Yes, he sort of sounded like a screaming hillbilly. But I'm gonna throw a couple quarters in the snap cup this week for Mike Gundy.
Writing a totally unprovoked, mean-spirited column filled with conjecture about a college student is bush league, and Jenni Carlson deserved to be called on the carpet. Last time I checked, "The Oklahoman" was not a junior high gossip column.
I just hope Carlson gets as much criticism for her ridiculous article as Gundy has gotten for raising his voice (okay, maybe it was a little more than raising his voice) at a press conference. But there's honor in defending your players; I don't see a whole lot of honor in what Carlson wrote about Gundy's player.
As a woman with an interest/background in sports journalism, I'm all the more annoyed and embarrassed that the columnist in question is female. If Jenni Carlson wants to write a gossip column, she should go get a job at the National Enquirer or go post on some Internet fan message boards. Because that's really all the "journalism" in question is good for. Maybe she can join the idiots on the ISU message boads who enjoyed posting online last season that they caught so-and-so being happy, sometimes even in a watering hole, after a loss. Pretty sure all of those people, including Jenni Carlson, have never played college sports in their lives. But hey! They're breathing, so they have the right to judge.
If I had a son, I'll tell you this: I would have no qualms about sending him to play for Mike Gundy. In his own saliva-laden way, Gundy proved on Saturday that protecting and respecting his players is the most important thing to him.
I know pretty much everyone in the whole entire world is trying to make it otherwise, but I still believe in my heart that college sports -- like college -- are about learning, developing as a person, and making mistakes. I am certainly glad that when I was a college student I didn't have someone like Jenni Carlson following me around with a notebook writing down if my parents were giving me chicken or making a notation if I smiled at what she felt was an inappropriate time.
A good kid like Bobby Reid doesn't deserve what Jenni Carlson did to him. His every move doesn't automatically become everyone's business just because he wears on OSU jersey on Saturdays. Have a little respect, and you'll get it in return. I'm sure Oklahoma State University isn't particularly pleased with Mike Gundy's choice of forum or tone of voice in addressing his issue with Jenni Carlson, but I bet this got her attention more than a sternly-worded e-mail. People seem to forget that her column is the print equivalent of a screaming (not to mention, in this case, lying) tirade that is open for everyone in the public to absorb. Mike Gundy just wanted a chance to rebut in an equally public forum. And now that he's all over YouTube, I think he got his wish.
That's called being a player-focused coach. And even if it's not so elegant, it's still something to admire.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Saturday, July 28, 2007
My quotable husband
"People are stupid. If I were the Fifth Element I wouldn't have sacrificied myself for the world."
"I'm NOT smokin' the Kool-Aid."
"That guy couldn't pour pee out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel."
"Why would I want to smoke pot? Pot gives you two things: a headache and the munchies. I get that going to work."
(said as a Talking Heads song came on the radio) "Oooh, is this Megadeth?"
(said on air) "Well, it's a beautiful scene here today at Floyd Casey Stadium. The 12 Baylor fans who showed up are all holding up their arms in a bear claw saluting them team, doing a hand gesture like all these stupid Texas schools do."
"I'm NOT smokin' the Kool-Aid."
"That guy couldn't pour pee out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel."
"Why would I want to smoke pot? Pot gives you two things: a headache and the munchies. I get that going to work."
(said as a Talking Heads song came on the radio) "Oooh, is this Megadeth?"
(said on air) "Well, it's a beautiful scene here today at Floyd Casey Stadium. The 12 Baylor fans who showed up are all holding up their arms in a bear claw saluting them team, doing a hand gesture like all these stupid Texas schools do."
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Scratching my dumb jock itch
There's this thing about me that has caused in my life both physical and emotional pain, a number of hits to my pocketbook, a severe depletion of my available time, and even a modicum of guilt. It's dirty, but it's not-so-secret.
I am a sports fan.
I really don't think of myself as unintelligent or even boring. But consider the evidence: I watch the NFL Network. I will willingly accompany you to any live baseball game -- ANY baseball game. I play golf. I watch golf. I read sports message boards and blogs. I can calculate a goalkeeper's save percentage and a softball pitcher's ERA. I eat walking tacos. I know that Niagara University's mascot is the Purple Eagles -- the horrors!
Among other types of nerdiness (grammar, civics, and sense of humor come to mind...I embrace them all), I am indeed a total sports nerd.
I have friends who have zero interest in sports and, quite frankly, little understanding of sports nerds like me who do. To these people and other acquaintences who run scared when I start talking about assist-to-turnover ratios or Brett Favre's retirement, I am some sort of meat-headed simpleton who blathers fruitlessly about the alleged drama and intrigue of the physical struggle. It definitely makes me feel just a little stupid. And today I would just like to thank the world of sports for making all those people just a little bit more correct about me and how incredibly stupid it is to be a sports fan.
Sports were the reason my husband received a college education. He was good at them, one in particular, and so he didn't have to pay college tuition for five years. For beating his head, chest, arms, mangled fingers, and strained knees as hard as possible into another man 45 times in front of screaming crowds of 40,000 who could be bothered to leave their beer bongs in the minivan and stumble into the stadium, he became a construction engineer. This, I'm sorry, is stupid. (By the way, his knee hurts. Does anyone responsible want to help pay our acupuncture bill?)
People were engrossed in the NBA finals last season only to discover last week that the outcome was more than likely rigged by a crooked referee. This is stupid.
People are dressing up their children in Michael Vick jersies because he is someone worth admiring due to his ability to spin away from linebackers downfield. All the while, he is torturing and killing dogs. Sick and stupid.
Major League Baseball commissioner Bud Selig can't decide how to feel about Barry Bonds being on the cusp of breaking Hank Aaron's home run record and the rest of the country is subjected to news reports about whether or not Selig will come to Bonds' games, get his picture taken with him, or get warm fuzzies about what under any other circumstances would be the sports story of the decade. Meanwhile, Barry Bonds is probably on steroids (would people care that he is probably on steroids if he wasn't also an a$$hole, I wonder?) but no one can prove it and so he just keeps on playing while everyone declares that his accomplishments are tainted. Really, really intensely stupid.
But here's the problem. The life lessons many high schoolers, and even college students, learn from being part of athletics are not stupid. They learn to work as a team, to overcome adversity, to face their fears. They learn to balance their time and believe in themselves. And that's something to be admired -- something beautiful. But dangle a few dollars in front of someone's nose and who knows what he or she will do. Even if it shrinks his penis and shortens his lifespan, an athlete will shoot drugs in his arm. And trust me, I get it: When sports aren't about personal growth and achievement and pushing oneself, they're about getting paid and being famous. And whether it's because this is actually getting worse or just because I am growing more cynical with age, an awareness of this reality is becoming more and more abundant in my brain.
And it makes me like it less and less every day.
Just not enough to not still be a nerd.
I am a sports fan.
I really don't think of myself as unintelligent or even boring. But consider the evidence: I watch the NFL Network. I will willingly accompany you to any live baseball game -- ANY baseball game. I play golf. I watch golf. I read sports message boards and blogs. I can calculate a goalkeeper's save percentage and a softball pitcher's ERA. I eat walking tacos. I know that Niagara University's mascot is the Purple Eagles -- the horrors!
Among other types of nerdiness (grammar, civics, and sense of humor come to mind...I embrace them all), I am indeed a total sports nerd.
I have friends who have zero interest in sports and, quite frankly, little understanding of sports nerds like me who do. To these people and other acquaintences who run scared when I start talking about assist-to-turnover ratios or Brett Favre's retirement, I am some sort of meat-headed simpleton who blathers fruitlessly about the alleged drama and intrigue of the physical struggle. It definitely makes me feel just a little stupid. And today I would just like to thank the world of sports for making all those people just a little bit more correct about me and how incredibly stupid it is to be a sports fan.
Sports were the reason my husband received a college education. He was good at them, one in particular, and so he didn't have to pay college tuition for five years. For beating his head, chest, arms, mangled fingers, and strained knees as hard as possible into another man 45 times in front of screaming crowds of 40,000 who could be bothered to leave their beer bongs in the minivan and stumble into the stadium, he became a construction engineer. This, I'm sorry, is stupid. (By the way, his knee hurts. Does anyone responsible want to help pay our acupuncture bill?)
People were engrossed in the NBA finals last season only to discover last week that the outcome was more than likely rigged by a crooked referee. This is stupid.
People are dressing up their children in Michael Vick jersies because he is someone worth admiring due to his ability to spin away from linebackers downfield. All the while, he is torturing and killing dogs. Sick and stupid.
Major League Baseball commissioner Bud Selig can't decide how to feel about Barry Bonds being on the cusp of breaking Hank Aaron's home run record and the rest of the country is subjected to news reports about whether or not Selig will come to Bonds' games, get his picture taken with him, or get warm fuzzies about what under any other circumstances would be the sports story of the decade. Meanwhile, Barry Bonds is probably on steroids (would people care that he is probably on steroids if he wasn't also an a$$hole, I wonder?) but no one can prove it and so he just keeps on playing while everyone declares that his accomplishments are tainted. Really, really intensely stupid.
But here's the problem. The life lessons many high schoolers, and even college students, learn from being part of athletics are not stupid. They learn to work as a team, to overcome adversity, to face their fears. They learn to balance their time and believe in themselves. And that's something to be admired -- something beautiful. But dangle a few dollars in front of someone's nose and who knows what he or she will do. Even if it shrinks his penis and shortens his lifespan, an athlete will shoot drugs in his arm. And trust me, I get it: When sports aren't about personal growth and achievement and pushing oneself, they're about getting paid and being famous. And whether it's because this is actually getting worse or just because I am growing more cynical with age, an awareness of this reality is becoming more and more abundant in my brain.
And it makes me like it less and less every day.
Just not enough to not still be a nerd.
Monday, July 23, 2007
What would you do in this situation?
A totally random guy you've never met is standing at a conference social with his back to you, wearing some khaki slacks that have, printed on a sticker that starts around mid-butt cheek and continues down to mid-thigh, 36x32 36x32 36x32, 36x32 (etc., etc., you get the picture) affixed to it. Do you:
a) walk up to the guy and discreetly tell him that he might want to go in the bathroom and check his butt for extraneous size-revealing labels
b) walk up behind the guy, reach down, and nonchalantly remove the sticker from his butt (at the risk, of course, of him noticing that you are touching his derierre and either a -- getting the wrong idea or b -- suing you for sexual harrassment)
c) sit in the corner and mock him while also acknowledging that this sort of thing could certainly happen to you or anyone for that matter, except maybe Val Kilmer, and feel just a leetle bit bad for him before you go back to heartily laughing at this situation and later feeling validated in your decision because the guy turned out to be sort of pretentious but at the same time you still felt sort of bad for not telling him but also feeling quite torn because you're not sure what you would prefer to have happen if you were the person who had your pants size affixed to your booty in front of a bunch of strangers who are probably laughing at/feeling sorry for you but since you have a sense of humor you would probably want someone to tell you but then again maybe not and mmmmm, Heineken.
I chose C. Probably not the right answer. But seriously! What do you do?
P.S. I would have chosen option A if he had been female. I think.
a) walk up to the guy and discreetly tell him that he might want to go in the bathroom and check his butt for extraneous size-revealing labels
b) walk up behind the guy, reach down, and nonchalantly remove the sticker from his butt (at the risk, of course, of him noticing that you are touching his derierre and either a -- getting the wrong idea or b -- suing you for sexual harrassment)
c) sit in the corner and mock him while also acknowledging that this sort of thing could certainly happen to you or anyone for that matter, except maybe Val Kilmer, and feel just a leetle bit bad for him before you go back to heartily laughing at this situation and later feeling validated in your decision because the guy turned out to be sort of pretentious but at the same time you still felt sort of bad for not telling him but also feeling quite torn because you're not sure what you would prefer to have happen if you were the person who had your pants size affixed to your booty in front of a bunch of strangers who are probably laughing at/feeling sorry for you but since you have a sense of humor you would probably want someone to tell you but then again maybe not and mmmmm, Heineken.
I chose C. Probably not the right answer. But seriously! What do you do?
P.S. I would have chosen option A if he had been female. I think.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
This is why I'm never bored
I can read my diary from 8th grade, which I found in a box this weekend, and be endlessly amused by the points it proves. Some examples.
Proof that middle school girls are pretty much all the same:
January 12, 1992
"I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer)."
Note: This goes on for a whole page.
************************
March 13, 1992
"I can't believe my boyfriend who is a moron was mad just because I danced with this other boy four times and not him."
Yeah, that's a shocker. How unreasonable of him. Also: It's clear I felt very connected with this boy whom I referred to as "boyfriend who is a moron."
************************
July 5, 1992
"I am so sick of how (insert name of perfectly nice boy who is probably now a CEO) 'The Dweeb' loves and worships me. And I had to dance with him at the 8th grade party! Yuck! I think he might be starting to get the idea that I think he's a dork. At least I hope."
The directness of 8th graders in resolving conflict, as well as their relationship skills, is awe-inspiring.
************************
March 8, 1992
"Okay, this is serious. My friends liked this $30 Gitano outfit that totally clashed!"
What the hell is Gitano? Apparently it's SERIOUS.
************************
March 30, 1992
"I finally got lots of hair off my legs when I shaved! Hooray!"
It's really the small victories in life, isn't it?
************************
The entry for July 6, 1992 is an essay called "Why My Little Brother is a Stupid Jerk."
Sorry, darling brother who still has a nickname I made up for you in 9th grade that means the same thing as the word "shit." Loves you!
************************
Proof that the 90s were, in general, a little scary:
March 16, 1992
"Must close now. David Robinson and John Lucas are on Aresnio tonight!"
Note: I watched the Aresnio Hall Show?
************************
July 5, 1992
"Warm it up, Kris! Kris Kross is awesome. Almost as good as Color Me Badd."
Sweet Jesus. There are no words.
****************
Proof that I haven't really changed all that much:
November 2, 1992
"Oh my gosh, I saw Al [Gore] at the Waterloo airport! One day until the election! I'm so excited! If Bill and Al don't win I will just die of sadness. And oh my gosh Al Gore is SO HOT. I love Al! LOVE HIM!"
I believe I am technically now in 9th grade writing this. Not that it matters; I think I still write the same way about Al Gore. Sigh.
************************
July 7, 1992
"I just feel like writing and writing and writing and never stopping. But I will since this is probably majorly boring to read."
At least I had self awareness, even though I still haven't stopped torturing people with my boring and never-ending words.
************************
February 5, 1992
"I guess SOMEONE has to be on the C team. But why me?"
I never magically gained that athletic prowess I had been hoping for. But not my fault, remember? My fingers!
************************
April 25, 1992
"Happy Arbor Day, Diary! Plant a tree! Cool the globe!"
Once a tree-hugger, always a tree hugger. Also, I don't remember wanting to cool the globe being a controversial viewpoint them. Go figure.
************************
June 22, 1993
"I have this pen pal who I met at the Big 8 Tournament. He's really cute, but UGH I can't believe he's a JAYHAWK!"
What IS the matter with Kansas?
************************
In the entry for April 19, I circled my own grammatical error and wrote "please pardon the illegibility of this missive."
No comment.
************************
Coming soon (I hope): Actual excerpts from my 4th grade diary, which I also found yesterday but didn't take the time to try and break into. (Unlike the eighth grade diary which has a combination lock on it that can be opened by remembering the combination "grab both covers and pull really hard for 15 seconds," this one has a padlock that has to be opened with a key that no longer exists -- I'm thinking throwing a really large rock at it will probably do the trick.)
Stay tuned.
Proof that middle school girls are pretty much all the same:
January 12, 1992
"I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer). I love (insert name of boy who is probably now a mass murderer)."
Note: This goes on for a whole page.
************************
March 13, 1992
"I can't believe my boyfriend who is a moron was mad just because I danced with this other boy four times and not him."
Yeah, that's a shocker. How unreasonable of him. Also: It's clear I felt very connected with this boy whom I referred to as "boyfriend who is a moron."
************************
July 5, 1992
"I am so sick of how (insert name of perfectly nice boy who is probably now a CEO) 'The Dweeb' loves and worships me. And I had to dance with him at the 8th grade party! Yuck! I think he might be starting to get the idea that I think he's a dork. At least I hope."
The directness of 8th graders in resolving conflict, as well as their relationship skills, is awe-inspiring.
************************
March 8, 1992
"Okay, this is serious. My friends liked this $30 Gitano outfit that totally clashed!"
What the hell is Gitano? Apparently it's SERIOUS.
************************
March 30, 1992
"I finally got lots of hair off my legs when I shaved! Hooray!"
It's really the small victories in life, isn't it?
************************
The entry for July 6, 1992 is an essay called "Why My Little Brother is a Stupid Jerk."
Sorry, darling brother who still has a nickname I made up for you in 9th grade that means the same thing as the word "shit." Loves you!
************************
Proof that the 90s were, in general, a little scary:
March 16, 1992
"Must close now. David Robinson and John Lucas are on Aresnio tonight!"
Note: I watched the Aresnio Hall Show?
************************
July 5, 1992
"Warm it up, Kris! Kris Kross is awesome. Almost as good as Color Me Badd."
Sweet Jesus. There are no words.
****************
Proof that I haven't really changed all that much:
November 2, 1992
"Oh my gosh, I saw Al [Gore] at the Waterloo airport! One day until the election! I'm so excited! If Bill and Al don't win I will just die of sadness. And oh my gosh Al Gore is SO HOT. I love Al! LOVE HIM!"
I believe I am technically now in 9th grade writing this. Not that it matters; I think I still write the same way about Al Gore. Sigh.
************************
July 7, 1992
"I just feel like writing and writing and writing and never stopping. But I will since this is probably majorly boring to read."
At least I had self awareness, even though I still haven't stopped torturing people with my boring and never-ending words.
************************
February 5, 1992
"I guess SOMEONE has to be on the C team. But why me?"
I never magically gained that athletic prowess I had been hoping for. But not my fault, remember? My fingers!
************************
April 25, 1992
"Happy Arbor Day, Diary! Plant a tree! Cool the globe!"
Once a tree-hugger, always a tree hugger. Also, I don't remember wanting to cool the globe being a controversial viewpoint them. Go figure.
************************
June 22, 1993
"I have this pen pal who I met at the Big 8 Tournament. He's really cute, but UGH I can't believe he's a JAYHAWK!"
What IS the matter with Kansas?
************************
In the entry for April 19, I circled my own grammatical error and wrote "please pardon the illegibility of this missive."
No comment.
************************
Coming soon (I hope): Actual excerpts from my 4th grade diary, which I also found yesterday but didn't take the time to try and break into. (Unlike the eighth grade diary which has a combination lock on it that can be opened by remembering the combination "grab both covers and pull really hard for 15 seconds," this one has a padlock that has to be opened with a key that no longer exists -- I'm thinking throwing a really large rock at it will probably do the trick.)
Stay tuned.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Why drinking and being "single" for the weekend don't mix
And no, it's not the reason you're thinking. So stop it!
As I believe I may have mentioned before, I'm more than a little naive. I am pretty sure if I were an actual single person going to bars to try and meet other single people I would have been stabbed to death in a dark alley by now.
So Friday night while my husband was out of town I was looking forward to having a few drinks with some friends at a local dive bar, where one of the friends wanted to meet up with her other friend who was paying his way through college by deep-frying cauliflower there. Over the course of a couple of hours I proceeded to plow my way through several glasses of beer. I returned from the restroom, weaving my way inefficiently through several local class reunion participants in nametags (ever grateful that I was not one of them) and sat back down at our table, where within a few moments a blond gentleman plopped down in the seat next to me.
I figured he was the cook friend we were meeting, so I started willingly participating in the conversation he started with me. I honestly don't remember anything we were discussing except that he said something flippant about someone who was bald, to which I replied...
Me: Hey, my husband is bald and I think it looks rather attractive on him.
Guy: Husband?
Me: Yeah, my husband Ben.
Guy: You're married? MARRIED? Oh, well THAT'S JUST GREAT.
Me (duh): Yes, it is great.
Guy (leaving half a pack of Pall Malls and a Bic lighter on the table): I'll be right back, okay?
Me: Um...
My friend, leaning over: Why were you talking to that guy?
Me: What do you mean? I thought he was your friend!
My friend: Erm, no...
It's at this point that I finally realized that even though I was clearly wearing a wedding ring this guy was trying to pick me up. See why I could never be a single person?
The more I added up the pieces the more I realized that this guy was an A-1 jerk, so I brilliantly decided to get back at him by smoking all of his Pall Malls. See what fabulous decision-making skills drunk people have?
I didn't finish the pack, but it somehow ended up in my purse and subsequently on my kitchen table the next morning, where my mother saw it upon arriving at my house for a day visit. "When did you take up smoking?" she asked. "Pall Malls! Ew!" So I told her the story. She smoked for 30 years, she said, and could never stomach anything as strong as Pall Malls.
Sweet merciful crap, help me! Coffee and a traecheotomy, please! And let's not forget a shower!
How old am I again? Never mind, don't answer that.
As I believe I may have mentioned before, I'm more than a little naive. I am pretty sure if I were an actual single person going to bars to try and meet other single people I would have been stabbed to death in a dark alley by now.
So Friday night while my husband was out of town I was looking forward to having a few drinks with some friends at a local dive bar, where one of the friends wanted to meet up with her other friend who was paying his way through college by deep-frying cauliflower there. Over the course of a couple of hours I proceeded to plow my way through several glasses of beer. I returned from the restroom, weaving my way inefficiently through several local class reunion participants in nametags (ever grateful that I was not one of them) and sat back down at our table, where within a few moments a blond gentleman plopped down in the seat next to me.
I figured he was the cook friend we were meeting, so I started willingly participating in the conversation he started with me. I honestly don't remember anything we were discussing except that he said something flippant about someone who was bald, to which I replied...
Me: Hey, my husband is bald and I think it looks rather attractive on him.
Guy: Husband?
Me: Yeah, my husband Ben.
Guy: You're married? MARRIED? Oh, well THAT'S JUST GREAT.
Me (duh): Yes, it is great.
Guy (leaving half a pack of Pall Malls and a Bic lighter on the table): I'll be right back, okay?
Me: Um...
My friend, leaning over: Why were you talking to that guy?
Me: What do you mean? I thought he was your friend!
My friend: Erm, no...
It's at this point that I finally realized that even though I was clearly wearing a wedding ring this guy was trying to pick me up. See why I could never be a single person?
The more I added up the pieces the more I realized that this guy was an A-1 jerk, so I brilliantly decided to get back at him by smoking all of his Pall Malls. See what fabulous decision-making skills drunk people have?
I didn't finish the pack, but it somehow ended up in my purse and subsequently on my kitchen table the next morning, where my mother saw it upon arriving at my house for a day visit. "When did you take up smoking?" she asked. "Pall Malls! Ew!" So I told her the story. She smoked for 30 years, she said, and could never stomach anything as strong as Pall Malls.
Sweet merciful crap, help me! Coffee and a traecheotomy, please! And let's not forget a shower!
How old am I again? Never mind, don't answer that.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Sacrificial Gams
Call me a cynic, but "Kate! YOU have nice legs!" is a suspicious beginning to a conversation. Yet, so began the crackly cell phone conversation I had with my co-worker this afternoon.
It turns out I was correct to be skeptical, and -- long story short -- you may now add "stand half-naked in front of God and everyone, including a photographer," to the list of Things I Have Done To Be a Team Player at Work (right after getting mugged by geese, buying every basketball-hoop-shaped kids' wastebasket in stock at four greater Iowa K-Marts, and standing in street sludge in front of Minneapolis' Target Center while people asked me if I was an American Idol contestant).
Okay, perhaps making the long story short is ineffective in conveying the Oh-My-God-I'm-Freaked-Out-ness of the phone call, which was precipitated by the refusal of multiple co-workers to model a nightshirt and fuzzy slippers for our merchandise catalog, most likely because the outfit: a) is ridiculous; and b) involves wearing no pants.
I should actually add that, if you need someone who isn't afraid to go pantless in front of a camera, I may be a good option. Our family's photo albums are filled with images of me as a youngster, wearing only a shirt and underpants, sitting at family gatherings, watching Sesame Street, writing and illustrating my collections of short fiction/plans for world domination, etc. It's true: I ritualistically shed my pants the minute I walked through the door for many of my single-digit years. Not sure when this became uncouth and inappropriate (probably two years before I stopped doing it), but I'm afraid to say that most of my adult years have been spent rather boringly wearing pants almost all the time.
So in order to complete this assignment I was going to have to rediscover the spirit of my half-naked inner child.
I retreated to the restroom and put on the nightshirt and the fuzzy slippers. I looked, well, ridiculous. But I was taking one for the team. Boldly going where no person in her right mind has ever gone before. Wearing no pants in front of my co-workers. Wearing no pants in front of the camera...
I am not a model. Heck, I'm not even really that much of a girl. When I was frantically trying to put on some makeup before heading over to the photo shoot, another co-worker offered me the use of her some-kinda-special comb. "What do I do with that?" I replied. She giggled. I think she thought I was kidding. "Hey, at least you're wearing earrings today," another helpfully chimed in. Yes, it's a special day at our office when Kate remembers to accessorize. Alert the media! She's wearing a belt AND a bracelet!
Everything I know about modeling I learned from Tyra Banks on America's Next Top Model. This means that the extent of my knowledge about good modeling is that I know it involves reading Tyra Mail and being something called "fierce." I tried to think about being "fierce" in the nightshirt and slippers, but it just wasn't coming to the surface. The photographer didn't like my idea of channeling every men's underwear model I've ever seen and doing the "Look! A tree!" finger-point. So they handed me props: a coffee mug and a newspaper. Apparently instead of being fierce I was supposed to pretend I had just woken up and started reading the paper when someone pointed a camera in my face. In a fierce manner, of course. "Ooh, I'm so surprised that you are taking a picture of me while I'm wearing my nightgown and reading the paper," is apparently the message we were trying to convey, artistically.
And when art involves wearing an oversized T-shirt, no pants, and ridiculous slippers while not pointing at a fake tree, I'm just clay to be molded. Molded into a tan-legged frump to be plastered on catalogs and the innernets. Victoria's Secret, you may want to send your scouts to check me out. Just don't ask me how to use an eyelash curler or be fierce. Because I don't know.
It turns out I was correct to be skeptical, and -- long story short -- you may now add "stand half-naked in front of God and everyone, including a photographer," to the list of Things I Have Done To Be a Team Player at Work (right after getting mugged by geese, buying every basketball-hoop-shaped kids' wastebasket in stock at four greater Iowa K-Marts, and standing in street sludge in front of Minneapolis' Target Center while people asked me if I was an American Idol contestant).
Okay, perhaps making the long story short is ineffective in conveying the Oh-My-God-I'm-Freaked-Out-ness of the phone call, which was precipitated by the refusal of multiple co-workers to model a nightshirt and fuzzy slippers for our merchandise catalog, most likely because the outfit: a) is ridiculous; and b) involves wearing no pants.
I should actually add that, if you need someone who isn't afraid to go pantless in front of a camera, I may be a good option. Our family's photo albums are filled with images of me as a youngster, wearing only a shirt and underpants, sitting at family gatherings, watching Sesame Street, writing and illustrating my collections of short fiction/plans for world domination, etc. It's true: I ritualistically shed my pants the minute I walked through the door for many of my single-digit years. Not sure when this became uncouth and inappropriate (probably two years before I stopped doing it), but I'm afraid to say that most of my adult years have been spent rather boringly wearing pants almost all the time.
So in order to complete this assignment I was going to have to rediscover the spirit of my half-naked inner child.
I retreated to the restroom and put on the nightshirt and the fuzzy slippers. I looked, well, ridiculous. But I was taking one for the team. Boldly going where no person in her right mind has ever gone before. Wearing no pants in front of my co-workers. Wearing no pants in front of the camera...
I am not a model. Heck, I'm not even really that much of a girl. When I was frantically trying to put on some makeup before heading over to the photo shoot, another co-worker offered me the use of her some-kinda-special comb. "What do I do with that?" I replied. She giggled. I think she thought I was kidding. "Hey, at least you're wearing earrings today," another helpfully chimed in. Yes, it's a special day at our office when Kate remembers to accessorize. Alert the media! She's wearing a belt AND a bracelet!
Everything I know about modeling I learned from Tyra Banks on America's Next Top Model. This means that the extent of my knowledge about good modeling is that I know it involves reading Tyra Mail and being something called "fierce." I tried to think about being "fierce" in the nightshirt and slippers, but it just wasn't coming to the surface. The photographer didn't like my idea of channeling every men's underwear model I've ever seen and doing the "Look! A tree!" finger-point. So they handed me props: a coffee mug and a newspaper. Apparently instead of being fierce I was supposed to pretend I had just woken up and started reading the paper when someone pointed a camera in my face. In a fierce manner, of course. "Ooh, I'm so surprised that you are taking a picture of me while I'm wearing my nightgown and reading the paper," is apparently the message we were trying to convey, artistically.
And when art involves wearing an oversized T-shirt, no pants, and ridiculous slippers while not pointing at a fake tree, I'm just clay to be molded. Molded into a tan-legged frump to be plastered on catalogs and the innernets. Victoria's Secret, you may want to send your scouts to check me out. Just don't ask me how to use an eyelash curler or be fierce. Because I don't know.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Trying to ford a river of Pabst Blue Ribbon
So it was over a month ago that I went to Portland, but I still haven't written anything about the experience. Not exactly sure what has been the cause of my writer's block, but rest assured that I always inevitably find the temptation to deliver verbose blow-by-blow accounts of my vacations too overwhelming to stand. The level of detail in which I documented our trip to Aruba four years ago, for example, should serve as proof of this phenomenon. In other words: Never question my commitment to being a giant geek.
Okay, so Oregon.
First let me say that if it weren't quite so many miles from the UMW I would move to Portland in a heartbeat. I have always had a fascination with the Pacific Northwest (stemming from my religious devotion to watching Twin Peaks as an adolescent, perhaps?), and this satiated my desire to spend a good bit of time there in a way that my New Year's 2003 trip to Boise did not.
My friend since junior high who was also my roommate during freshman year of college, Winnie, was kind enough to play host to us. She has a cute house, an even cuter puppy, and a cute ex-chef husband who vaguely resembles Justin Timberlake and currently makes a living harvesting barn owl pellets in scary ghost-town looking places down south. Seriously.
I'm a pretty big fan of athletic apparel, so it was a pretty cool thing that Winnie works for Nike. We got a tour of the campus and a pass to shop at the employee store, where we spent $750 on $1,500 worth of stuff in the course of an afternoon. But hooray! Sports bras for life! Also: Shoes! When we visited the Nike campus, we avoided parking in Michael Jordan's parking spot. Apparently it's not really reserved for Michael Jordan, though, Winnie informed us. Um, we're gullible Iowa hicks. Haven't you heard?
On our first night in Portland, we went to dinner at a fantastic Thai restaurant and then to the Last Thursday festival on Alberta Street. It's basically like an art festival where all of Portland's most interesting characters come out to play -- unicycle riders, the performance artists at the "clown house," random ranters, ravers, painters, and musicians. Despite the perponderance of junk of everywhere, it's really cool, actually. We made our way to the lawn of an Alberta Street drinking establishment, where I snapped this incredibly flattering but oh-so-funny picture of Win drinking a can of PBR (which, apparently, is the official canned beverage of the Greater Portland Area):
Two significant things happened after I took this photo:
1) A woman squatted down and peed in the lawn in front of approximately 400 people, including my husband...who couldn't quite wash the perplexed look off his face for the rest of the night after witnessing this event and urging the rest of our group to steer clear of the puddle.
2) A riot, apparently, broke out on Alberta Street. At least according to this blog.
The next day was all about checking out the city. Winnie decided the best way to do this was to ride on the controversial sky tram up to the Oregon Health & Science University, which has a great view of the city and even, on a clear day, Mt. Hood. I say the tram was controversial because it takes you right over people's houses. The houses of people who protested its construction, lost the battle, and now keep their curtains permanently drawn. You really could see right into the houses were they not, so I can see why they were unhappy. We were easily the youngest people on the tram, and we did resist the temptation to visit the hospital gift shop at the top of the hill despite the urgings of the tram operator.
Later that day we went up in the west hills and visited the rose garden. We thought this was a good place to take a prom picture. So we did:
Instead of a wrist corsage, Kate is sporting a Nike handbag purchased at a rock-bottom warehouse price!
They also had some viewers that cost a quarter. Which we didn't have. So we used the opportunity to take another stupid picture.
Hey! It's another stupid picture! It must be Kate and Ben's vacation.
The next major highlight of the visit was our day trip to the coast. It is GORGEOUS. See photographic evidence of gorgeousness below:
Winnie knew of a semi-secluded beach we would enjoy that was only a short hike away, so we took the dog and headed down to the shore, where we were apparently so overcome with rapture over seeing the ocean that we decided to mess around like total dumbasses, which to me makes for a perfectly awesome time. Winnie and I tried to get out modeling careers off the ground by practicing some sexy butt poses on the beach, but really Maya the dog was better than we:
Sexy bitches. Literally.
I also have to admit I was a bit surprised how many sufers were hanging out...er, hanging ten...at this particular beach. It was really not warm. And the water was really, really not warm. And I really, really, really don't know my surfer lingo, as I believe my exact quote was "Let's hang some ten." I am not sure that "ten" is an adjustable quantity in that sense. I believe if you were hanging some ten, it would just mean you were hanging eight or six-and-a-half or Pi or something like that. Hey, I'm from Iowa.
But man, did we have fun at that beach. It's good for the soul to see the ocean for those of us who are locked between the Missouri and Mississippi. And they had saltwater taffy and fish n' chips and rock formations and look! They have waterfalls!
Speaking of waterfalls, the next day was cool because we spent it hiking near the Columbia River Gorge, which is phe-nom-e-nal.
I mean, look.
Multnomah Falls was really cool, but there were also lots of people there. So Winnie took us over to the Horsetail Falls Trail, which was a pretty easy hike with very few tourists and lots of great scenery. Like this:
As is true with anything related to me going on a vacation, we goofed around. Here's a botched attempt at a photo of Winne holding the waterfall in her hand while I look surprised in the background:
The hike was definitely worth it, as the top of the trail netted us a great view of the Columbia River.
This is all, f'real, like 20 minutes in a Subaru from Winnie's house. And when I say Subaru, I mean Subaru. There is an unofficial Portland city ordinance, apparently, which states that you must own a Subaru and a dog to live there. And when you're cruising around in your Subaru with your life partner wearing your Columbia or Nike or Adidas athletics gear, you must have the dog in the back of the car. And have your radio tuned to Q97.9 FM all the time, so you can hear Mims' highly musical song, "This is Why I'm Hot," every 10 minutes. Okay, don't do that last part. But you can!
This left one adventure before we could leave: driving up to Timberline Lodge on Mt. Hood.
Coming to your hood
And wow -- Timberline Lodge is the hotel they used for the exterior shots in the movie The Shining. A movie that scared the pee out of me. And it was a little creepy seeing it, even though there are no snow tunnels or psychotic killers or Here's Johnny but rather just a bunch of caffienated Oregonians with their snowboards.
And a ski lift. And a massive parking lot. With Subarus.
We had a hot alcoholic beverage inside and then tromped through the snow on the side of the mountain. And who can resist an April snowball fight in 60-degree weather? Certainly not me.
I'm a really bad over-actor.
So there you have it: Go to Portland. You will not regret it. There are so many things to do, including the ones mentioned here plus also locking your keys in your rental car, golfing, purchasing Columbia jackets sales-tax free, pointing out electrical wiring inadequacies in art galleries, eating candy, thrift store shopping, and going out for breakfast like every day. Oh, and Chai! Real Oregon Chai...take that, Starbucks evil-doers.
Raising a can of PBR in thanks to my Portland friends,
That Weird Girl from Iowa
Okay, so Oregon.
First let me say that if it weren't quite so many miles from the UMW I would move to Portland in a heartbeat. I have always had a fascination with the Pacific Northwest (stemming from my religious devotion to watching Twin Peaks as an adolescent, perhaps?), and this satiated my desire to spend a good bit of time there in a way that my New Year's 2003 trip to Boise did not.
My friend since junior high who was also my roommate during freshman year of college, Winnie, was kind enough to play host to us. She has a cute house, an even cuter puppy, and a cute ex-chef husband who vaguely resembles Justin Timberlake and currently makes a living harvesting barn owl pellets in scary ghost-town looking places down south. Seriously.
I'm a pretty big fan of athletic apparel, so it was a pretty cool thing that Winnie works for Nike. We got a tour of the campus and a pass to shop at the employee store, where we spent $750 on $1,500 worth of stuff in the course of an afternoon. But hooray! Sports bras for life! Also: Shoes! When we visited the Nike campus, we avoided parking in Michael Jordan's parking spot. Apparently it's not really reserved for Michael Jordan, though, Winnie informed us. Um, we're gullible Iowa hicks. Haven't you heard?
On our first night in Portland, we went to dinner at a fantastic Thai restaurant and then to the Last Thursday festival on Alberta Street. It's basically like an art festival where all of Portland's most interesting characters come out to play -- unicycle riders, the performance artists at the "clown house," random ranters, ravers, painters, and musicians. Despite the perponderance of junk of everywhere, it's really cool, actually. We made our way to the lawn of an Alberta Street drinking establishment, where I snapped this incredibly flattering but oh-so-funny picture of Win drinking a can of PBR (which, apparently, is the official canned beverage of the Greater Portland Area):
Two significant things happened after I took this photo:
1) A woman squatted down and peed in the lawn in front of approximately 400 people, including my husband...who couldn't quite wash the perplexed look off his face for the rest of the night after witnessing this event and urging the rest of our group to steer clear of the puddle.
2) A riot, apparently, broke out on Alberta Street. At least according to this blog.
The next day was all about checking out the city. Winnie decided the best way to do this was to ride on the controversial sky tram up to the Oregon Health & Science University, which has a great view of the city and even, on a clear day, Mt. Hood. I say the tram was controversial because it takes you right over people's houses. The houses of people who protested its construction, lost the battle, and now keep their curtains permanently drawn. You really could see right into the houses were they not, so I can see why they were unhappy. We were easily the youngest people on the tram, and we did resist the temptation to visit the hospital gift shop at the top of the hill despite the urgings of the tram operator.
Later that day we went up in the west hills and visited the rose garden. We thought this was a good place to take a prom picture. So we did:
Instead of a wrist corsage, Kate is sporting a Nike handbag purchased at a rock-bottom warehouse price!
They also had some viewers that cost a quarter. Which we didn't have. So we used the opportunity to take another stupid picture.
Hey! It's another stupid picture! It must be Kate and Ben's vacation.
The next major highlight of the visit was our day trip to the coast. It is GORGEOUS. See photographic evidence of gorgeousness below:
Winnie knew of a semi-secluded beach we would enjoy that was only a short hike away, so we took the dog and headed down to the shore, where we were apparently so overcome with rapture over seeing the ocean that we decided to mess around like total dumbasses, which to me makes for a perfectly awesome time. Winnie and I tried to get out modeling careers off the ground by practicing some sexy butt poses on the beach, but really Maya the dog was better than we:
Sexy bitches. Literally.
I also have to admit I was a bit surprised how many sufers were hanging out...er, hanging ten...at this particular beach. It was really not warm. And the water was really, really not warm. And I really, really, really don't know my surfer lingo, as I believe my exact quote was "Let's hang some ten." I am not sure that "ten" is an adjustable quantity in that sense. I believe if you were hanging some ten, it would just mean you were hanging eight or six-and-a-half or Pi or something like that. Hey, I'm from Iowa.
But man, did we have fun at that beach. It's good for the soul to see the ocean for those of us who are locked between the Missouri and Mississippi. And they had saltwater taffy and fish n' chips and rock formations and look! They have waterfalls!
Speaking of waterfalls, the next day was cool because we spent it hiking near the Columbia River Gorge, which is phe-nom-e-nal.
I mean, look.
Multnomah Falls was really cool, but there were also lots of people there. So Winnie took us over to the Horsetail Falls Trail, which was a pretty easy hike with very few tourists and lots of great scenery. Like this:
As is true with anything related to me going on a vacation, we goofed around. Here's a botched attempt at a photo of Winne holding the waterfall in her hand while I look surprised in the background:
The hike was definitely worth it, as the top of the trail netted us a great view of the Columbia River.
This is all, f'real, like 20 minutes in a Subaru from Winnie's house. And when I say Subaru, I mean Subaru. There is an unofficial Portland city ordinance, apparently, which states that you must own a Subaru and a dog to live there. And when you're cruising around in your Subaru with your life partner wearing your Columbia or Nike or Adidas athletics gear, you must have the dog in the back of the car. And have your radio tuned to Q97.9 FM all the time, so you can hear Mims' highly musical song, "This is Why I'm Hot," every 10 minutes. Okay, don't do that last part. But you can!
This left one adventure before we could leave: driving up to Timberline Lodge on Mt. Hood.
Coming to your hood
And wow -- Timberline Lodge is the hotel they used for the exterior shots in the movie The Shining. A movie that scared the pee out of me. And it was a little creepy seeing it, even though there are no snow tunnels or psychotic killers or Here's Johnny but rather just a bunch of caffienated Oregonians with their snowboards.
And a ski lift. And a massive parking lot. With Subarus.
We had a hot alcoholic beverage inside and then tromped through the snow on the side of the mountain. And who can resist an April snowball fight in 60-degree weather? Certainly not me.
I'm a really bad over-actor.
So there you have it: Go to Portland. You will not regret it. There are so many things to do, including the ones mentioned here plus also locking your keys in your rental car, golfing, purchasing Columbia jackets sales-tax free, pointing out electrical wiring inadequacies in art galleries, eating candy, thrift store shopping, and going out for breakfast like every day. Oh, and Chai! Real Oregon Chai...take that, Starbucks evil-doers.
Raising a can of PBR in thanks to my Portland friends,
That Weird Girl from Iowa
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
I peed my pants a little laughing at this.
If you're a Pearl Jam fan, this is must-see YouTube:
For what it's worth, these are the actual lyrics to Yellow Ledbetter:
Unsealed
On a porch a letter sat
Then you said I wanna leave it again
Once I saw her on a beach of weathered sand
And on the sand I wanna leave it again...yeah
On a weekend I wanna wish it all away yeah...
And they called and I said that I want what I said
And then I call out again
And the reason oughta leave her calm I know
I said I don't know whetherI'm the boxer or the bag
Ah yeah ehh....
Can you see themOut on the porch
But they don't wave
I see them round the front way yeah
And I know I don't want to stay...
Make me cry
Ooooh I see
I don't know there's something else
I wanna drum it all away
Oh I said I don't, I don't know whether I'm a boxer or the bag
Ah yeah ehh....
Can you see them
Out on the porch
But they don't wave
I see them round the front way yeah
And I know I don't want to stay
I don't wanna stay
I don't wanna stay
Don't Don't wanna
Oh... yeah... oooh...
Thursday, May 24, 2007
So I got mugged by some geese. What?
One of the things I like most about my job is that I never know what to expect. So this week, when I was asked to participate in the "we love Iowa State's campus swans, Lancelot and Elaine" video shoot for the university's sesquicentennial traditions video, I didn't know what to expect.
I will say my track record with this particular video is perhaps not the best. At the shoot for the first segment, in which I assisted but was mercifully not on camera, I fell down in the parking lot. So there's that.
But that was over a month ago, and I arrived at the set (Lake LaVerne) Tuesday ready to rock and roll with a fresh new confidence in my upright, sober walking abilities.
My co-worker/co-star and I were told that our first order of business was to round up the swans, who were hanging out in a corner of the lake (okay, it's a pond that is ridiculously named "Lake," but whatever) that didn't necessarily have the most aesthetically pleasing background, namely a construction site and a busy intersection. That's where I'd be if I were a swan, too. There are probably hunks of rotten gordita tossed out the car window by college students two months ago, or the remnants of Ring-Dings that were eaten on the construction site, worth munching (Elegantly munching, of course, because Hey! You're a swan. Everything you do is elegant! Even snarfing garbage off the curb!). But we had a whole bag of moldy wheat bread, so we knew we could entice them over by the tranquil and much-more-video-worthy park bench area.
And it worked. We congratulated ourselves on successfully positioning the swans for the video and were about to chill on the park bench when all hell broke loose. Two Canadian geese came seemingly out of nowhere and swooped down to scare the swans away and claim the bread. The geese are much more aggressive than the swans, by the way, and decidedly less elegant. The swans paddled their elegant butts out of there while the geese approached us on foot, rapidly and with a strong sense of purpose.
"Give me some of that moldy bread," one seemed to hiss at me. "Bitch."
"Okay, okay," I relented, frightenedly hurling crumbs in the opposite direction and speaking directly to the geese in English like a giant dork. The other goose in the pair lunged at me, and I threw a whole wad down the sidewalk. They were eating the bread faster than Sara and I could throw it. It really escalated quickly, though last time I checked I did not end up killing a man with a trident.
We were finally able to entice the geese to go another direction and were able to re-focus our attentions on luring Lancelot and Elaine (though both of the swans are male, one of them is forced to keep the name "Elaine..." sucks to be him) back toward the shore with the coveted moldly bread. Things were going quite swimmingly, and Sara even had one of the geese, let's just say for argument's sake it was Dude Elaine, eating out of her hand. That's when she turned around to get another piece of bread and about leaped out of her Cole Haans. Like some scene out of a really bad and not-at-all-scary horror movie, the geese were right. freaking. there, staring her in the face. That's right, the geese snuck up on us.
And that's the day we got mugged by geese.
I will say my track record with this particular video is perhaps not the best. At the shoot for the first segment, in which I assisted but was mercifully not on camera, I fell down in the parking lot. So there's that.
But that was over a month ago, and I arrived at the set (Lake LaVerne) Tuesday ready to rock and roll with a fresh new confidence in my upright, sober walking abilities.
My co-worker/co-star and I were told that our first order of business was to round up the swans, who were hanging out in a corner of the lake (okay, it's a pond that is ridiculously named "Lake," but whatever) that didn't necessarily have the most aesthetically pleasing background, namely a construction site and a busy intersection. That's where I'd be if I were a swan, too. There are probably hunks of rotten gordita tossed out the car window by college students two months ago, or the remnants of Ring-Dings that were eaten on the construction site, worth munching (Elegantly munching, of course, because Hey! You're a swan. Everything you do is elegant! Even snarfing garbage off the curb!). But we had a whole bag of moldy wheat bread, so we knew we could entice them over by the tranquil and much-more-video-worthy park bench area.
And it worked. We congratulated ourselves on successfully positioning the swans for the video and were about to chill on the park bench when all hell broke loose. Two Canadian geese came seemingly out of nowhere and swooped down to scare the swans away and claim the bread. The geese are much more aggressive than the swans, by the way, and decidedly less elegant. The swans paddled their elegant butts out of there while the geese approached us on foot, rapidly and with a strong sense of purpose.
"Give me some of that moldy bread," one seemed to hiss at me. "Bitch."
"Okay, okay," I relented, frightenedly hurling crumbs in the opposite direction and speaking directly to the geese in English like a giant dork. The other goose in the pair lunged at me, and I threw a whole wad down the sidewalk. They were eating the bread faster than Sara and I could throw it. It really escalated quickly, though last time I checked I did not end up killing a man with a trident.
We were finally able to entice the geese to go another direction and were able to re-focus our attentions on luring Lancelot and Elaine (though both of the swans are male, one of them is forced to keep the name "Elaine..." sucks to be him) back toward the shore with the coveted moldly bread. Things were going quite swimmingly, and Sara even had one of the geese, let's just say for argument's sake it was Dude Elaine, eating out of her hand. That's when she turned around to get another piece of bread and about leaped out of her Cole Haans. Like some scene out of a really bad and not-at-all-scary horror movie, the geese were right. freaking. there, staring her in the face. That's right, the geese snuck up on us.
And that's the day we got mugged by geese.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Merry Christmas. Yes, I am an idiot.
Today was just a typical day of sitting in lovely Ames noon hour traffic and checking off my list of holiday essentials:
My punishment for this act of sheer idiocy, of course, is twofold. One: I have to take my car to an auto body shop and pay for a bumper replacement -- and, I can only hope, drive another lovely loaner car for an unnecessary length of time. Two: Whilst driving around town in the Cherry-Red Hair Pick of Doom, I get to have people stare in disbelief at my car with expressions of sheer terror, gripping their steering wheels all the more tightly as they fear the death wagon that passes them.
But other than that, it's great.
Merry Christmas. Santa's putting a new bumper in my stocking this year. Oy.
- Gaudy yet Surprisingly Also Charming Christmas tree skirt -- CHECK!
- Packaging tape -- CHECK!
- Front bumper that could also be used to rake one's lawn -- CHECK-UGH
My punishment for this act of sheer idiocy, of course, is twofold. One: I have to take my car to an auto body shop and pay for a bumper replacement -- and, I can only hope, drive another lovely loaner car for an unnecessary length of time. Two: Whilst driving around town in the Cherry-Red Hair Pick of Doom, I get to have people stare in disbelief at my car with expressions of sheer terror, gripping their steering wheels all the more tightly as they fear the death wagon that passes them.
But other than that, it's great.
Merry Christmas. Santa's putting a new bumper in my stocking this year. Oy.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Mac's kids
Somewhere in the second or third row of that pack is #63 (actually, right in the middle behind #67's left shoulder, I think). He's 19 years old and doesn't know what the future holds for him. He's too young to be cynical. Too young to be concerned about the knee injuries he's about to sustain. Too young to realize that the man in the front of the pack -- the man who, I realize looking back at this photo now, was himself extremely young -- had the weight of the world on his shoulders but never once let it show.
Number 63 never second-guessed his decision to let this young coach lead him, and he never should have. In a world where wins and losses, dollars and cents try to define us, Dan McCarney always let passion and courage, friendship and loyalty define him.
If Dan McCarney lost his job, he lost it because he was loyal, had integrity, and played by the rules. While college athletes across the country are driving around in fancy cars, Dan McCarney's players are learning the value of hard work. While players in some programs run stairs to "make up" for breaking the law, Dan McCarney set rules and stuck by them...making tough but fair decisions even when it hurt him and his team's success. While other student-athletes were encouraged to run their programs like a business, Dan McCarney told his players to show their emotion...to embrace joy, fear, and even pain. For Dan McCarney, your heart was as important to wear on your sleeve as your team colors.
Make no mistake: Dan McCarney is a master salesman. He always has the right thing to say. He admits he's a somewhat boring interview. But don't confuse him with an insincere person. The Special Olympics, the children's home he built, and the families of every student-athlete who has ever played for him will tell you you're dead wrong. His schedule may be full, but there's always room in his heart for the people who touch his life in ways both big and small.
He's the man who will have flowers at your grandmother's hospital bed, before everyone in your family even knows she is sick.
He's the man who could make a fortune in motivational speaking. I have yet to hear him do a public speech to which at least one audience member doesn't respond, "I'm ready to strap on a helmet and take the field myself."
He's the man who, upon announcing his resignation, should have been bitter and weary but instead showed even more class and integrity than ever.
There's no need to worry about Dan McCarney. He can -- and will -- do anything. The great sadness I feel over his departure is purely selfish. I don't want to say goodbye. He's our coach.
During the week most people have described as feeling "like someone died," Dan McCarney's legacy lives. It lives in every young man who believed in Coach Mac's dream and came to Iowa State to help him make it a reality. They are loyal, motivated, honest, and passionate men. They are great leaders. They are good people.
They are Mac's kids.
And I'm so glad I married one. Thank you, Coach Mac.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Reader Interaction Alert! Choose the ugliest art in my lake cottage!
Let me first start out by saying that the resort I visit on vacation every year has never before and never will be known for its elegant cottage interiors. There was the brown couch that, upon closer examination, was found to contain a swastika pattern. There's my cousin's blinding blue and white striped wallpaper. Lovely wallpaper borders abound, including the fabulous forest green bow border in my mom's cottage. Everywhere you look there's fake nailhead trim peeling off cheap end tables and beds made Midwest-cozy with Miami-esque, retina-searing pink-and-teal comforters. Ahhh, the comforts of home. What can I say? It's all hideous. In a charming way, of course.
But it's the art of Cottage #1, my home sweet home for part of each August, that truly inspires deeper thought. Like when my mom and I are pounding back Cape Cods and Miller Brewing products and looking around the room, going: "Who the hell thought of that?" Which eventually leads to a new topic of discussion: "What is the ugliest thing in this cottage?" I've pondered, but I can't decide, so I'm asking for your help. Take a look at these doozies of candidates and cast your vote:
Candidate #1: The Glued Macaroni and Found Objects Octagon
This piece is hung above the sink in my kitchen, so that while I'm washing dishes I can stare and it and wonder things like "What the hell is that?" and "Is that a hair that accidentally got cememted in there with the garbanzo beans?" Also: "I wonder what the artist was thinking when he added the elbow macaroni. Is that an existential statement?"
Candidate #2: Someone Making a Perfectly Good Mirror Non-Functional by Painting Butterflies and Flowers and Girly Crap On It
This lovely piece is in my bedroom. The mirror in my bedroom is actually warped, so when I try to look at myself in it to see if the hairs on my head are straight and growing out of my scalp instead of my chin I sort of resemble the illegitimate test tube child of Michael Jackson and Sloth from the movie Goonies. It sure would be nice to have a mirror that works. Just to the right of it is one that appears to work (see photo above!). But there's a problem: Some jackass painted some ugly design on it and all I can see is maybe one eyeball at a time. So I guess I can't actually prove that I don't look like Michael Jackson and Sloth's test tube baby with a full Abraham Lincolnish beard. Yikes for me.
Candidate #3: Slice-o-Tree-Trunk With Ten Layers of Varnish
This piece hangs in the living room. It actually makes a better mirror than Candidate #2 in that this poor, defenseless slice of tree (or, acutally more likely, plastic reproduction of a slice of a tree trunk) has been coated in so much clear gunk that you can see your reflection in it during the daytime. It also has a scary river scene painted on it that looks nothing like anything in the vicinity of Rock Lake. Cute!
Candidate #4: Wood Ducks in a Multi-Colored Sky
Okay, at least I actually saw some wood ducks in the millpond while visiting Rock Lake, so this piece probably makes as much sense as any of the art in my cottage. This painting, which hangs above the really ugly and smelly couch in my living room is definitely ugly, but it probably doesn't deserve to be voted the worst piece of art in Cottage 1. Just saying is all.
Candidate #5: Home Sweet Home: Where Do I Even Begin?
When my mom was serving as room mother at Kingsley Elementary School lo those many years ago, she decided it might be fun to have the class play some "Victorian parlor games." So she checked out a book on the subject from our local public library. That's when we found the Flaming Raisin Grab for Kids. In short, the game involved: 1) filling a bucket with brandy; 2) putting raisins in it; and 3) setting it on fire. The excited young participants would all gather around to see who could grab the most flaming raisins from the bucket. Despite my wishes, we did not play this game at the 1986 Halloween party in Mrs. Sergeant's third grade class. But to this day I remember the rules and am waiting for my golden opportunity to play it so that I can fry off all my arm hair. Okay, so why am I telling you all this? Back to the art! Even though it doesn't really make sense, every time I look at this piece of artwork I wonder to myself if later maybe someone will wheel in a flaming bucket of brandy-soaked raisins so this family can play Flaming Raisin Grab. They just seem like they might play it. Probably whoever painted this cozy Family Scene on Planks of Fake Wood would, too. Because he or she is on crack.
Candidate #6: Okay, so it's Not Art, But it's a Really Fugly Valance
Wow, this is lovely. It really completes the look of the bathroom. I get to look at it while I sit on the toilet. Coincidence? I think not.
Well, there you have it. The nominees for Ugliest Thing in My Cottage 2006. Let's open the polls. If you live in Florida and vote for the crappy butterfly mirror, I'll know you really meant the slice of fake tree with river scene. Or Katherine Harris' eye makeup. Ya know.
But it's the art of Cottage #1, my home sweet home for part of each August, that truly inspires deeper thought. Like when my mom and I are pounding back Cape Cods and Miller Brewing products and looking around the room, going: "Who the hell thought of that?" Which eventually leads to a new topic of discussion: "What is the ugliest thing in this cottage?" I've pondered, but I can't decide, so I'm asking for your help. Take a look at these doozies of candidates and cast your vote:
Candidate #1: The Glued Macaroni and Found Objects Octagon
This piece is hung above the sink in my kitchen, so that while I'm washing dishes I can stare and it and wonder things like "What the hell is that?" and "Is that a hair that accidentally got cememted in there with the garbanzo beans?" Also: "I wonder what the artist was thinking when he added the elbow macaroni. Is that an existential statement?"
Candidate #2: Someone Making a Perfectly Good Mirror Non-Functional by Painting Butterflies and Flowers and Girly Crap On It
This lovely piece is in my bedroom. The mirror in my bedroom is actually warped, so when I try to look at myself in it to see if the hairs on my head are straight and growing out of my scalp instead of my chin I sort of resemble the illegitimate test tube child of Michael Jackson and Sloth from the movie Goonies. It sure would be nice to have a mirror that works. Just to the right of it is one that appears to work (see photo above!). But there's a problem: Some jackass painted some ugly design on it and all I can see is maybe one eyeball at a time. So I guess I can't actually prove that I don't look like Michael Jackson and Sloth's test tube baby with a full Abraham Lincolnish beard. Yikes for me.
Candidate #3: Slice-o-Tree-Trunk With Ten Layers of Varnish
This piece hangs in the living room. It actually makes a better mirror than Candidate #2 in that this poor, defenseless slice of tree (or, acutally more likely, plastic reproduction of a slice of a tree trunk) has been coated in so much clear gunk that you can see your reflection in it during the daytime. It also has a scary river scene painted on it that looks nothing like anything in the vicinity of Rock Lake. Cute!
Candidate #4: Wood Ducks in a Multi-Colored Sky
Okay, at least I actually saw some wood ducks in the millpond while visiting Rock Lake, so this piece probably makes as much sense as any of the art in my cottage. This painting, which hangs above the really ugly and smelly couch in my living room is definitely ugly, but it probably doesn't deserve to be voted the worst piece of art in Cottage 1. Just saying is all.
Candidate #5: Home Sweet Home: Where Do I Even Begin?
When my mom was serving as room mother at Kingsley Elementary School lo those many years ago, she decided it might be fun to have the class play some "Victorian parlor games." So she checked out a book on the subject from our local public library. That's when we found the Flaming Raisin Grab for Kids. In short, the game involved: 1) filling a bucket with brandy; 2) putting raisins in it; and 3) setting it on fire. The excited young participants would all gather around to see who could grab the most flaming raisins from the bucket. Despite my wishes, we did not play this game at the 1986 Halloween party in Mrs. Sergeant's third grade class. But to this day I remember the rules and am waiting for my golden opportunity to play it so that I can fry off all my arm hair. Okay, so why am I telling you all this? Back to the art! Even though it doesn't really make sense, every time I look at this piece of artwork I wonder to myself if later maybe someone will wheel in a flaming bucket of brandy-soaked raisins so this family can play Flaming Raisin Grab. They just seem like they might play it. Probably whoever painted this cozy Family Scene on Planks of Fake Wood would, too. Because he or she is on crack.
Candidate #6: Okay, so it's Not Art, But it's a Really Fugly Valance
Wow, this is lovely. It really completes the look of the bathroom. I get to look at it while I sit on the toilet. Coincidence? I think not.
Well, there you have it. The nominees for Ugliest Thing in My Cottage 2006. Let's open the polls. If you live in Florida and vote for the crappy butterfly mirror, I'll know you really meant the slice of fake tree with river scene. Or Katherine Harris' eye makeup. Ya know.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Go see Wordplay now.
I love geeks. Sometimes I actually wish I were a BIGGER geek. And while I certainly don't mean to imply that most of the people featured in the movie Wordplay are geeks (Okay, Ellen the baton-twirler strolling through Manhattan with the broke ass golf umbrella is an awesome geek, but she's an exception), it definitely celebrates the geek qualities I love and to which I can on some levels relate. Like recognizing that the word "admired" is an anagram for "married." And thinking it's fun to stay inside and play word games while other people are out drinking Bacardi with their underwear on their head. Or whatever.
So first, a confession: I cried during the movie. Not surprising, I suppose, since I bawl like a baby during things like the Scripps spelling bee and minor athletic competitions in which I have no investment. It's a quirk, okay? And quirks are supposed to be endearing, I think. Either that, or I'm just a total weirdo.
Either way, Wordplay is a tear-jerker of a gem. It's very well-edited; it had just enough human interest to make it great for non-puzzle lovers and just enough puzzle to stimulate the brain. And I loved all the contestants, and not just because Tyler was wearing a really pants-kicking Trogdor T-shirt (See! A Homestar Runner reference! I'm a geek!) You could really relate to them, even though they are all so much smarter than I am that playing Scrabble with them would sort of be like golfing with Annika Sorenstam. (Okay, make that maybe Michelle Wie. I'm far worse at golf than I am at word games.)
And for those of you who have love/hate relationships with William Jefferson Clinton (one of the celebrities featured in the film) like I do, this movie is just another thing that will make you long for the days when we had a smart president -- but also, of course, make you remember how he was too smart to be so stupid and subsequently want to pinch his head off and kick it down the street. But he looks very nice in the movie wearing his aqua tie and doing his little crossword puzzles with his blue felt-tip pen. Damn him!
But go see Wordplay. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and all that crap. This is why I don't review movies for a living. Just see it.
So first, a confession: I cried during the movie. Not surprising, I suppose, since I bawl like a baby during things like the Scripps spelling bee and minor athletic competitions in which I have no investment. It's a quirk, okay? And quirks are supposed to be endearing, I think. Either that, or I'm just a total weirdo.
Either way, Wordplay is a tear-jerker of a gem. It's very well-edited; it had just enough human interest to make it great for non-puzzle lovers and just enough puzzle to stimulate the brain. And I loved all the contestants, and not just because Tyler was wearing a really pants-kicking Trogdor T-shirt (See! A Homestar Runner reference! I'm a geek!) You could really relate to them, even though they are all so much smarter than I am that playing Scrabble with them would sort of be like golfing with Annika Sorenstam. (Okay, make that maybe Michelle Wie. I'm far worse at golf than I am at word games.)
And for those of you who have love/hate relationships with William Jefferson Clinton (one of the celebrities featured in the film) like I do, this movie is just another thing that will make you long for the days when we had a smart president -- but also, of course, make you remember how he was too smart to be so stupid and subsequently want to pinch his head off and kick it down the street. But he looks very nice in the movie wearing his aqua tie and doing his little crossword puzzles with his blue felt-tip pen. Damn him!
But go see Wordplay. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and all that crap. This is why I don't review movies for a living. Just see it.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
The only thing that would make this cooler is if it had happened on a plane
So you probably already heard the news. I mean, Israel and Lebanon are out of control and the Voting Rights Act passed and the weather is wreaking all sorts of havoc. But the news story of the week just had to be the Burmese python that ate an entire queen-sized electric blanket -- cord, control box, and all.
According to CNN, Houdini the snake (who, for what it's worth, does not do much air travel even though he often visits schools for educational demonstrations) had the blanket in his living quarters after his owner placed it there to keep him warm. While left unsupervised, the snake managed to unplug, and then eat the. entire. thing. "X-rays showed the tangle of the blanket's wiring extending through about 8 feet of the python's digestive tract," the article states. "The surgery to remove it took an 18-inch incision."
Experts on Reptile Blanket-Eating estimate it took Houdini six hours to devour the item, which could have killed him had surgeons not been able to operate.
But doctors say the snake, which mostly travels via SUV, is alive and well with a good prognosis. I think we all feel better knowing that if one of us, or the snake we love, eats an entire electric blanket, modern medicine can indeed save us. I can sleep tonight now. Just not with an electric blanket.
According to CNN, Houdini the snake (who, for what it's worth, does not do much air travel even though he often visits schools for educational demonstrations) had the blanket in his living quarters after his owner placed it there to keep him warm. While left unsupervised, the snake managed to unplug, and then eat the. entire. thing. "X-rays showed the tangle of the blanket's wiring extending through about 8 feet of the python's digestive tract," the article states. "The surgery to remove it took an 18-inch incision."
Experts on Reptile Blanket-Eating estimate it took Houdini six hours to devour the item, which could have killed him had surgeons not been able to operate.
But doctors say the snake, which mostly travels via SUV, is alive and well with a good prognosis. I think we all feel better knowing that if one of us, or the snake we love, eats an entire electric blanket, modern medicine can indeed save us. I can sleep tonight now. Just not with an electric blanket.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Gimme the works
Among my favorite childhood memories are our annual trips to watch the 4th of July fireworks over the golf course at Sunnyside Country Club in Waterloo (No, we were not members of the country club, but they let the "riff-raff" in for fireworks every year.) The grass upon which we spread our blankets was green and lush, and Mom and Dad would always give my little brother and me a few packages of sparklers to burn through in the dusk as we waited for the show to begin. We got to stay up late. We usually stopped for ice cream afterward. When you're a kid, it doesn't get much better.
There were people all around us on blankets and in lawn chairs, but as a child I never even noticed them. Our family was in its own little world as the colored streaks slashed across the black sky and the Off! repellent kept our bony little ankles reasonably free of mosquito bites. Some years I, rife with sanguine patriotism, would just lie flat on my back on the plaid blanket and focus only on the bursts of pink, blue, and gold above me.
This year's trip to 4th of July fireworks reminded me very little of those placid nights at Sunnyside. This year, Ben and I camped out on an easement at 70th Street and Aurora Avenue in Des Moines. I felt decidedly not alone with the experience, as cars sputtered past us on the street to our right and gangs of teenagers stolled down the sidewalk to our the left, talking on cell phones and smoking Marlboros and yelling and definitely not paying any attention to or feeling any inspired patriotism from the fireworks above them. The dog on the blanket next to us either loved or wished to eat children, as every tot that passed was greeted with an ear-piercing bellow and hyperactive doggy dance. Ben commented on how the fireworks we were watching were probably made by children in Chinese sweatshops. Thanks for that, honey. He is the king of levity. Then a car squealed its tires and burst up to 65 miles per hour in the intersection behind us. Then another car drove by, with a teenaged girl hanging out the window, yelling: "Happy 4th of July, motherf$#@ers." And, to truly cap off the ambiance, each and every firework that burst into the sky above us was punctuated by some rednecks yelling "Woo-woo" at a nearby house party.
Ahhh, reality. Sometimes it's a real pain in the booty. So is sitting on uneven grass along a major Des Moines thoroughfare. Just saying is all.
There were people all around us on blankets and in lawn chairs, but as a child I never even noticed them. Our family was in its own little world as the colored streaks slashed across the black sky and the Off! repellent kept our bony little ankles reasonably free of mosquito bites. Some years I, rife with sanguine patriotism, would just lie flat on my back on the plaid blanket and focus only on the bursts of pink, blue, and gold above me.
This year's trip to 4th of July fireworks reminded me very little of those placid nights at Sunnyside. This year, Ben and I camped out on an easement at 70th Street and Aurora Avenue in Des Moines. I felt decidedly not alone with the experience, as cars sputtered past us on the street to our right and gangs of teenagers stolled down the sidewalk to our the left, talking on cell phones and smoking Marlboros and yelling and definitely not paying any attention to or feeling any inspired patriotism from the fireworks above them. The dog on the blanket next to us either loved or wished to eat children, as every tot that passed was greeted with an ear-piercing bellow and hyperactive doggy dance. Ben commented on how the fireworks we were watching were probably made by children in Chinese sweatshops. Thanks for that, honey. He is the king of levity. Then a car squealed its tires and burst up to 65 miles per hour in the intersection behind us. Then another car drove by, with a teenaged girl hanging out the window, yelling: "Happy 4th of July, motherf$#@ers." And, to truly cap off the ambiance, each and every firework that burst into the sky above us was punctuated by some rednecks yelling "Woo-woo" at a nearby house party.
Ahhh, reality. Sometimes it's a real pain in the booty. So is sitting on uneven grass along a major Des Moines thoroughfare. Just saying is all.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Ice, Ice Baby
I've never been much of a figure skating fan. But when the opportunity came up to purchase box seats for "Champions on Ice" at Wells Fargo Arena last night, I couldn't resist. I went to the show sixteen, I think(?) years ago when it was at Hilton Coliseum and absolutely fell in love with French skater and Olympic silver medalist Surya Bonali, who did backflips through the air in her routine.
I am happy to report that Surya Bonali is STILL doing "Champions on Ice." She is a little older, but she's still doing the blackflips (just not as many as she used to, I suppose). I am glad my memory hadn't deceived me when I lobbied to my husband that we HAD to go to this "Champions on Ice" thing because it was WICKED COOL. I was right.
Pretty much every skater who won a medal at the 2006 Olympics was on hand, including American Sasha Cohen, gold-medalist Shizuka Arakawa of Japan, pairs champs Tatiana Totmianina & Maxim Marinin, and Russia's men's singles gold medalist Evgeni Plushenko (who, along with Ukranian Victor Petrenko, was my most favorite-ist).
The most exciting part of the evening, I have to admit, was the "World's Fastest Acrobats," Vladimir and Oleksiy. The Ukranian duo was funny and amazing: Vladimir, 6-2 and 210 pounds, repeatedly balanced Oleksiy, 5-7 and 150 pounds, on one hand above his head, standing on the ice with Oleksiy balancing himself on one hand in an inverted position ON VLADIMIR'S HEAD, etc. You pretty much had to see it to belive it. At one point, Vladimir was lying on his back on the ice, ONE skate-clad leg in the air, balancing a stack of six crates on the blade of the skate. Then, in what my mind could only come up with as the absolute limit of what could be done with this scenario, Oleksiy climbed up the side of the stack of crates and balanced himself on top. I swear I am not making this up. I haven't been this perplexed by a stunt since I saw the Red Panda flip bowls on her head whilst riding a unicycle at halftime of a Cyclone men's basketball game last season. And because it was 2005-2006 Cyclone men's basketball, this also was the most exciting part of the evening.
And even though it ever-so-slightly freaked out my husband (most of the women we talked to at the event had husbands who refused to come; such a shame) when Rudy Galindo was shaking his sequined ass at men in the crowd, we both had a fantastic time watching the champions on ice. How often do that many world-class athletes come to little ole Des Moines? It's a must-see. But then, I'm a sucker for world-class athletes.
I am happy to report that Surya Bonali is STILL doing "Champions on Ice." She is a little older, but she's still doing the blackflips (just not as many as she used to, I suppose). I am glad my memory hadn't deceived me when I lobbied to my husband that we HAD to go to this "Champions on Ice" thing because it was WICKED COOL. I was right.
Pretty much every skater who won a medal at the 2006 Olympics was on hand, including American Sasha Cohen, gold-medalist Shizuka Arakawa of Japan, pairs champs Tatiana Totmianina & Maxim Marinin, and Russia's men's singles gold medalist Evgeni Plushenko (who, along with Ukranian Victor Petrenko, was my most favorite-ist).
The most exciting part of the evening, I have to admit, was the "World's Fastest Acrobats," Vladimir and Oleksiy. The Ukranian duo was funny and amazing: Vladimir, 6-2 and 210 pounds, repeatedly balanced Oleksiy, 5-7 and 150 pounds, on one hand above his head, standing on the ice with Oleksiy balancing himself on one hand in an inverted position ON VLADIMIR'S HEAD, etc. You pretty much had to see it to belive it. At one point, Vladimir was lying on his back on the ice, ONE skate-clad leg in the air, balancing a stack of six crates on the blade of the skate. Then, in what my mind could only come up with as the absolute limit of what could be done with this scenario, Oleksiy climbed up the side of the stack of crates and balanced himself on top. I swear I am not making this up. I haven't been this perplexed by a stunt since I saw the Red Panda flip bowls on her head whilst riding a unicycle at halftime of a Cyclone men's basketball game last season. And because it was 2005-2006 Cyclone men's basketball, this also was the most exciting part of the evening.
And even though it ever-so-slightly freaked out my husband (most of the women we talked to at the event had husbands who refused to come; such a shame) when Rudy Galindo was shaking his sequined ass at men in the crowd, we both had a fantastic time watching the champions on ice. How often do that many world-class athletes come to little ole Des Moines? It's a must-see. But then, I'm a sucker for world-class athletes.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Pass the popcorn
With Ben being stuck on the sofa for the last four days, we have watched a lot of movies. A LOT of movies. Mostly they've been movies Ben wants to watch, so I found myself checking out "Dodge Ball," "Harry Potter," and some other stuff I wouldn't (and didn't) watch. But I also tried to find some that both of us could enjoy so that he wasn't just lying there watching movies by himself all this time: "Prime" and "Murderball" fit into this category. Then there was the issue of the new Keira Knightley "Pride and Prejudice." We both were sort of interested, but also cautiously optimistic as we own the BBC miniseries on DVD at our house. And we worship it. Okay, I worship it. Ben merely likes it.
"You need to watch [the new one]," my Mom -- also a huge P&P book and miniseries fan -- told me a few months ago. "It's okay, except the acting is only okay, the dialog has been changed (for what possible reason would this need to happen?), the hairdos are all wrong, and the ending is like waaaay cheesy."
Sounded like a heartfelt endorsement to me.
"Pride and Prejudice" is a great story, which would explain why the new movie isn't thaaat bad. It wasn't edited too horribly, seeing whereas the book is very difficult to cram into a two-hour Hollywood romance. But I guess I just think the miniseries length makes for a much better screenplay.
Basically, the problem with the new movie is that the old miniseries is just perfect. The actors in the new movie weren't that bad, but no individual character that I can think of was portrayed better than he or she was in the miniseries, leading me of course to wonder what the point even was.
And OH MY GOD was my mother right about the ending. Did everyone in production one day smoke a bunch of crack and decide: "I know! We should end the movie by having Mr. and Mrs. Darcy sitting on some sort of platform and have Mr. Darcy repeatedly kiss Elizabeth all over the face like a deranged woodpecker saying, "Mrs. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy" over and over again like an equally deranged parrot?
So I've watched it. Now I never have to watch it again, right? I have to say, if I want to watch the story in a two-hour Hollywood format again, I'll bust out "Bridget Jones' Diary," for many reasons -- not the least of which is that they didn't mess up Darcy. If you know what I mean. And I think you do.
"You need to watch [the new one]," my Mom -- also a huge P&P book and miniseries fan -- told me a few months ago. "It's okay, except the acting is only okay, the dialog has been changed (for what possible reason would this need to happen?), the hairdos are all wrong, and the ending is like waaaay cheesy."
Sounded like a heartfelt endorsement to me.
"Pride and Prejudice" is a great story, which would explain why the new movie isn't thaaat bad. It wasn't edited too horribly, seeing whereas the book is very difficult to cram into a two-hour Hollywood romance. But I guess I just think the miniseries length makes for a much better screenplay.
Basically, the problem with the new movie is that the old miniseries is just perfect. The actors in the new movie weren't that bad, but no individual character that I can think of was portrayed better than he or she was in the miniseries, leading me of course to wonder what the point even was.
And OH MY GOD was my mother right about the ending. Did everyone in production one day smoke a bunch of crack and decide: "I know! We should end the movie by having Mr. and Mrs. Darcy sitting on some sort of platform and have Mr. Darcy repeatedly kiss Elizabeth all over the face like a deranged woodpecker saying, "Mrs. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy" over and over again like an equally deranged parrot?
So I've watched it. Now I never have to watch it again, right? I have to say, if I want to watch the story in a two-hour Hollywood format again, I'll bust out "Bridget Jones' Diary," for many reasons -- not the least of which is that they didn't mess up Darcy. If you know what I mean. And I think you do.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
Shall I fetch you another mini Snickers from the freezer?
Me to my husband, while driving him home from the hospital Thursday afternoon: Wow, our relationship would be perfect if you were always on these drugs that make you so giddy.
Husband: Our relationship would be perfect if you were always this nice to me.
Good point.
Husband: Our relationship would be perfect if you were always this nice to me.
Good point.
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