional interview, Kate related that Jon told her, during the most difficult first few months with the sextuplets, "You know, Kate, six babies isn't that many babies. Fourteen would be a lot of babies." In the interview, Jon waited a beat after Kate finished the anecdote, then added, "Now, I think one more would push us right over the edge." One of my favorite Kate Gosselin lines is, "I'm sure there are perfect parents out there, but we're not any of them." Honest. Real. Humble. Occasionally hovernig on the brink of madness. You know.... like me, but for a much better reason.

It's hard what they do. It's work. And in Jon & Kate plus 8, all the seams show. But it's worth it for the Gosselins. And for me. Because now, I'm hooked.

And it's all Mary-Mia's fault.

~C~

Jon and Kate plus 8 can be seen on Mondays on TLC. Check your local listings for exact times and channels.

THANK YOU!

FINALLY!

Scientific evidence to PROVE what we already knew.

Pregnancy leads to brain damage.

I'd tell you all exactly what that means, but... I forgot.

~C~

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

~C~

Thing To Do in 2008

I tend to shy away from resolutions, because things we "resolve" to resolve are so rarely ever fully resolved (bad habits broken must forever be avoided, weight lost must constantly be kept off, etc.). That's where my "List of Things to Do" comes in. Yes, I have one. And I'm not talking about the one that tells me which errands to procrastinate over on any given Saturday. I'm talking about the Big List.... the one that deals with my -- you should pardon the expression -- "issues." Yes, it's true... I have "issues." But then, so do you... and you... and you over there (don't be hidin' behind your neighbor, actin' like I can't see you). You all have issues, and so do I, and so does Dick Cheney (in spades!), and so does Angelina Jolie, even with all her money and her big, poofy lips.

So rather than "resolve" to do something I may or may not be able to "resolve," I'm just making a list... a list of things to do in 2008. Things that need to be fixed that only I can fix. Things that need to be handled and arranged better to my liking.

1. New job: No joke. Really need to get me a new one of these. I need to start teaching for a living, or working for a publishing company, or actually supporting myself as a writer (or any combination thereof) sometime this year, because working in the legal department of a major motion picture studio is the opposite of being creative, and it's sucking my creative energy.


2. Finish losing the weight I put on during Daddy-Palooza 2006-2007. That's about -- gulp! -- forty-five pounds. On someone who's not even 5'4", that's a whole lotta weight.


3. Turn fifty. Okay, this one doesn't really need to go on the list, because, hey, it's happening in November. But I want to do it in style -- a party, or an exciting trip somewhere, and I want to have No. 2 accomplished by then, so I look completely hot for whatever I'm doing to celebrate. I plan on buying a very expensive, chic little dress and some very tall, impractical shoes.


4. Get a literary agent. I'm tired of being told how impossible this is, how hard, how it's nearly futile, how it happens to only the luckiest few budding writers.... Yeah. I get it. Now shut up about it. I don't want to hear that kind of naysaying bullshit from another breathing soul (if they want to go on breathing). It's happening, it's happening this year, and you can either help or get the hell out of my way. (If there's anything ambivalent or confusing about No. 4, please feel free to write me and ask for clarification. I dare you.)


5. Finish the triathlon. In one piece. Undrowned, unscraped, un-shin-splinty. So there.


6. Get a home. Not just another crappy apartment. A home. As in house. As in, with a yard. With a space to plant bare-root roses (yellow in memory of my godmother, Linny). And room for a boxer (the dog, not the prizefighter). I am through asking permission about what colors I can paint my walls and how many pets I get to have and what kind of showerhead I can have. I'm a grown-ass woman, and it's time I exercised all rights and privileges therein.


7. Be more patient. Stop the foot-tapping, steering-wheel-pounding, standing-in-line sighing. Enough ahready. This isn't a conspiracy against me. I need to just grow up and get over myself. Likewise, to be more tolerant of people's oddities and peculiarities. You know what, if you want to eat sardine-and-peanut butter sandwiches, as long as you're downwind of me, that's fine. I'll go on loving you all the same.


8. Stop apologizing for being me. It occured to me during the whole ordeal of the past eighteen months that I have spent the better part of my life apologizing to somebody for being me. To my mother, for being born at a time when she wasn't prepared financially or emotionally to have a child. To my father for not being... well... Christie Brinkley. To my ex-husband for not being his mother. To various men* that I've dated for not being, alternately, too virginal, not virginal enough, too opinionated, not decisive enough, too headstrong, too sensitive, too young, too old, too fat, too short, too blonde, too redheaded, too... Well.... shit.... just too "too," really. My new motto when it comes to people in my life, particularly male-type people, is this: "I'm not sorry. I don't apologize. Please don't forgive me. Please don't 'fix' me. Please don't deconstruct, reconstruct, rescue or repair me. This is the package, and if it's not what you want, this town is chock full of 'Acting for Commercials' classes that are chock full of plastic-titted bikini models just waiting for you. The door's thataway. And it locks from the inside."


9. Travel. I want to go to Maui (with Kim) for fun this summer, and I want to go to Prague sometime before the end of the year. I want to see Prague before they start using the Euro, and my weak-assed American dollar isn't worth the paper it's printed on.


10. Finish "Vision," the collection of linked short stories about a half-dozen people who see (or think they see) an image of Virgin Mary on a freeway support at the corner of Pico and Sawtelle.


11. Finish a first draft of "Death of the American Western," the novel I started in the MFA program. It can (and mostly likely will) be, in the words of Ann Lamott, a "shitty first draft**," but it has to be finished and ready for revision by December 31, 2008.


12. Get the publication arts certificate. This will hopefully provide me with certain skills that will allow me to accomplish No. 1 and (spoiler alert!) No. 13.


13. Be financially secure. Need I elaborate? I thought not.


14. Get more sleep.


15. Eat less crap.


16. Take less crap.


17. Have more fun.

So, there we have it. My List of Things to Do in 2008. It's ambitious, for sure. I dare say there'll be things that flop over on the the 2009 list. But that's okay. I think it's important to set the bar high, so lots gets, if not accomplished, then at least attempted. We'll meet back here, next January, to discuss what did and didn't get done, and how it all came together in the end.

February is almost upon us. The month of "that holiday." No, not Presidents' Day, you knuckleheads! Valentine's Day. I've always dreaded that day. I think I'll add a codicil to my list right now.

18. Have fun on Valentine's Day. By hook or by crook. Whatever it takes.

There now. That's better.

On an unrelated note, but still newsworthy: My very good friends, Valerie and Matthew will be bringing their new daughter home from Ethiopia in late February. Come to think of it, maybe it's not entirely unrelated at that. Little Josephina will have her own tiny list of things to do when she arrives -- learning to hold her head up, cutting some teeth, getting some decent hair on her head, figuring out how the hell that damn opposable thumb thing is supposed to work, and learning how to modify her parents' and siblings' behavior, simply by smiling and/or spitting up. Her list will be just as important to her as mine is to me. Maybe remembering that is the way to keep from taking all this "list" business too seriously. It is, after all, just a list of stuff that needs doing, one thing at a time, and we're here to get as much of it done as we can in our allotted time.

That's my List. And I'm sticking to it. Until Josephina gets here, and then I'll be putting some of it off to play with the baby.

~A~

* Not that it's exactly been the Cavalcade of Stars, mind you.
** If you haven't read "Bird by Bird" by Ann Lamott, please don't post a comment chastising me for referring to my work as "shitty." "Shitty first draft" has a very specific meaning in this context, and I mean what I say. Buy the book and read it. It's artistically edifying, and it's a hoot and half.

And, Thus, I Hand Over the Crown

It is with a mixture of gratitude, nostalgia and pride that I pin the "Meanest Mom on the Planet" tiara onto the glorious head of one Jane Hambleton, 48, of Fort Dodge, Iowa. It's been a long and fabulous run as "Meanest Mom", my darling subjects, but all good things must come to an end, and Mrs. Hambleton has proven herself to be more than amply capable of assuming the throne.

According to this CNN article, Mrs. Hambleton only made two rules when she purchased her 19-year-old son a 1999 Oldsmobile Intrigue: "No booze, and keep it locked."

When she found a bottle of alcohol under the seat, she decided that the best punishment would be to sell the car. She placed the following ad in the Des Moines Register:

"OLDS 1999 Intrigue. Totally uncool parents who obviously don't love teenage son, selling his car. Only driven for three weeks before snoopy mom who needs to get a life found booze under front seat. $3,700/offer. Call meanest mom on the planet."

So far, Jane has received 70 phone calls, the majority of which came, not from interested buyers, but from people wishing to converse with the planet's meanest mom. All of the calls have been supportive, including several from teachers, emergency room medical personnel, grateful fellow parents and school counselors.

In fairness, young Master Hambleton maintains that the booze wasn't his, but was left there by a friend, which Jane readily admits she believes completely, and which she apparently has ascertained (as would her "Meanest Mom" predecessor) that the argument is utterly moot -- "no booze" means "no booze," period. The lesson (in the words of my Texas granny, may she rest in peace): "Lie down with dogs, you'll more than likely get up with fleas."

So, here's to you, Jane Hambleton. My tiara is off to you. Hold your crown high, accept this bejeweled sceptor and take your walk down the runway before your subjects. May your reign as "Meanest Mom on the Planet" be every bit as rewarding as mine has been.

~C~

The Happiest of New Years to You All in 2008!!

Went to the most fun New Years party I've ever been to -- very small, but with a bunch of New York actors. We ate Chinese food, we drank almond champagne (a new fave), we watched some Luciano Pavarotti in his last concert from Central Park, we watched the ball drop in Times Square... hug, hug... kiss, kiss... nosh, nosh... nosh some more. So much fun....

Left the party totally wired at 3 am, got home and couldn't even think about getting to bed until 5. I was Eliza freakin' Doolittle. Got up this morning totally energized after only about four hours sleep, then went to Macaroni Grill with my daughter and her boyfriend. Lovely lunch, went to Target, spent money on DVDs on sale, and a new purse and wallet (desperately needed Christmas presents to myself), then came home.

Now, I'm going to toss one of my many new DVDs into the machine and wile away some time on this chilly, windy New Years Day, and spend the remaining alone time I have tidying the apartment and doing some purging of stuff.

If the year thus far has been any indication, 2008 is going to be a very good year. I go back into training for the triathlon this week, and am starting a new food plan tomorrow that I hope will whittle the ass down to some less cumbersome from running around the desert.

Here's to 2008. May you all find yourself on the path to your heart's desire.

XOXO

~C~

Graduation Day

Photographic evidence for you all that I did, in fact, actually graduate on Sunday. And I managed to walk across the stage in heels without tripping, which was good.

Also, note to self. The next time I graduate, I'm going to cut a nice little bang into my hair. I look like such a doofus in the morterboard, but Jillian, to my immediate left looks kind of darling with that little bang. So stylish....

Oh, well... spilt milk. It doesn't matter -- I got me a big new fancy MFA. Don't you love that new post-graduate degree smell? Mmmmm...

~C~

A Day of Victories

Yesterday, I had my final reading for my MFA. I read an excerpt from the first chapter of a novel I'm working on. It went well.

Savannah was there, along with a couple of good friends. I taught my class on Wednesday, and that also went well -- though I fell about ten minutes short of material. Thank God I had a talkative, question-askin' bunch of folks. I'm hoping my evaluations are merciful. Today, I go back for a few final things, the closing conversation, and then....

I'm done.

My list of things to do from here on out are as follows:

1. Buy shoes for graduation ceremony

2. Go to Santa Barbara tonight and watch a good friend's band.

3. Get up tomorrow and get to hotel where ceremony is being held.

4. Walk across stage to receive diploma without tripping or falling off new shoes.

Then, I will be a bearer of a post-graduate degree.

And tonight, my daughter told me that, when people asked her how I was doing, she told them I was great, that I was getting my MFA, that I was training for a triathlon, and that... wait for it... she was very, very proud of me.

(sniff, sniff) I'm fine. Anybody got a tissue?

Fairly happy here.... Just sayin'....

~C~

Tomorrow, It Begins... and Ends.

As you can see by the counter at the top of the blog, my MFA graduation is a mere ten days away. My final residency begins tomorrow. My manuscript is done (see photo at left), my paperwork is (mostly) done. I have my outline for my final lecture nearly done, though I need to sort out the wording for the writing assignment (which will, mercifully, eat up about 20 of the 50 minutes I'm supposed to lecture). I haven't decided on a final reading yet, but I have a lot of options, and I'll decide later.

Words cannot express my feelings right now. I am nearly done. I'm almost out of school. I've been working and going to school since 2003. I'm this close to getting a bit of my life and free time back.

Here is a little list of things I will be able to do, starting on December 17th:

• Read for pleasure (chick lit, anyone?)


• Write for pleasure (blog posts, anyone?)


• Play the Sims 2 and not feel guilty


• Resume my 3D digital art endeavors

And that's just a start. Of course, there is the part where I have to put together my CV and start looking for teaching jobs, so I can teach and write and not have to type contracts for spoiled, pampered, prima donna actresses anymore. There's that. But I can work it all in.

Oh, and for anybody out there considering going back to school and working fulltime, here are two things you need to stock up on before you attempt it. (See photo at right)
~C~