I think I am going to play an endless loop of "The Story of O" on streaming Netflix, volume really loud, through my open windows for my neighbors' enjoyment.

I really need to move.

Really.

Also, kudos to Netflix for offering only the dubbed English version of this film.

Here's how it's done

The New York Times has been irritating me since the early 1980's.   It's pandering to "Life Style content - first, with the establishment of a separate stand-alone section, replete with Sally Quinn-type reporting, and then with the osmotic seep of lifestyle coverage throughout most of its sections.  I don't read the Sports section, so I cannot attest to what's happening in Sports, though I do know that the Celtics lost to the Lakers last night; but I can easily imagine something in today's NYT on the house furnishings and lavish existence of Kobe Bryant.

This is not an accident, this osmotic glomming on to all things of the lifestyle angle.  It is purposeful and driven by advertising and desired reader demographics.  But it is not news.  I mean "news" as edifying, substantive, and worthy of conveying.

For instance, here, in yesterday's NYT, is a front page article, which to me is archetypal of its "life style" content: Trophy Hunters: With Their Eye on Interiors.

And this is what is really "news" on the art, skill, and substance of interior furnishing: My friend Lori's blog on decorating on a vapor budget and limitless drive and creativity.

Lesson?  Like my fellow blogger Lori, source it yourself when it comes to life style. Follow not the tastemaker.  Be your own, make your own choices.  Do not be fed fodder of pre-selected items chosen by others.  What is your taste?  That is the fun!

(Can you tell slightly that I am chafing to write about my neighbors some more but am channeling this to another topic of individualism vs. the masses of a@#es?  Then you know me well.  I chafe and yet I refuse to throw the proverbial or literal finger at my neighbors.  No, I disparage them from the safety of the internet shield.  It is my choice. And it is fun.)

Vengeance is mine

8 a.m. walking my 6/7 pound dog on leash.  Round the corner comes a woman with an all-terrain baby stroller, followed by a large un-leashed dog, who sees my dog and comes bounding toward me and my dog.  I pick my dog up in my hands, and say:

ME: Your dog should be on a leash.

HER: (nothing)

ME: It's posted right there (pointing to sign that is eye level, permanent and iterated at both end of the park, which is approximately 18 feet away from her.)  It's the first thing on the sign.

HER: I'm not from around here.  I don't know how to read.

ME:   Don't be facetious.

HER:  I know the law and I'll follow it if I want to.

ME:   Why don't you follow a diet.

HER:  I just had a baby two months ago!

ME:   I hope you had triplets.

(and away she went, traveling West at a somewhat rapid pace.)

(it was a good thing I was wearing slimming navy blue that morning)

(to my amour in Chicago, who has recommended this article this very morning, before I went on my dog's constitutional - and my institutional - and which article I have read perhaps three sentences and seen the accompanying illustration, I thank and now post: http://www.chicagonow.com/blogs/redeye/2010/06/by-leonor-vivanco-redeye-temper.html)

Sampleton

No longer Stapleton.  Now it is Sampleton.

I need say no more than direct you to this wonderful blog by my wonderful friend:
confessionsofastayathomelawyer.

And add that when I hear "Ice Storm", I think this

and not this

Me sitting in Staplegun, with neighbors attending

Yup, if I were to sit on my porch, this would likely happen.  However, my twist on this scenarios is that I am usually standing, having just innocently answered my doorbell.

Remind me to post about the three people who confronted me, all at once, one night, on my porch after I answered the door.  I was physically menaced (I prefer to do the menacing, thank you very much.  I am very good at emotional menacing.  I am going to darken my eyebrows and put in fangs the next time I answer the doorbell.  I wear black pretty often.)  Here is a teaser of that soon-to-be-posted post: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JdYas_8EDZM.  Wes Craven stole from me.

In the meanwhile, sit back and feel my pain.

Staplegun.  Bringing me one step closer to hermit-hood.

My next house:

Notice no eyes.

On being a snob

The New York Times posted an article today that is about as snooty as it gets.  The article details an auction of household contents of one Patricia Kluge, a woman who - per the Times - married a very wealthy man, spent his money building homes, collected things to put in those homes, climbed up a social ladder, divorced her husband, and then collected a lot of divorce settlement money.  While this sequence is not uncommon and could be considered laudable for the materially acquisitive set, the ex Mrs. Kluge is denigrated in the paper of record for having done all of the building, collecting and climbing in de trop common a fashion.  She is not even given a break for having chosen a wealthy spouse and securing a considerable divorce settlement.  No, she was just too assiduous in her efforts to ascend and, at root, just too common.

Herewith, is a quote from the article, regarding the attendees who have come to preview Mrs. Kluge's household contents to be put up at auction:

Certain of them, like Virginia Donelson, a Charlottesville native and playwright who lives with her husband, the novelist James Collins, on a farm in adjacent Orange County, came to view Mrs. Kluge’s 18th-century drawings and to see whether it was true, as some suggested, that “even if you didn’t know a vulgar person lived in the house, you’d know a vulgar person lived in the house,” once you had visited it.

Is that  not the rudest thing you have ever heard; the anonymous "some" who have "suggested" that you'd know a vulgar person lived in the house?  Excuse me, pardon me, forgive me, if I may: who is vulgar here?

And this leads me to my Etiquette Rule Number One: If you are going to be a snob, do it silently.  Second Rule: Don't be quoted or cited, even anonymously.  Exception to Rule Number One: It's fine to blog about your neighbors.  Exception to Rule Number Two:  blog anonymously about your neighbors.

Here is the entire New York Times article.

I find it ironic that (a) I don't know for sure the meaning of "irony"; and (b) I am a perennial end user of electronics and Mr. Coffee has been around for like 24 years

I bought a Wii last Tuesday and today it stopped working.  I re-plugged in everything.  Note terms of art.  I used lots of swear words, which are not terms of art but are terms of fucking great art, and to no avail.  I berated my children for not presenting me with solutions and merely - and I am speaking of one particular child under the height of 5 feet - helicoptering around a non-Wii containing room with a down turned set of lips and a doleful look of eyeballs and a repeated utterance [sic] ("utterances"?) that "it doesn't work".
And I didn't have the receipt. But I had the credit card (score!) and I knew which day I bought it on [sic] (thank heavens that federal holidays are a point of reference for the memory-challenged but I still have to remember which holiday and whether my home state has receded from the Union.  See immigrants, gay marriage, abortion, states rights, Texas' take on textbooks.)
So I piled both kids, guilty and non-guilty but I am the judge, jury, executioner and chauffeur, into the car [sic] (true) and we went to Costco, which as far as I am concerned is apparently the cradle to grave of bulk purchases and outdoor furniture suites that require a big ass back yard, and I was able to return the Wii, get credit on my card, and purchase another Wii. Took the new Wii back home, put it together and it did not work.
It turns out that the extension cord had blown.  And the irony is that I thought all along that it was the electronics that were faulty.  And I am not sure if the word "irony" is correctly used.  And it's ironic - or is it, cause I don't know - that I don't know if it's ironic that I don't know if "ironic" is correctly applied.
I am a liberal arts major (references to the esteemed Lex Loci Lori) and incapable of remembering the correct usage of words in the English Language when I am, more precisely, an English Literature major, and I am completely reliant upon being reliant upon the infallibility of the electronic world.  It is binary, yes?  Or have we moved on from punch cards and that really really big computer at Penn?  It is intuitive, yes?  It has anticipated our human liabilities and is designed to circumvent our ineptitude and slow learning curves, yes?

And it was always the extension cord.

I think I will exchange "stupid" for "ironic".

on seeing old boyfriends

Best to have a really thick skin when you contemplate "what if" because it's really about "what can I handle and why the hell didn't I assess this earlier."

Other applicable thoughts:
1. it pays to stay in shape and barring that (which is easily barred as it is far far far easier to simply 'stay' vis. 'stay in shape', three quarter length sleeves and bermuda short are a very good and readily accessible (vis. physique from early twenties) proposition.
2. meeting your former boyfriend's child, somewhat north of six feet and yet to graduate from grade school can make you feel (a) matronly; (b) detritus on the roadway of life: (c) both a and b above; and (d) neither if you've taken away all your mirrors and self-reflection.
                                                           3.  A sense of accomplishment, whether passively attained or not.  Cause you can (read: I can) make the right decision for the wrong reason and that ends me up in the same place as if I were seasoned, wise and capable.  And I will take this alternative path if it ends me up in the good result.
4.  A good haircut (his) and an abandonment of Nike short sleeved shirts best to be worn on the mannequins at Sports Authority goes a long way when seeing someone after a long period of time.
5.  Also very strategic to bring your daughter, her boyfriend, your boyfriend and your youngest offspring (read: responsibility) when seeing your old beau again.  Real turn on.
6.  And be happy resolved where you (read: I) are (read: am).

possibly temporary posting and candidate to be removed when I get sufficiently embarassed: Guys like dogs because they don't say anything but they convey their emotions without any bullshit.

Inoffensive positioning of "I am tired, please leave me alone and I will not bite or snap at you should you wake me, but do remember I am a dog."

Old School Parenting

My friend and I were driving home from a PTO meeting (my first, her bazillionth) and we decided to go through the alphabet, listing our preferred approach to parenting.  I don't remember them all and I've added some new ones, even more extreme.  Please feel free to fill in words for letters that stump me.

Assault
Battery
Corporal
Draconian
E
Flogging
Garbage Duty
H
Incarceration
Jail
K
Manacles
No after dinner snacks
Only opinion that matters is mine
Punitive
Questions?  Didn't think so.
Restitution
Slavery
Tether
Unless you'd like  to find out
Veneration [of parent]
Whine free zone
Y
Zen-free zone


And now, excuse me, while I return to my parenting primer authored by one Charles Dickens.

I am so zen I had forgotten about this

until I hooked up my Iphone to my MacBook and my photos populated my screen.  This is the magic carpet ride that happened sometime between Angry Guy At My Door and the next morning at 7:30 a.m.

This is a shot of the house immediately West of mine, taken from my front stoop.  It's to give you an idea of the geographical (I have earlier opined of the psychological differences between me and my Staplegun neighbors, present blogger Lo excluded) distance between my house and, say, the 18 or 20 feet West of my house.

Here is a shot of my Oriental rug lain flat between the two trees on the right of way 18 to 20 feet West of my house.  Until sometime in the magic bewitching hours between what I assume to have been a solicitous call from a man hopped up on the right to bear basketball hoops and the time at which I walk my dog hopped up on the right to take his morning constitutional, I found my rug so lain.  And so soaked.  For the sprinkler systems be aqueous in Denver once Mother's Day passes.  And the date this morn was May 21.

My rug is a mysterious thing; 4 feet by 5 1/2 feet, hand knotted (and, yes, airing on my porch side railing since sometime in the late fall of 2009 and thus sufficiently aired out and, well, admittedly abused by its own owner.  Namely me.) of many muted yet brilliant colors and hand sewn on one edge to cover the loss of part of its original breadth, thus reducing its financial value (to say nothing of toll taken by a continuous October to May outdoor life in mile high Colorado).

My rug is magical.  It fell from the railing and instead of obeying the law of physics rule number 3 that all rugs go to the floor, my rug flew 18 to 20 feet West under shade of night and, even in a shallowly lit night, knew enough to unfold itself completely and submit itself fully to the earth.  To cover each square inch of the earth that could fall within the fully unfurled perimeters of its substance.  And to embrace not just the dirt, but to welcome the nourishing water so that it, too, could grow (mold) as the germinating plants submerged in the soil beneath it would.  This is what magic looks like:

I lied about the zen.  But my faulty memory sure does help keep me calm.

I am not blog worthy.

But then again something sometimes occurs that is entirely blog worthy.  Like this item found at my neighborhood grocer:

I should say "neighborhood grosser".

My daughter and I saw this box and put it in the shopping cart pretty much immediately after she had asked me that I no longer buy junky cereals.  And I had agreed.

We could not pass this up.

We will likely throw it up.

Staplegun

I live in Staplegun.  Not Stapleton.  Annie get your gun.  Emily get your Post.  Missy get your Manners.  Letitia don't balk.  (Sorry, can't do much with "Baldridge" and who the heck would know that reference where I live, that being Staplegun?)

Let me recap.

I don't have neighbors.  I have angry mobs.

Doorbell rings.

Me: hello?

Guy at door: YOU HAVA PROBLEM WITH MY BASKETBALL HOOP?

Me: what?

Guy at door: DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH MY BASKETBALL HOOP?

Me: what?

Guy at door: People said either you or your realtor called about my basketball hoop!!

Me: I didn't call [very matter of fact tone]

Guy at door:  You have a problem?  You have a problem with my hoop?

Me: No.  Where do you live?

Guy at door:  [thumbs North of my house].  Well, then I'm calling your realtor.

Me:  He used to live in [Staplegun].  He's a nice guy.  He didn't call.

Guy at door:  People TOLD me either YOU or YOUR REALTOR called!!

Me:  I didn't call.  He didn't call.  I'm telling you it's not true.

Guy at door: [quiet]

Me: What's your name?

Guy at door: I'm not TELLING!

Me: Well, where do you live?

Guy at door: I'm not TELLING!

Me: Well, I'm Melissa Kelley, I live here, and I don't have a problem with your basketball hoop.

Guy at door is no longer at door and now leaving my porch and on the sidewalk:  I am not TELLING you!

So, I have a couple suggested readings for my neighbors:

And this:

And here is the first in a flash card set I'm thinking of making and handing out:

But then again, I'm beginning to think any of this might be akin to:

So I give up.  I am not going to buy a handgun.

Karma Road Kill

1. Perez Hilton.

2. The two folks who 'viewed' my house and gave me cranky feedback.

unhitching the welcome wagon

To be fair, and God knows I am always fair and calm and level-headed, the Welcome Wagon never exactly drove into town to meet me.  More precisely, I don't like my neighbors.  The ones across the park.

Note the word "park".  It means verdant stretches, designed to welcome young and old, to encourage play and joy, and the appreciation of nature. It does not mean this:

Oh! You say!  Are you implying something?  Not at all.  I am. spelling. it. out.

These particular neighbors thought they wanted a tennis court.  Some folks approach the idea of a tennis court by installing one a pleasant distance from their abode.  Like this:

Others, say, like maybe the folks who live across from the park from me, do it this way:

And they paint this diagram on the street.  Immediately in front of their house.

Oh! I'm sorry!  Did I just insert a photo?

Luckily for the tennis court painting on the street right outside their house neighbors, I have the patience of a:

(saint) (for those who don't know me.) (Hell. for those that do.)

I go now.  To adjust all the mirrors I have angled towards their rooftop.

All the house is a stage or what finally prompts me to get 'bedding' for my bed

My house is for sale.  I put it on the market on Saturday and a sign went in on Sunday.

Today, the photographer/'visual tour' maker came at 11 a.m.  I had the most exhausting Sunday you can imagine.  And the second most exhausting Saturday.  Thankfully, Carl took the children last night.  And even better, yesterday my son had a play date from 4 to 7 and my daughter cleaned up her room!!  And I went to Tuesday Morning and purchased bedding because my realtor told me that my dorm room approach to my bed needed a little updating, i.e., graduation.

Voila!

Isn't that insane?  I lit a fragrant candle in the master bathroom so the visual tour could capture the flickering elegance and prompt all viewers to imagine bathing in such a radiant cocoon of pleasure.

It's like I live at Bed Bath and Beyond.

Notice the powerful impact of the candle:

It's there.  Fool around with the resolution of your screen.

No matter what the faux mise en place of ma maison, I have always had a canard in my room de powder:

I do anticipate some of my unctuous neighbors to do the house tour equivalent of rubber necking.  But that is another post.

Cheers, and when I have a done deal, I am inviting all (2) of my followers to a very racuous blow out that will confirm for my neighbors once and for all how they feel about me.  Cheers!

Extra ketchup sauce, please. Oh, and chopsticks too.

Lorraine and I ate at a Chinese restaurant that was in a strip mall that was next to a store that was called:

Ask me how it went.

Well, we went into the restaurant, despite the signage next door, because of the menu posted in its window.  Here is the free-standing version, to double entice prospective patrons who make it through the front doors:

Special No. 2 is the ketchup sauce.

Here are the very important atmospherics that help create the enveloping experience of eating something you don't commonly cook in your home kitchen:

Oh.  I'm sorry.  These are items likely found in a big Rubbermaid container in my home basement.

Lorraine's heart-stopping meal:

Clockwise, from bottom: Sesame chicken, egg roll, steamed rice, absolutely no idea.

We were trying to beat Lorraine's husband in uncovering really good, unsung Asian restaurants in Aurora, Colorado strip malls.  (It is a somewhat narrowly defined competition, but we are competitive and particularly enjoy the odds of a very narrow playing field and really small group of contestants).

But I think we should re-jigger the contest: really bad restaurants with really bad signage,  really bad food that is even worse than what-could-be-worse-than-ketchup-sauce, really bad decor, and really bad Christmas trees.

Lorraine and I win!

"Proust? No! Oprah? Yes!"

A person who lives in my neighborhood (there are basically two types: female/mother/pushing double stroller/Jessica Simpson type sunglasses/pony tail/attttttitudunal or male/father/baseball cap/tee shirt with slogan/chagrin of watching small offspring muted by the glass bottle of beer in left hand/constantly wondering where the girl he married went/atttttitudunal) was walking in front of me today and the back of her shirt read "Proust? No!  Oprah?  Yes!"

What the hell does that mean?  I cannot even fathom?  But I would not wear it proudly.  I once had a shirt that read "Swarthmore College.  Guilt without sex" and I gave it away cause I didn't really want to wear it.  Even though I had bought it.

It has to do with snark.

The woman's shirt had no snark.  The shirt bore only embarrassment.  And she did not wear it with any kind of irreverent coolness.  I come to this conclusion because she was in stretchy clam diggers, Jessica Simpson type sunglasses and was pushing a double-wide stroller.  I am mean-spirited that way.

My college shirt had no snark.  I wouldn't want to wear it on campus and it doesn't work off campus.  It did work as a really crappy hand-me-down to my beloved straight-laced brother. I am mean-spirited that way too.

Somebody remind me the difference between misogynistic and misanthropic.

Eating their young

I was walking the dog today and thinking about parenting.  These two things are not necessarily unrelated.

I thought: if people can be lousy spouses, and crappy friends and embarrassments as siblings, then of course they can be awful parents.    

Maybe we have greater sensitivity around lousy parents because while we may not ever marry or be in a sustained romantic or platonic relationship, we are first children.  And siblings are in a special category: we expect them to be pains.  

A sign. Not a stop sign. Nonetheless the driver stopped. I had to, too. Then I got rear-ended. It's a sign.

I was driving West on 26th Avenue to pick up my daughter at high school.  And a Mercedes SUV is in front of me, driving very slowly.  It comes to a stop, in the middle of the street.  I am so paranoid at this point re the Bodysnatchers who live in my neighborhood that I think the driver is doing this on purpose.  To show me in an aggressive-aggressive way that I drive too quickly on the streets which double as (1) tennis courts; (2) playgrounds: (3) chalkboards.

I honked.  (I may deserve to be paranoid.  I don't drive to be liked.)  The SUV did not move.  And in my rear view mirror, I see an oncoming pick up truck trying to slow down.  "Please slow down in time" I think.  Boom.  It doesn't.  

Everything is quiet and I am shaking.  I am fine physically but shaken up.  The SUV remains still.  And then the driver door opens and a man of indeterminate age gets out, w a sheath of papers in one hand and focused eyes on the ground.  Three kids get out.  Two small ones wander on to the street, demonstrating the strength of genetic predisposition.

Long story short: a really nice man who had never had an accident rear-ended me.  He was a gentleman, responsible and kind.  A guy who stopped his SUV in the middle of the street and idled his engine and ignored the horn from the car stopped behind him caused an accident then pulled over to the curb, emptied his car of kids and walked into his house.

So the streets of Stapleton serve another purpose: parking lot.

The sign?  I have to move.

Another observation: the mother in Bravo's "Nine by Design" is the new Kate (Gosselin)

Which raises a couple questions:

1.  Would you agree to be on a reality TV program if you knew the producers would edit you to look like a bitch?

2.  Would you agree to be on a reality TV program if you were a bitch?

3.  Would you ever agree to go on Maury Povich, especially if there were no paternity issues involved?

4.  Would you ever agree to go on Dancing with the Stars if you danced as badly as Kate (Gosselin) but could crack a smile?

5.  Do your nightmares consist of singing live on American Idol?  If you're dead, do they consist of dancing live on American Bandstand?

Disturbia in Suburbia

Here is a movie poster mathematical equation for my neighborhood:

                                                             +

                                                               +

                                                               =

Veganism and Hedonism

I had a late lunch at "Raw", a raw food counter in the Chicago French Market yesterday.  http://www.frenchmarketchicago.com/vendor/raw   I have a tuna salad sandwich that had no tuna in it, accompanied by minutely diced beets that we in something saline, and a dried  assembly that looked like granola but tasted like something served at a bar to increase alcohol sales.
The meal was delicious.  The flavors were full, clean and fun in their distinction from - say - real tuna in your tuna salad.  The bazillion grains in the bread made for a heartiness that is typically missing in bread.  I love beets, but have never thought to eat them raw and un-pickled.  And the whole meal afterwards did not sit well with me; it simply did not sit.  I felt sublime.  More sublime than when I eat sashimi.
I always thought I felt the most spiritual - indeed, very near to what I figure would be the state of things felt by one who has spent years of dedication to Buddhism and this I achieved by eating! - whenever I ate sashimi.  Nay, rice!  Just the raw fish please.
And then I picked up the PETA "Go Vegetarian, Go Vegan!" brochure.  http://www.peta.org/vsk/  It was sitting, one of many copies, alongside the sample agave at the "Raw" counter.  I had eaten my faux tuna salad lunch and felt sublime and thought perhaps I would travel the raw food path indefinitely, if not 5 days out of 7.  I put the brochure and went on a 4 1/2 hour walk into various Chicago neighborhoods, met a bunch of friends for cocktails (Miller Lite draft, vodka on the rocks with blue cheese stuff olives) and then dinner (1/2 beef brisket sandwich on a processed and no doubt bleached flour roll and a couple of french fries likely and most beautifully deep-fried in hoof renderings).
This morning, I picked up the PETA publication and started to read.  It's not enough to present me with photographs of appealing meals matched with easy to accomplish recipes.  No.  I must wade - I cannot avoid for each page is replete with these tales and I think I know why vegans are so skinny because there is no joy in being consciously aware, excruciatingly aware, of the pain avoided by eating a vegetable or grain - through harrowing descriptions of the care, feeding, treatment and butchering - though, note, fishing is similiarly horrible - of our common menu.
I have trouble processing - I chose this word - whether there is an inherent conflict between the fact that humans eat animals and the facts surrounding being readied to be eaten.  I guess it's kind of funny that sashimi is not cooked and I like it so much, but the fact of the matter is that the fish died so I could eat it.  And I really like sashimi.  Thus, I present "hedonism" in its glorious definitions and I note that hedonism has to do with one's self; the viewpoint is turned inward.  As it should be.  http://www.thefreedictionary.com/p/hedonism  What brings pleasure is intrinsically good.  Plus, Dilbert nails it:

My garden is lame or why the two level deck in my back yard is so damn big.

 Okay, admittedly, this is Brussels.  

And this, confessedly, is my back yard.

Films that unsettle. Or a film that unsettled. And the bumper sticker version: ""WELL-BEHAVED WOMEN DON'T MAKE HISTORY"

I have a huge DVD and instant queue on Netflix. I pile up a bunch of films and then decide which to watch, depending upon my mood. I am talking here of the streaming queue; I seem to be constitutionally incapable of immediately watching the hard DVD that arrives in my mail. I am a very mood-driven viewer.

I am on a 'foreign' film kick. Anything not made in English within the continental United States and Alaska, and truly excluding parts of Texas, Louisiana, Alabama, California, and Idaho.

I chose to watch "Murderous Maids" because it was in French, set in the first part of the 19th Century and sounded mildly pornographic. More precisely, kudos to the the folks who translated the title from the original French of "Les blessures assassines". Which according to the Google translator, would more read "Injuries Killer", with Google ignoring fact that the last word is plural. And feminine. But in English, we do not have gender connotations to our nouns. Except for "wife", "girlfriend" and "fiercely underpaid employee". And according to the Yahoo Translate function, the title in English would read "the wounds assissinate."

I actually like these translations, as they capture the essence of the compelling story. Two maids, sisters and neglected daughters, mercilessly and frenzily kill the mother and daughter for whom they work. Gosh! As I write "mother and daughter" - translation "mere et fille" - I understand further the choice of victims.

The puzzlement of the crime - two female domestics crushingly killing their patrons - is of great interest to the many writers, authors and film makers.  The motivation for the crimes is often interpreted as one involving class struggle.  There are definitely overtones of gender, sexuality, class, emotional hardships, religion, and mental illness.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christine_and_Lea_Papin

It truly has stayed with me since I have seen this film.  I am going to look at other film and book treatments.

I'm also going to ask my kids to help a little more around the house.  I am also going to add "house cleaner" to my list of gender specific words.

This is a test to see if can really update my blog viay phone. Cause ireally need or more tentacle.

I Febreezed my dog. Nuff said.

It doesn't take a shrink to recognize that as a sign of utter sloth. And my dog weighs like seven pounds, and I bathed him last Sunday. I can wash him in one side of a double sink and he's very patient when being washed, but I preferred to get up from my sitting position only to go to the laundry room to get the big bottle of Febreeze (Costco purchase; big mistake. 2 bottles, each about six gallons in size and I'd have to own cotton mills all over cheap labor parts of the world to put a dent into even one of them. Contact me if you'd like the other bottle) and spray the back of my reclining and very lovely dog.

I should make clear that he is an omega dog, the opposite of the alpha dog for those of you who did not take Greek, have parents who moonlit as grammarians, or who matriculated at a college that did not have frats or sororities. I should also include those who are attracted to, date and/or marry bad boys. I have parents who are grammarians, who bemoan the absence of Greek and Latin from 'today's' primary and secondary education curricula; attended a school with two lame frats and one raucous ("you need 'D U' to spell "Dumb.") animal house, and have consistently been attracted to bad boys, date them but never marry them. But I am getting away from the dog. The canine one.

I think this marks the bottom or at least a really close to the bottom rung. So it's all up from here. But that means I have to get up from my sloth slither slop on the sofa. And I only do that to get the Febreeze.

The problem with going home is that my family is there

This is a picture of my father taking advice from me. I need LazyLo's sarcasm font right now.

Tomorrow, my 10 year old son and I fly to Pittsburgh to spend time with my parents and my almost 40 year old brother who lives with them and will never. ever. ever. move out. The baby of the family gets treated like a prized gem of rare provenance and the eldest (moi) is treated like a commodity in a declining industry.

I am bringing my son so that he can spend time with his grandparents. He did not visit in 2009, attending a chess camp in lieu of attending the every other year (biannual? semiannual? quasiregular? SAT exam question?) of my family reunion. He is family, goddamnit, and besides his other grandparents are dead. Not to put too fine a point on it.

The problem and what I am already anticipating, which is not making the actuality any easier, is my parents' reception. They are in their ways and I can't expect to change them. But I am disappointed in what I perceive (not qualifier, almost diplomatic approach) to be their nominal, de minimus (frustrated lawyer. And father is a lawyer now a judge so I figure there is some pertinence. Though dictum might be more apt.) effort to address the fact that there is a grandson in the house. We - my son and I - must move in the current of the household; there is no adjustment.

My father will attend to his interests and his work and will not budge from his routine. My mother will have her appointments and her routines and will not sway. My brother lives a shadow existence of my parents and thus will haunt and reverberate - another reminder of what seems to be the inexorable way to live in my parents house. The only communal time will be cocktail hour, followed by dinner. But the conversation topics will be within a certain scope and the discussions will follow plotted arcs. The end of the meal will be followed by ritualistic cleaning of the kitchen, the surgical stacking of the dishwasher, running of the dishwasher and my parents turning in for the night. My brother will likely want to talk further on the first night of our visit, but the following nights will hasten to his room under the guise of a schedule that cannot permit change.

The metaproblem with all of this is my soreness at my parents' inability to recognize who I am. And my sadness that my attempt to have my son spend time with them may not result in them knowing him. But he may know them. I just don't want him to take it personally. Them being family. Therein lies the rub.

Given to me by one of my blog followers and one who knows me well

The blog is not my vanity plate. It is my vanity buffet table.

Days ago, when I added this headline - which was pretty much the sum and total of the post - I added this text: "Good title! More to come!"

And so as I sit down to write this, not only do I ape a Fireside Chat from the Great Depression, I realize that the reason why I am vain is because I am so god damn lazy! I must cultivate some kind of fail safe rationale for being so god damn lazy.

I am sloth. Hear me roar. In time gone past too big to ignore. Extra syllable there. Sorry.

And that would be a great procrastinating device: to come up with new lyrics that are the inverse of the original lyrics! Like "Sedition! Sedition" for the Fiddler on the Roof's "Tradition!" tune, or singing only "unforgettable" and stopping when covering Nat Kind Cole's "Unforgettable".

This could take some time. Of which I have plenty. I have plumbed Face Book, I now have entered the world of blogs and the formatting possibilities and the obligation to post for my audience of 2 or 3. I let my Twitter account languish because, just because. The Internet fails to provide me with stuff that really grabs me. I am too lazy to go the library and I figure that if I keep searching the Internet while have the TV on and surfing that the law of averages or the insistence of morons will result in something that captures my attention. My Face Book and my blog are a concession to creating content and, look, I am employing someone else's monetized scheme to do so.

Perhaps take pen to paper? Nah. Only for the checks I still write. I even complain about the length of time it takes to go through the answer tree and hold music to pay a bill by telephone. And I hate the adds that my bank or any other online entity throws at me when doing something online.

I have written things on my computer. But truly those are mostly emails, not counting Wall to Wall writings on Face Book or this four posted blog of mine.

I could sit and think. But my thinking now is interrupted by my insistent checking of my Iphone and my MacBook for my gmail, my yahoo, my Face Book, and ideally some refreshed articles of interest in my standing bookmarked pages. I am never still. And yet I accomplish nothing. My virtual me has quashed real substance.

I can't even stick to my subject line. This posting now belongs my earlier entry, "l Blog, Therefore I Am." But it's the same conclusion: my vanity buffet - all the distractions I set out and am now organically (sardonic use of the word) tied to - have led me to a void. This blog is part of my vanity buffet. I have created the buffet out of things Ifind interesting. I am not learning anything, I am not exposing myself to anything rigorous or rigorously new.

My vanity buffet is empty. And I still need to lose weight.

Snow Day

The DPS announced a snow day and then the school that falls within the ambit - so I thought as an attorney and eager to use that word - declared itself separate, de facto if not de jure - see? - also announced a snow day. And so I have two children at home with me for the duration. It was like the kids' version of New Year's Eve, with later than typical waking hours and, no doubt, late rising hours tomorrow. One child has crashed, the other insists on putting her imprint on newly claimed time. And my dog pretty much comports himself like always. Or toujours which almost rhymes with du jour as opposed to du jure.

I have spent time, lots and lots and lots of time on FB this evening. As kind of a toggle button to watching for the announcement of school closings on news sites. While watching "Millionaire Matchmaker", then "Cheers" and now a totally cheesy Ancient Greek film starring a blonde Natalie Woods and woops now it's worth watching a very young Paul Newman. I may be up for the duration. I have also intermittedly parented, which is a natural state after my full-on production of dinner and oversight of homework and in one child's case, activities. I have also given up on punctuation it seems.

The hush and dominance of snow over the activities of a region force me to recognize the value of my time, as the snow presents a cache of time spent differently than typical. And it seems I spend it like usual, like my dog.

Could I popularize a new meaning for "dog days"?

I should add that my dog is the ultimate omega dog. Bit redundant. I could get two snow days out of this.

I blog, therefore I am

I love snark and was first exposed to snark - and this observation obviates all the Trollope, Dickens, and Thackeray I read previously - was "Spy" magazine, the launching pad for, among other, E. Graydon Carter now at "Vanity Fair". Seemingly, he now subscribes to what he once snarked.

To truly snark is to hate and seek to undermine, to condescend to your target. To snark is to pass judgement and to be smug and snug in the seat from which judgement is passed. Perhaps Mr. Carter did not master snark, and was merely a poseur on his way up the glossy rag publishing chain. That sentence just now demonstrated snark on two fronts: (1) Mr. Carter's callowness; and (2) the hierarchy of print media. The immediately preceding sentence was not devoid of snark either, as it used the word "callowness".

I think the format of blogs helps to foster snark. This gives me some concern. A lot of concern. Because while I like to think of myself, and quite frankly probably need to think of myself, as a kind person, my tendency is totally towards snark. If I am writing alone and posting my thoughts with some degree of anonymity, I fear my niceness factor - or fiction; you choose. I refuse - will be mitigated if not quashed by snark.

I'm signing up.

The Three Faces of FaceBook

First, blogger.com has made huge advances in simplicity, intuitiveness and scope of offerings - as have the ancillary sites - since I last actively and one-time blogged a long time ago. Second, thank you to L, L, M, G and E for inspiring me to blog.

Third is my titled point. I blog because FaceBook has become a safe place. I feel as if I'd alienate my 'friends' if I were to post my thoughts and my proferred links on my FaceBook page. I have friends who have very different politics than I, and I don't want to offend and then I think that I have chosen cowardice. Then I rationalize that a Facebook "wall" is not the likely vehicle for substantive discussion and that, perhaps, posting on FaceBook is a poor substitute for real dialogue. Then I remember that I am pretty much addicted to FaceBook. Which raises all sorts of questions about how engaged I am with the world. And is the world becoming more and more - and inalterably, inevitably so - a virtual experience?

It's all too depressing. I can't be the real me. The virtual me is not the real me. And the real me does not want to offend anyone in the virtual world. I need multiple personalities.

So I am going to try to carve out me in this blog.