Down Wit the Farm

I picked up a new read last night and was so excited to get started on it!  I'm a sucker for "city folk relocating to farm" memoirs.  (See also, It Takes a Village Idiot, by Jim Mullen and of course The Pioneer Woman http://thepioneerwoman.com/)  They all seem to follow the same script.  But I, for some reason, never seem to care. 

These usually start out in the "big city" with a high-powered/high-tech/high-paying job that the writer will begin to feel unfulfilled with by the end of the first chapter.

A weekend trip to the country is what generally begins the inner stirrings.  One half of the married couple will suddenly resign from their high-paced occupation and suggest the permanent move to the other.  There's usually one party involved that takes a little more persuading.  Sometimes there are also children involved.

Most often the writer is capable of easily finding a home in the rural town of their choice and is easily able to unload their prior real estate.  There might be a quirky country-bumpkin realtor involved, but it's always a breezy transaction nonetheless.  New job searches are never mentioned.  There seems to be an abundance of cash flow in these books.  (Of this I am jealous.)

The first week in their new digs is usually the most entertaining.  The new residents never know how to repair their new houses' quirks, who in town they can trust (that answer eventually ending up to be "everyone!"), when the small town stores' hours of operations are or where to find a decent bagel.  There's usually the same (shocking!) discovery of oddly contrasting items being sold in same shop.  Tractor wheels and hairspray.  Fishing tackle and linen table cloths.  Hunting  bows and cashmere sweaters.  You get it...

The remaining chapters will always involve daffy new neighbors, farm animals running amok, unexpected down home hospitality, a bird/bat/rodent/snake found alive somewhere loose in the house and eventually a gradual adjustment to slower paced living and new found familial closeness.

I think I'm a closet city-to-farmer wannabe.  My paternal grandparents lived on a farm while I was growing up and visiting their place was always an adventure.  I loved running through the cornfields and "slopping" the pigs the best!  But, daydreaming aside, I don't think I could end up permanently toughing it out.

Every weekend trip to Amish country, for me, is a full-on experience of relaxing and unwinding.  The steady sound of horse buggies clip-clopping through the streets always causes my mind to wander for a bit.  It's such a different lifestyle in comparison to my home in metro-Detroit.  (The newscast on my last visit to Amish Indiana amused us with its innocence. The most shocking police reports on that particular weekend's broadcast were 1. Someone rudely shoving into another with a box at the local post office.  And, 2. a drunken man found wandering in the street until some kind folks stopped him---worrying for his safety--and called to procure him a safe ride home.)  But, in the end, these getaways always end with me pining for a grease spout attached somewhere to my body to drain my arteries and pores with.  The fantasy always dies with me realizing that I miss my local Target, I require more dining options and I don't really care to live in a house that's forever scented of onions and manure.

Poor me.  I love farm animals so much too.  I'm not squeamish at all about squeezing an udder.  I don't squeal in horror when a hog rubs its cute muddy nose up on me.  I just keep very different hours than these creatures.  They wouldn't want me as an owner.  And, I'd have the worst time trying to eventually eat them.

I do want a mule however.  Not of the equestrian variety, but one of those vehicles you see farmers zipping across the fields on.  Whizzing around from the house to the barn and then to go check on the cattle with.  They look like a work vehicle, but are secretly ATVs.  You know, these things:

I can easily picture myself with a mule-full of nieces and nephews (and possibly cats) cruising around the meadowy terrain. Stopping to pick berries and flowers along the property line and then chasing down the pesky fox that's been terrorizing the chickens.

But, mules and relaxing clip-clops aside, I guess I'm glad to live near the city.  Yeah, I get burnt out in my job too.  And, some days there are too many sirens in the background to hear the tea kettle signal.  But, I have convenience at my fingertips and tourist attractions within a half-hour's drive.  On those days I long for the country, I can always take a short drive to it.  Or, even easier yet, pick up a book!

Gaga Ooh La La

Last night must have been the most comfortable awards show of Lady Gaga's career.  No sky-high lobster heels, complicated head pieces or perishables worn as wardrobe that will start to rot as the night progresses.  Nope.  Parading all night as her alter ego Jo Calderone (who bears a striking resemblance to Adam Goldberg), she got to enjoy the comfort of a white tee, jacket, comfy pants and heelless shoes.  Not a feather attached to eyelash!

I go back and forth on my Gaga fandom.  I loved her when she first came out.  Perfectly spun pop sugar.  Then she had her moments of trying too hard, trying to be Madonna and trying to offend my dad while we were watching American Idol together.

The first time I heard "Born this Way", I thought "How much commission does Madonna get from the use of 'Express Yourself"s melody?"   Maybe it's thanks to Glee, radio overkill or osmosis, but I somehow love the song now.  She always wins me back!

Last night's performance began with a Broadway-worthy monologue of Jo's, complaining about how rough it is being in a relationship with Lady Gaga.  We can imagine.  I guess the only way for Gaga to pull a fast one on us at this point was to publicly declare that she's in on the joke.

I was impressed with her ability to stay in character for the better part of the night.  Her posture, walk and voice was perfectly male during her monologue.  Although, her singing voice switched back to female during the "You and I" performance.  Which is fine, because I really liked the song. 

She even stayed male during Beyonce's surprise announcement.  (Way to upstage things Beyonce!)  I loved the shrills out of the women in the audience and Kanye's constant "You dog!" smacking on Jay-Z.  Not one to break character, you then you see slouchy Gaga, er... Jo give a triumphant fist pump.  Now that's commitment!

So, I'm a fan again, Gaga.  Way to keep it fresh.  Although, I will point out that perfection like Adele's easily wins me over without the need to resort to gimmicks.  The more stellar the talent, the less the need for hijinks.  But, a "pop pass" goes out to those who realize they may not have the vocal ace in the hole, so they try their best to make up for that by means of alter egos or cheese block headpieces.

Gaga, I'm back.  As long as you keep mixin' it up, I'll pay attention. (And, more piano ballads please.)  Katy Perry, back to the drawing board.

Here's the performance if you missed it:

Situation Gets His Clock Cleaned?!

All season long MTV's been hyping that a huge knock down, drag-out fight was impending between Ronnie and Situation on the Jersey Shore.

Yeah, so it just aired and I guess I must have missed it.  I didn't leave the room or anything, so I don't know when I missed it.  I saw screaming, forehead veins throbbing, Ronnie throwing furniture around (like usual), Sitch foaming at the mouth, then I saw Mike knock his own self out by banging his head against a concrete wall.  He writhed on the ground a bit, then seemed to have blacked out.  Suddenly, he creepily arose from the floor like a horror movie villain that refuses to die.  The two then lunge at one another again, but the show's security team broke them apart before any punches were thrown.

During Sitch's "confession" scene he insults Ron's fighting abilities and proudly states that he didn't get a scratch on him.  Totally ignorant to the fact that this is a TV show and there were cameras filming the whole thing.  Yes, we saw you knock yourself out.  Yes, we saw security intervene.  Mike lives in his own reality.  Fortunately for us, the editors are in on the joke.  When he constantly denies having said things, then they'll play the denied quote on a loop three times straight. 

Through the whole "fight" he acted like a man who knows he has no chance of winning, so his only defense is to act crazy enough to scare his opponent away.  It's an obvious strategy that been used throughout the ages.  Yet, when he admits this actually was his planned defense, Ronnie acts stunned. "Why would you do that? Ha ha ha!"  Because that's how weak men have fought for centuries now.

I don't even know why I'm still watching this show.  I hate drama, it gives me a headache.  I hate sleazy behavior and think the show's a terrible influence on young teens.  Maybe I watch it so I can be "in on" it and discuss it with my friends the next day.  Maybe, because it's been more comic this year (seeing that since they've been filming in Italy and the guys are having a much harder time finding one night stands. Nanner nanner.)  Maybe, because I desperately want to "fix" all of them so they can be normal functioning members of society.

Maybe if I can fix them, I won't have to watch them anymore.  Worth a shot!

Here's my advice for fixing the cast of Jersey Shore:

Sammi: Shush.  Yes, just shush your mouth.  Don't nag.  Don't whine.  If you break up with somebody, you're officially giving up your right to nag them, control who they talk to and bring up the sins of their past.  Once you're broken up, you don't need to remind that person of every wrongdoing from the past three years.  Don't even look at him anymore.  Don't get drunk and tell him you still love him.  And, you probably shouldn't put yourself in situations where you're still required to live in the same house with him EVER again.

Ronnie:  Steroids are bad.  Stop using them and pretending it's mere Xenodrine.  Stop after one drink.  Two if it's your birthday. Stop throwing furniture, it's not a productive release of frustration.  Once you're broken up with somebody, stop paying them any mind.  Don't watch everyone she talks to and dream up what those conversations are about.  You don't need to remind that person of every wrongdoing from the past three years. Don't even look at her anymore. Don't get drunk and tell her you still love her.  And, you probably shouldn't put yourself in situations where you're still required to live in the same house with her EVER again.

J-Woww:  You've actually become the "big girl" in the house.  Good job on the monogamy.  Good job with defusing fights and giving good advice.  Good job on restraining from writing anymore anonymous letters.  Just try not to go back to stirring the pot again. (And, thank you for letting us just call you "Jenny" now.)

Vinnie: Stop being a man-whore.  You were so sweet the first season.  Don't sleep with your roommates and confuse their emotions.  They're women. No matter what they tell you, they care. It matters. It's always a big deal.

Paulie: Stop being a man-whore.  You were so sweet the first season... Oh wait.  Just keep up the comic relief.  (P.S. This can be done without SHOUTING too, y'know?)  And, maybe change up the "T" of your GTL routine to maybe an every other day type of thing.  Orange forehead creases aren't this season's look.

Snooki: Stop drinking. 

Deena: Stop trying to prove yourself as a cast member.  You made it to your second season, you're in.  You don't have to try to be what you think MTV wants you to be (ie. one of the guys, wing woman, bi-curious, sleazy drunk.)  Unless this is just who you really are. In which case, CHANGE!

Mike (Situation):  Quit expecting everyone to call you that ridiculous nickname.  Your momma named you Mike, so you're just Mike.  Quit trying to make drama with every single person who tries to be your friend.  If this is truly entertaining to yourself, realize it is to no one else.  Not your friends, not your viewing audience.  Get a hobby.  Don't wait to tell "secrets" to people until a camera is in the room.  You know it's not a secret when you're televising it to an entire viewing audience.  Quit telling lies.  Quit trying to ruin everyone else's relationships/reputations with your little girl gossip.  Quit hitting on your roommates.  Quit calling yourself "The Leader" of the house ('cause you're not.)  Quit trying to convince us you're cool ('cause you're not.)  Quit trying to convince us you're hot.  Quit trying to invent catchphrases.  Quit trying to have any contact with women.  You're sleazy.  You're pathetic.  Stop being... um... you.  Pick someone else... anyone else.  Be them instead.

The Back Yard

I'm entertained for hours just by sitting in the back yard.  I spent much of last night watching a young rabbit trying in vain to play with a yard full of robins.  Each time he'd hop closer to one, it would fly away in confusion. "I was just lookin' for worms here, Fuzzy. Buzz off!"  Popcorn-worthy.  And, I spent much of this afternoon stalking a praying mantis I found that was as big as my hand.  It found me much less amusing than I it.

I don't think I couldn't ever reside somewhere that didn't have a backyard.  It was the backdrop to practically all of our childhood adventures.  Living on a couple acre spread growing up, we had plenty of room for badminton, Marco Polo, tether ball, tree house and a make-shift bowling alley in the woods that us kids created with debris and whatever random relics we found there.  Now living on land 1/4 that size, there's still plenty of room for the local bunnies, squirrels, birds, groundhogs, bugs and deer to visit.

Corral and woods behind me & Tammy

The wooded portion of our childhood backyard was probably where we had the most fun.  There was an old pony corral left over from the days when my parents attempted pony ownership before we were conceived.  The yellow paint on the wooded fencing was mostly chipped off by the time we came around, but it was still good for countless hours of climbing. 

There was the section of the woods that my mother threatened us to keep clear off because it was where an old outhouse once stood.  I don't know how deep the hole that was dug for the latrine, but my mother had us convinced that we'd fall in it to our doom if we came too close.  We would circle the area with a 20 foot circumference of caution.  In our imaginations the outhouse hole was pit-worthy in size and, if we were to fall into it, we were sure never to be able to climb out.  We would most likely be stranded in there until some wealthy Egyptians would pass by and kindly offer to buy us into slavery.

In the winter time the ground in the woods would completely freeze over, which was perfect for boot-skating.  We would slide on the ice in our snow boots with such perfect force that when we'd grab any random tree we would spin around it several times before falling down and/or splitting a lip.

There were always mysterious artifacts to be found. Tin cans, broken old dishes, rocks, shells.  Anything appearing more than thirty years in age we'd wonder if it could possibly be something the Native Americans once used on our land. 

We once thought my dog had found an alien in the woods (even though we never really believed in aliens.) I was babysitting the younger two on a very hot summer day and as we were getting out of the pool our dog, Buddy, came running out of the woods with something pink and fleshy-looking in his mouth.  He brought it to us with such pride we were sure, "Oh no. He's killed something for us!"  He suddenly let out a yelp, dropped the creature on the ground and jumped backward.  He tried to pick it up once more, but yelped again as if the thing was stinging him!  I got brave and tried to get a closer look.  It looked pink and slimy and had some sort of tentacles snapping out in a threatening manner.  It made a strange, squealing, unearthly noise.  We screamed and ran for the telephone!  I remember placing the call to my aunt, but can't remember for the life of me what on earth I told her.  We comforted Buddy and checked his mouth for lacerations saying quick prayers that he wouldn't die from whatever kind of sting he just received while we waited for her.  She got to our house quickly, considering she only lived minutes away, and heroically went to inspect the "alien".  I'm sure the fear in our eyes as we waited starkly contrasted the amusement in her's when she made her quick analysis.  "Do you know what this is?" she asked us.  Obviously we didn't.  Well, it was a dried-out rubber band ball our dog had found in the woods.  It was snapping apart in the extreme heat.  He hadn't been gravely injured trying to kill something.  He had found a ball and wanted us to play with him!  The "tentacles" were broken bands and the slime consisted strictly of dog saliva.  I'd never been more relieved or humbled.

 

We had the usual toys as well.  Sandbox, swing set, slide, jungle gym.  I didn't realize what great shape these backyard toys kept us in until middle-age when I tried to climb a monkey bar with my niece and instantly seemed to have torn an armpit muscle or two.  You don't realize how many muscles exist in your body back in the days when you're using them all without any knowledge of it. 

"Kind Sir"

We had a game we'd play in the back yard called "Kind Sir".  The rules were simple.  The three of us sisters would climb onto any play structure of our choosing.  Once you chose your spot, you were stranded there.  The game would begin when the youngest sibling, our little brother, would ride into the yard on his Dukes of Hazzard Big Wheel.  We'd wave hankies and plea "Kind sir! Kind sir! Come save me! Over here!" and one by one he'd come and rescue us all with a kiss on the hand.  You couldn't move from your spot until your hand was kissed by the boy with the blonde bowl haircut.  I have no idea how or why we created this game.  Were we playing out "damsel in distress" fantasies or trying to teach the little one how to be a gentleman?  Whatever our intention, I believe the game only resulted in my brother thinking he needs to be lavished with female affection for every waking minute of the remainder of his life. (Just kidding, T. *wink*)

The family that lives in our old house now also has four children.  I often wonder if their kids use the back yard as much as us.  Do they wonder, like we did, why there's a big metal reflector fastened to the big oak tree in the back yard?  Do they wonder why every so often they'll find a rusty old chain wrapped around a tree trunk and make up stories to how they got there. (I know the answer to that one! They're from when Buddy would escape his dog chain and try to hide out in the woods.  He'd inevitably get himself wrapped around a tree every time!)  Is the tree house that my brother and I built in our teens still standing in the woods?  Do they recognize the rap lyrics we graffitied its walls with?  Are their kids even allowed in the woods? 

I don't care if you live in the city, the country-side or some fancy schmancy subdivision.  The backyard.  It's the most valuable piece of land in worth of childhood memories.


(Below: Pages from a Memory Book I had drawn in my twenties.  Half of the book consisted of our back yard shenanigans.)

The chopped off caption read: "Climbing trees was always fun... except once!" True story.  My sister and I had decided to have our snacks up in the climbing tree one afternoon.  Her snack (a one-handed treat) was a wisely chosen Popsicle.  I, notoriously, opted for the two-handed bowl of Cocoa Puffs. 

Songs of my Youth: Time After Time

I just wanna have fun.  And, I know that's okay because Cyndi Lauper taught me so.  I'm a girl, it's a given.  So there.

I just found out that Cyndi Lauper was born in 1953.  That means she was 30 when She's So Unusual was on the charts!  This is as shocking  a discovery as being a grade-schooler and finding out Tina Turner was 45 when Private Dancer came out.  I didn't understand how her legs could still look like that (still don't!) and how she wasn't breaking a hip shimmying in her sequins.  Now that my own age falls somewhere between those two numbers, it just makes those gals heroes to me.  Girls as well as women approaching mid-life are allowed all that fun.  Phew!  Thank you ladies.

She's So Unusual was one the greatest discoveries of my youth.  I knew I always seemed pretty unusual and now it was finally mainstream!  I lived vicariously through Cyndi and her wildly colorful outfits while I sat in front of her videos wearing my older sister's hand-me-downs.  I wanted colored mousse in my hair!  I wanted to wear a baseball jacket with a loudly patterned skirt!  I wanted flawless eighties makeup!  But, I was nine and would have to wait.

Cyndi's cool cred spiked about three-hundred notches when she cast Captain Lou "Rubberband Face" Albano in her Girls Just Wanna Have Fun video.  Even my little brother could appreciate that!  And, you gotta admire that, being such a tiny thing, she could still pin Lou to the wall when he tries to interrupt her phone time.  It was a mystery what on earth those girls could have been doing out all night that they couldn't have been doing during the daylight hours.  My parents would pose the same question to me in about a decade or so.

Girls was great fun, but the Cyndi song that gives me an even more instantaneous flashback is Time After Time.  I even heard it today on the easy-listening channel at work and it took only the opening synth for me to be immediately reminded how badly I wanted waffle iron hair in 1984.  LOL!  It was never about the love song or the devotion in the lyrics.  I would watch this video over and over just to covet the waffle iron pattern shaved into one side of her orangety-orange hair!

In fact the love story was completely lost on me because the boyfriend in the video laughed at her 'do and got all angry as if she'd taken a razor to his head while he slept.  You're dating Cyndi Lauper!  What do you expect? A pert chignon every morning?!  Then he seems to turn his friends on her.  Grrr...  I always thought she could do better and wasn't even sad at the end of the video.  Don't get off that train Cyndi!  You stay put!  Do you really think he's one to judge with his bad hair and that grandpappy hat he can't pull off? 

Besides the lame boyfriend, my other pet peeve with the video was the flashback scene.  I always found it very sweet that she included her own mother in her videos.  My peeve being that the stylist could have done a better job with Cyndi's blond (obvious) wig.  Me and my sister used to laugh at it every time.  And the choice to dress her like Dennis the Menace I still find slightly comical.

So, maybe Time After Time wasn't as fun as Girls... or She Bop (another song who's concept was totally lost of me at the time.  The line "I don't even understand" was an understatement!  But, my adult brain can now find humor in all the background dancers being blind at the end of the video.)  It might not have been as stellar a ballad as True Colors either, but it's the Cyndi song that holds my fondest memory of wishing for waffle iron hair and red checkered pants. (I finally did have similar pants at age twenty, forgetting Cyndi in the purchase by then. And, orange hair too come to think of it... though I don't think simultaneously.  Goals complete!)

I still wouldn't mind being Cyndi Lauper for a day.  Or a month.  And, now that I'm in my thirties, I really want to know what foundation she was wearing back then.  Flawless!

Alright, I'll throw this one in too since I know you want it:

Songs of my Youth: Billie Jean

Sometimes I still moonwalk.  It's a tell-tale sign of the era I grew up. I was born in 1974, but people often mistake me for being younger than I am.  I need to remember to bust out a moonwalk in these times for the sake of timeline reference.  There's no better way to prove, "Ohhh... okay. 80's child."

I wanted nothing more in the early-to-mid 80's than to marry Michael Jackson.  I'm sure, at that age, I had no idea what marriage to the King of Pop would entail.  All I knew was that Brooke Shields was one lucky young lady.  My fantasy mostly consisted of hanging out at Neverland, playing with Bubbles the chimp, dancing around, nursing his scalp wounds and following my hubby anywhere he went (sidewalk and steps lighting the way.) 

I wasn't at the age yet where I was allowed to wallpaper my room with posters (thank you NKOTB for later opening up that door for me), so I used to take any MJ newspaper clippings I could find and tape them to the backside of my bedroom door.  In those days there was something Jackson-related in the paper almost every day, so anything even remotely MJ-esque went right up on the door. (Yes, Quincy Jones, Paul McCartney, Tito... that means you.)

The Thriller-era was my awakening to real music.  Up until then, it was nothing but Disney, Wheels on the Bus and Jimmy Crack Corn spinning on my red and white striped record player.  (Sometimes I'd also raid my mom's collection borrowing her Mamas and the Papas, Ricky Nelson and Beatles 33s. Barely connecting the dots that the wide-eyed mop top on the cover was also Michael's frequent duet partner.)  During the winter-time in Michigan we would have alot of indoor recess at school. Which meant, instead of playground privileges, we'd just have to run around the classroom for a half-an-hour or so and try not to injure the teacher in the process.  Kind Ms. Walkley would give us access to the class room record player and it would be the Thriller album and any MJ 45s over and over until the bell rang.  We could never get enough! 

I learned every lyric (by holding the tape recorder up to the radio, of course) and would memorize every scene from every video shown on the after school music video countdown.  I even liked Say, Say, Say (which I'm now assured wasn't the coolest.)  The goofy vaudevillian video having MJ and PMcC scamming their way around the country side (on behalf of the orphans, which makes it okay.)  I now realize the Linda McCartney cameo in it (wasn't letting her in Wings enough?) and was that Michael's own sister LaToya he was romancing toward the end?  (Ah, Jackson mysteries begin to unfold.) Lennon-McCartney may be one of the most celebrated writing duos in the annals of music history but, until I was of a proper age of understanding, Jackson-McCartney was the only collaboration for me.

Picking a favorite Michael Jackson song is like having a favorite Beatles one.  Impossible.  But, growing up, I know my heart definitely tugged toward Billie Jean.  Its video didn't represent the coolest of his leather jacket collection (that winner being Beat It.)  In fact, I wish his pants would have been better tailored, as not to replicate a garbage bag at the waist. (The fact that they ran out of leather toward the ankles, however, is a non-issue. I would have dug me some glittery socks!)  Wardrobe aside, it has a great beat and epic dance moves.  As memorable as Billie Jean was, it's certainly another to add to the list of confusing 80's videos. 

As a kid I was too mesmerized by light up sidewalks, baby tigers and upright toe-standing ("Ow!") to try to follow any inkling of plot.  Good thing too, because there are several holes in this one. 

Early on we see a white cat (whom, upon close inspection, may very well have been a small anteater) who turns into a tiger, who turns into a fabric swatch, who then turns back into a tiger once more.  Significance?  None.  I think MJ just liked to have exotic animals present at all times. 

Michael also spies a homeless man early on and decides to help him out.  But, with a silver dollar and a gaudy tuxedo?  Really?  Surely a Jackson and can do better than that!

Then we have the detective.  The worst P.I. in the history of private dicks.  Why is he stalking poor Michael like a fool?  I'm assuming he's involved with the paternity case being lamented about in the lyrics.  But, any sleuth worth his salt should be capable of finding his target at the end of a tell tale light-up trail.  (Or even by simply following the loud singing and dancing going on down the street.)  However much Billie Jean is paying him, it's entirely too much!

There's alot of magic involved as well.  Michael is unphotographical, begging the question "Is he really a ghost?"  (Case closed on the paternity suit if so.)  A womanly shape under the bed sheet. (I always wondered if a real woman played this part or if they just stuffed a mannequin under there.  Not hearing any squealing from Michael as he climbed in has me convinced its the latter.)  And, of course, the magical lighted walkway.

Moving on to the older woman in the window.  I'm not sure if this nosy neighbor in the fire escape scene is calling the cops on MJ, the detective, or just all the ruckus being made out there. Was it just too much stair-climbing for one night?  As scuzzy as a town in which Billie Jean resides, I have to say, I am impressed with its rapid police response.

I continued to follow Michael Jackson through the rest of the eighties and much of the nineties as well.  (Although, I was fine with not marrying him at this point. Thank you Lisa Marie for playing guinea pig for us on that one!) Up until his face started to warp and the creepy charges started being alleged.

In his death, though, the warm fuzzies found their way back into my heart.  Especially when I started hearing my niece and nephews singing Billie Jean, Beat It and Thriller around the house.  His catalogue was introduced to a new generation again On Demand and it was fun to go back and relive it all with them. 

His death was one of those that the world saw coming eventually. I don't know if anyone expected to see Michael as an eighty-year-old man.  But, it was one that still somehow shocked me when it came.  There were so many questions still out there, never to be answered.  But, in the weeks following it seemed to no longer matter.  His music breathed its second life and it was finally politically correct to love Michael again.

Songs of my Youth: Hungry Like the Wolf

I'm currently reading the Rob Sheffield memoir Talking to Girls About Duran Duran in which each chapter is dedicated to a song he grew up with and the memories that accompany it.  It started stirring up memories of my own and sounded like a fun idea, so I decided to give it a whirl with this first entry to my Songs of my Youth series.

Hungry Like The Wolf: May as well start with Duran Duran, considering the inspiration.  I spent much of the fourth and fifth grade drawing an upright "D" shadowed by a slanting "D" on all of my notebooks.  (I also used alot of no. 2 pencil lead on the flying VH logo because it was just so much fun to draw.) 

Duran Duran is my first new wave memory.  They were such a surreal contrast to anything I'd ever seen walking the streets of suburban Motown.  I loved any song of theirs that I could pick up on the FM radio and memorized as many lyrics, correctly or incorrectly, as I could make out.  (I'm sure I got the "Strut on a line. It's discord and rhyme" all wrong.)  They were men, they wore makeup AND they dyed their hair!  I read an article at the time where the band members stated that "We change our hair color as often as we change our underwear!" Being young enough to confuse analogies, I wondered if that meant they only changed their underwear every 4-6 weeks. 

I remember rushing home to watch the after school video shows on PBS and the other local public access channel (no MTV in my house!) to get my hour's worth of Madonna, Boy George, Prince, Tina, Cyndi, Huey Lewis and of course the boys from Duran Duran.  Every one of their videos was like a mini-movie. "Wild Boys" with its tribal theme and wacky chicken dancing.  The water torture scene sooo artsy cool but probably about five minutes longer than necessary. (Although, it was probably the best hair-washing Simon ever squeezed into that decade.)  In "Union of the Snake" we'd debate whether those women were wearing body paint or just really tight clothing.  (Considering we didn't know what body paint was at the time, the argument went mostly like this, "Is that clothes?! It looks like a blue naked body? What kind of clothing is that?! It almost looks like they just smeared paint on their bodies! Is that her...?  Gasp!")  In "The Reflex", I couldn't believe the technological advances of making it appear that water was actually splashing out from a movie screen! 

And, of course it was the "Hungry Like The Wolf" video that still confounds me to this day. It's senseless to put too much effort into trying to find meaning in any 80's era music video.  But, this video's journey is hard to make sense of.  Are they in India?  Mongolia?  It seems to be an Amazonian woman he's chasing down, but there's an Asian elephant bathing in the river so the geography doesn't add up.  His friends get to make out, but he's getting scratched all over the neck!  He keeps ending up back in the cafe, oops back in the jungle. Cafe, river, jungle, cafe.  Is that little boy his slave?  And, most of all, why oh why does he keep flipping that dang table over? (Are these guys really from Jersey?)

My wolf love was briefly tainted in 1989 thanks to Farrah Fawcett's TV movie Small Sacrifices.  Based on a true story where Farrah's character pulled her car over to the side of the road and shot her three children and herself in the arm (to fake a carjacking.)  One of her daughters survived the attack but was left temporarily mute.  She regains her ability to speak in time to testify against her mother at the trial.  What's this have to do with Duran Duran? Well, the murderous mother chose to play this song on the car radio as she picked off her children one by one.  In the most climatic part of the trial scene, the prosecuting attorney plays a cassette tape of "Hungry Like The Wolf" (Seen at 10:48 in the link here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xqDuhvTnlSo).  Farrah's pencil tapping and boogie dancing in her chair eventually help convict her of murder. (11:30 here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNS6Z0F-ZTA&feature=related and 1:37 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XiD-n0PdGTY&feature=related) 

Ugh! Poor boys!  I'm sure they recorded this with no intention of it one day becoming the soundtrack to a murder, but there it was.  Tainted in our minds for such a long time afterward.  And, it was a very long time before I could hear the tune without picturing Farrah tapping out of rhythm at the defense table.  But, you can't blame the music for sociopathic behavior and eventually my musical palate was cleansed of that bad taste.

The song still stands the test of time.  I know this because it's still playing in my car on a regular basis with my nine-year-old nephew in the back seat singing, "...disco and wine" over the lyrics "mouth is alive, with juices like wine." (He also sings along to the Foo Fighters "There goes my hero! Sodinary!") It's such a fun sing-along to the new generations that the kids gets mad when I change the title animal with every line. "...And, I'm hungry like a Bengal tiger ♫" "Nooo!" "...And, I'm hungry like a red panda!" "Kimmy! It's WOLF" (I also still say "a" instead of "the" in the title line, because that's always how I thought it went!)

Duran Duran.  Feminine manly men.  Hungry wild boys.  Soundtrack to murder.  Juices like wine.  And, nobody wore a pair of Cavaricci's better!

RHONJ: What Happened to Teresa?!

The Real Housewives of New Jersey.  It's the only show in the Bravo Real Housewives franchise that I can still watch without a retching feeling creeping up in my throat.  Most everybody in the cast was friends or relatives before the show was put together, so the relationships aren't contrived.  It doesn't have new money pretending to be old money or any noticeable amount of manner-correcting.  It doesn't have an excess of plastic surgery victims, so you can still tell everybody apart.  The cast has wicked sweet accents and are mostly hilarious and up for a good time.  It has Caroline Manzo, whom I now crown the wisest woman on television (sorry Oprah!)  They've finally kicked off most of the "villain" characters brought in the boost the drama after they realized it wasn't necessary.  Everything was finally running smooth on the Turnpike... And, then, there goes Teresa! ("Cuckoo!")

What are you doing Teresa Giudice?  You used to be our favorite comic relief with your mispronunciations, your micro-diva kiddos and your talk of "bubbies".  They finally threw all of your enemies off of the show and, for some reason, you decided to fill that casting void yourself.

Yes, you're going through hard times.  Hard times don't always equal funny lines.  That Guido hubby of yours certainly has smudged the family name by racking up several lawsuits and causing financial heartache throughout the home.  He's a real crab-meister these days and I'm sure real headache to have around the house.  Yes, you wear your smile well to mask the stress.  But, there's not enough botox in the world to erase the look of stress that sits on your face somewhere above that smile.  It's okay!  We care! (Breeeeaaaatttthhheee...)

Everyone can sympathize with money troubles.  You had the prime opportunity to open up about this and confess the stress in your life, get it off your bubbies and maintain your title as Jersey's sweetheart. But, instead, you decided to misplace your frustrations on... let's see... everybody in your life!

Your heroic comeback with two best-selling cookbooks could have been a bonafide "girl power" moment, but you just turned it into an opportunity to cast unconstructive critique towards everyone else's talents and dreams.   The reconciliation with your brother's family was beautiful when you vowed "no more tit-for-tat."  But, you seem to still be forever tatting with nary a tit in sight! (Sounds weird, but rewind, I promise it makes sense.)  Your friends who you claim are your real family have been nothing but supportive, but you snipe at them in interviews and blogs.  If this is how you treat our friends, aye-yi-yi to your enemies!

Allow yourself to confide in your loved ones.  They're not all judging you.  Allow the haters to be the bad guys by keeping your mouth shut and providing no ammo.  Allow yourself to give others praise. Everybody needs the boost of having their talents recognized.  Write twenty more cookbooks if you like, but don't hate on everyone else who cooks well and has dreams. Share the girl power.  Let it multiply! 

Straighten up your act Teresa, because I don't want you to be the person who's scenes I use for potty breaks (ie. Danielle, Kim G, and now Ashley.)  I want to be able to enjoy the whole show again from Manzo to Guidice to Jorga.  We finally proved that the show works without a villain.  I don't want to have to lodge anymore complaints with the network.  Don't make me lobby for an all Manzo show!  Or, worse yet, emancipate little G-to-the-I-A and let her have her own spinoff as she leaves you like so-much-Hannah Montana.

Have a little lunch date with Dina (and can you bring her back to the show while your at it?)  Let her zen you out.  Give one compliment to Melissa and Kathy each time you see them without taking it back somewhere within the next conversation.  This is family, even when the cameras aren't rolling.  Yes, their motives are questionable, but when you talk behind their backs, so are yours.  Don't be that character!  We no likey.  Have fun with Jacqueline.  Listen to Caroline's advice without rolling your eyes. Go to the family cottage as much often as possible because it seemed to be a relaxing enjoyable place for you guys. Enjoy your girls while they're young, these are the memories they'll be growing up with.  Show them how to have their own goals, so they won't have to be caught up in their own husbands' dire straights one day. 

Do whatever it takes to get back to "Season One Teresa", the one that wasn't famous yet but was a heck of alot of fun.  Yeah, life is different now but don't let it harden you.  Mostly I beg, just please, please, please, please don't become the next Danielle.  I don't want to give up my last Housewives show and I certainly don't want to have to flip a table at you!

Phil Collins

I ♥ Phil Collins.  There's no way to segue into that, so that's going to be my opening paragraph.  Phil Collins... sigh.

Even when his head is detached and glowing red, there's just something dreamy about the bloke.  Something that gives me the allowance to think it's okay to start using British slang like "bloke".  When I was a kid I used to dream about marrying him and producing short and stout children together who would have impeccable senses of rhythm.  Phil Collins is an example to all of the men who think women only care about looks.  Talent goes a whole lot further in our opinion.  Piano, drums, guitar, silky smooth singing voice?  Sold!

And, not many artists have been successful in so many different genres.  He's done:

• Pop Fluff: "You Can't Hurry Love", "Sussudio" (I'm still not sure what that word means),"Don't Lose my Number", "Two Hearts" and "Something Happened on the Way to Heaven" who's video inexplicably features a ragamuffin dog running around Phil's rehearsal studio.  The dog runs across the craft services table without eating a thing (totally unrealistic), explores the building's catwalk system (ironic), poops on the rhythm guitarist's shoe (unbelievable, since the dog didn't have anything to eat) and stops the bass player's foot from tapping with his paw (which prompts Phil to dust the poor chap's shoe off with a towel.) The dog tries to play several instruments throughout the video as well. (You can see it all here:             http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CKrGj73OsAY&ob=av2e)  I'm not really sure what the moral of the video is supposed to be since the dog never learns an instrument and nobody adopts him in the end.  It's in total opposition to that era's overly-literal pop video scene.  Remember all that late 80's/early 90's choreography where every "too", "two" or "to" lyric was accompanied by holding two fingers rhythmically in the air.  "Love" was a signal to cross your arms in front of your heart.  "You" consisted of pointing at a love interest, camera lens or sexy audience member.  Well, this video had none of that.  Just a dog running around for no reason with no tags or license.  Maybe it was some type of Benji movie promotion that I was just completely unaware of at that age.
• Cheesy Love Songs: "One More Night", "Groovy Kind of Love"
• Songs I Think are Romantic: "Take Me Home", "I Wish it Would Rain Down"
• Socially Conscious: "Another Day in Paradise"
• Remakes on Par With the Original Cyndi Lauper Version: "True Colors"
• The Disney Soundtrack: I love the fact that Phil Collins wrote the entire musical score to the animated version of Tarzan. All I have to do is hear the drums of "Stranger Like Me" or simply one measure of "You'll be in My Heart" and I'm instantly crying, "His parents are dead", "They're taking him away from his gorilla family!", "His gorilla momma's so sweet!" My heart instantly breaks and that's the power of Phil Collins.

• Intense "Rock":  "I Don't Care Anymore" and "In the Air Tonight".  I don't know why, but there was an urban legend circulating during my teen years about the story behind "In the Air Tonight".  In it, Phil Collins literally witnesses somebody drowning and simultaneously witnesses somebody not helping the victim.  (No mention of why he didn't step in himself.  Probably because he was busily penning these lyrics as the whole thing unfolded.)  As the story goes, years later he tracks down the man who didn't help. (How? He must have also lifted the man's identification while neither was helping the drowning victim.)  He gives the scoundrel front row tickets to one of his shows and as he's scornfully singing, "I was there and I saw what you did..." the spotlight shines on the man, he puts two and two together and is righteously shamed.  He goes home that night and kills himself.  The highlight of these years, for me, was calling into a radio station to request the song and getting the DJ to recount the myth on air.  (I still have my "performance" recorded somewhere on cassette tape. My end of the bit, besides requesting the song, was after each bullet point of the story the DJ told, I would agree with it by saying "Uh huh!" "Uh huh!" like a gum-smacking Valley girl. I wasn't told to do that... it's just what came out.  I wasn't built for live radio!) Well, as much as I did my part to spread the legend to the greater Detroit area, Mr. Collins has confirmed that the tale is obviously bogus.  But, a shadow of doubt still lingers when he says that the song is really about, "I don't know what the song is about... divorce... the only thing I can say about it is that's it's definitely in anger."  Not clearing things up enough and thus spawning the lesser-known urban legend #2, that he wrote it after walking in on somebody in bed with his wife.  Also causing one to question his instincts, "I'm not going to punch you.  I'm not going to shoot her.  I'm going to kindly excuse myself to the basement to write a song about this with a really killer drum track!"  Well, whatever the inspiration,  how much fun is it decades later to see Mike Tyson enjoy the tune so much? (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4TbnXqhHJkk)  Mr. Phil Collins, ladies and gentlemen.  Standing the test of time.

I can't put my finger on the Phil Collins crush.  It must be a culmination of all of the above.  I have a similarly cheesy affection for Elton John music.  Elton John love, though, obviously screeches to a halt long before the baby fantasy stage.  There's just no way that's even a possibility.  But with Phil, ladies, just remember... he seems to divorce like clockwork!

Publisher's Clearinghouse

Everyone has their Internet routines.  Check email, check Facebook, check the news or stock reports?  My routine goes: Facebook, email, enter Publisher's Clearinghouse.  Every single day.

The best convenience the information superhighway has brought to my life is sparing me from salvaging the Publisher's Clearinghouse envelope from the junk mail pile every couple of months.  Entering online takes seconds a day. So much quicker than digging through a bunch of ads and trying to find the proper stickers and seals that you will be ordered to affix to another piece of paper hidden within the flotsam and jetsam that spills out of that yellow envelope.

It wasn't until recently that I realized this company is actually selling products in the process.  I guess I must have just thought Ed McMahon had a bottomless money bag that he got his rocks off on giving away to unsuspecting members of society.

When entering online you can scroll right past these ads, as not to tempt yourself.  You don't want to accidentally purchase this:

Or, for goodness sakes this:

Just keep on scrolling and you'll be to the submit button at the bottom of the page in no time.  You don't want to accidentally discover the appeal of a manual foot scrubber.  You don't need this stuff!

I talk about winning the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes all the time.  So, it's safe to say I've formally claimed the prize already.  I've heard that Jim Carrey once wrote himself a check for $10 million during a time when he was struggling financially and post-dated it a few years into the future.  By the time the check's date was valid, this was Jim's current salary per film.  I'm not spooky or superstitious at all, but if Jim Carrey can claim his future paycheck, I can claim myself a sweepstakes winner.  He worked hard towards his dream, I do my best to earn mine (by taking the 30 seconds to enter the contest every day.)

Hey, in a paycheck-to-paycheck world where I was born dead in the center of Generation X, the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes seems a more plausible retirement plan than Social Security.  Scoff if you will, but I have a dream!

If I were to win, I vow not to blindly throw money in the direction of every lazy member of my circle of influence.  I will do good with it, but I'm not giving it away if it's not a charitable or proper investment.  I'd like to buy up property in the local neighborhoods and put the underemployed construction workers back to work.  My neighborhood alone has multiple foreclosures on every street.  Every street has as least one family that has been ejected from their home. Many streets have more than one.  I will scoop up these abandoned properties, restore them and sell them at close to value.  I want to redeem the property value of my neighborhood and help make it a nice place to live. 

I will buy myself a modest home and try to move as many siblings as I can closer to my own dwelling.  Mainly, I just want to decorate (this goes with the prior paragraph as well.)  My sole purpose for craving home ownership is not for the independence or privacy... it's for the furniture, paint and window treatment fun.  I'm sure the first unusual noise I hear coming from the furnace/water heater/neighbor's garage door opener will have me scrambling to the phone, "Any nieces or nephews want to sleep over tonight?!"  This is why it is good to have them close by.  I will have one boys bedroom and one girls bedroom for this purpose.  The boys bedroom will be stuffed with all of my Disney relics.  I'd also like a small library, if that's not to much to ask.  And, a second car.  And, maybe a pontoon boat. Oh, and a camper!

I will not take a lump sum payout.  I don't want to be overwhelmed with how to invest it and risk losing everything at once.  I will take a monthly payout, guaranteeing myself that I cannot blow it all in one place.  When every ingrate I ever met comes up to me and expects me to give them a million dollars, I can then honestly tell them that I don't have a million to give.  But, if they seem in dire straights I will say, "Here is a gift card for the local Kroger store."

PCH contests include prizes like a one million dollars and $5,000/week for life.  These seem reasonable.  I don't need $200 million from the state lottery.  I'm not that greedy.  Just enough to quit my day job, do a bit of traveling and live out some dreams. (I would also like two cats.  And, a Wii.)  You can dream about the state lottery or big casino win.  I'm practicing my "surprise" face for the people in the minivan with the helium balloons and oversized check. (If that's my big dream, I guess my big nightmare would be seeing that van pull up and having someone come to my door to ask me if I know what time my neighbor will be home. Ugh! That would suck!!!)

Do I really expect to win one day?  Eh, I've got a 401K in place just in case.  I've just given a lot of thought to what I'd do with it because it's a fun dream to have.  And, maybe if I have a good plan in place someone upstairs might want to give me a chance to prove it (please, please, pretty please?!)  'Cause, you know, I really would like some cats.

S.O.S.!

I don't know if there's any errand more dreaded than the renewal of the driver's license at the Secretary of State's office. (Well, women, we also have that one doctors appointment out of the year to look forward to as well.)  You walk in knowing you won't be walking out any time soon.  There's no convenient time to fit it into your schedule.  And, you can never be quite sure of the potentially creepy company you might be forced to keep.

Well, I had the day off, so today was my lucky day.  I'd thought about bringing a book with me, but was trying to keep the positive notion that I wouldn't be sitting in the waiting area terribly long.  I felt so optimistic about this that I didn't even eat lunch before I left the house (big mistake!)  Stepping through the glass door, I was relieved to see only one person in line ahead of me.  Good reason too.  I had stepped through the wrong glass door.  The woman at the window, obviously frequently witnessing the same error, simply held up a finger pointing to her left and closed the window on me.

Walking in the direction of the friendly woman's index finger, I pushed through the correct set of doors and, yeah... that seems about right. A hundred people, a hundred smells, this was definitely the correct place.

I wait in the line you wait in to simply be handed a number like at the meat market.  I hear someone shout out "70!"  and get a little excited, even though I haven't received my number yet.  Knowing my jumping off point is the first check mark to this boring day.  When it's my turn to be handed my number I walk to the counter toward a woman who is refusing to make eye contact no matter how hugely I smile in her direction.  She fires off a question to the left of her personal space, which I assume is intended for me so I answer it.  It was the right choice because this prompts her to hand me a form and my number with the air of a person who's thinking "this job's so easy, I can do it with my eyes closed." Reading her thought, I want to respond, "Well, lady.  You practically are!" but I decide to peek at my number and walk away instead.  I am number "04".

As I try to find a place to sit I'm pondering whether the number calling resets at 100, since they're on number 71 by now.  It wouldn't be 1,000, would it?!  I'd better pick a good seat.

I peruse the room and have the immediate thought that this waiting room looks just like the congregation at a Baptist church.  The seats are packed except the fact that's there's not really anyone in the front row.  To the front row I go!  I choose my seat wisely, by leaving an empty-one-seat buffer on either side of me.  I'm not a stranger lover. I don't want to make friends here, I don't want to wake you up when your number is being called or watch your kids while you run to the bathroom.  I'm placed right in front of the tv.  That's where I need to be.

The nearest neighbor to my right is slowly dozing off.  The Christian side of my brain nudges me to look at his number, so I can be prepared to wake him when it's his turn.  Not, seeing a number in his hand, my other half plots at the thought of jumping one ahead in line when he misses his turn.

Two seats to the left lies a book on a chair. Oh man, I should have brought one!  A young man rushes back to the seat to grab his book territorially.  I'm trying not to make eye contact, but notice that he's dressed in the way that a guy looking like that only dresses as a work requirement.  I assume his street clothes mainly consist of worn jeans and concert t-shirts leftover from high school.  He is gangly of build and his hair is overly greased.  The cover of the book he's reading is purple and black, causing me to decide that it's probably some sort of Dungeons and Dragons tutorial. 

This is my new home for the next hour or so.  I hope I've chosen well.  Being in the front row has hindered my people watching abilities.  However, I can smell there's people all around me.  One strongly scented of stale and heavy cigar smoke.  On the tv plays a continuous loop of driving safety PSAs, Michigan tourism bits (hosted by local newswoman Lila Lazarus) and a cute commercial where a dad accidentally witnesses his daughter's first kiss.

The people-watching picks up as I realize that I'm seated right near the picture-taking station.  I giggle to myself at the younger females who come to the DMV in full prom hair. I assume they're turning twenty-one and need to make this license picture count!  There are some older women, too, who gave serious thought to their wardrobe selections.  Why else would they being sporting sequins and glitter on a Thursday afternoon?  Seeing that I don't live a lifestyle that prompts me to flash an i.d. card often, I gave much less consideration to my "look" with my mosquito bitten arms and butter stained top.  Although I did choose today's top based on the fact that it's azure blue and universally flattering. (I just didn't intend to spill butter on it at the breakfast table.)

As the tv reel starts its second loop I begin to tire of Lila's Miss Know-it-All attitude about Michigan travel.  I never really enjoyed her news broadcasts.  She's one of those types that looks prissy, but thinks she's down because she rides a Harley.  (She's also hosting the motorcycle safety bits.)  She thinks she's so funny because she warns us not to sit down in the cactus atrium at Frederick Meijer Gardens.  Hardy-har.  I know someone who met her in person and they said she was a real snoot-a-saurus. 

By now, I've privately nicknamed my neighbors Snoozy and Squiggy.  After too long I begin to become jealous of Squiggy's book.  I begin fantasizing of the crossword puzzle pad I now remember is sitting in my car.  If only I had grabbed it!  Then I realize that my Nintendo DS is in my purse and excitedly pull it out.  Oh crap! The kids used it last.  The puzzle game I thought was in there has been replaced by Super Mario Bros.  I try to check my email on it, but soon lose wireless connection. 

By, this point it seems I've become the object of the people-watching.  Squiggy jealously peeks away from his D&D manual.  Snoozy opens one eye to see what kind of toy I've produced (either that, or he began checking out my legs. I can't be sure.)  The disappointment in my own limited use seems to spark an electronics frenzy.  I hear someone turn on something behind me which is broadcasting some sort of sporting event.  I hear someone behind Snoozy suddenly blip-blip-blipping on their cell phone.  A mom programs her phone to a game setting and hands it to her fussy kid.  A mass revelation is made that, "Yes, we're all grown-ups. But, we seem to each be carrying at least one device each that can multitask as entertainment!"

By the third loop of the television programming my number edges closer.  I eat half a granola bar I find in my purse.  By, then Squiggy has been called on and in his seat now sits a middle-aged mother and her kindergarten-aged son. I begin taking after Snoozy and allow my heavy eyelids to rest.  I continually feel the child's shoe drop onto my foot.  I peek once, they're a croc-type rubber sandal emblazoned with Spiderman's likeness.  I don't get mad.  If I were five and held hostage at the DMV, my shoes probably wouldn't find the will to stay attached either.

Number 03 is called, but doesn't show.  I'm half-way to the teller's station by the time she says, "No number 3?  How about number 4?"  A blonde lady is there to help me.  She too looks right through me as if I'm just the next check point on her way to quitting time.  I'm not sure I even passed the eye test because she's asks me, "No contacts?"  I correct her, "Yes. I'm wearing my contacts right now." She then sighs and hits a button on her keyboard. She doesn't want to deal with someone who can't tell an "O" from a "C".  She hands me my temporary license, rattles off her required speech and informs me that "Black Sweater" will be taking my photo. 

I feel bad for Black Sweater because Blonde Bore doesn't seem to know her name.  Black Sweater is the friendliest face I've seen today.  After two rowdy kids are chased away from the blue curtain and I'm standing properly in my box, two adults walk right in front of my shot.  "Oh! So sorry!" they apologize.  I giggle and accept (I'm just pretending I'm famous and everyone wants their picture taken with me.)  Black Sweater finally gets her shot.  She kindly asks me if it's okay or if I'd like another one taken.  I peer at her monitor and yikes!  It's anything but okay!  But, I say "Yes. That's fine." because, although my bangs look too short, at least there is no granola in my teeth. What else am I going to do? Sit here until my hair grows a quarter of an inch? (Although, that's probably entirely possible.)

I run to the door before this place sucks me away into an eternal vortex.  Safely in the parking lot, I don't even mourn this hour of my life I will never get back.  Because, I knew even then that at least it earned me today's blog fodder.

And, so it has.

Gone in a Flash

Taking pictures is not just a hobby to me. It's my lazy man's diary. It is how I've documented my life from middle school on (save a few missing years in my 20's when I was too cool to stick a camera in anyone's face.)

I remember inheriting my first camera. A used castaway passed down from a family member. I can't even remember the kind, but I remember it using some obscure film type that we had to scour the stores to find. It also used those detachable film cubes, good for four uses only. (One flash per side.) Poof! And, then that instant smell of flash bulb. I can't describe the scent any better than that. Flash bulb scent. I know it when I smell it!

Le Clic, c'est chic ♫

Following that camera, my many 110s. Anyone surviving the 1980's had a 110 at some point, whether they remember it or not. Those flat rectangular shaped ones with the wrist strap. Their film shaped like an flat train car when turned on it's side. Easy to load and they had a new wave built-in flash! (Oooh, aaah!) You merely had to turn on the flash switch and wait for it to stop blinking. In 5-10 minutes you were totally set to go!  My prized 110 being the coveted pink LeClic.  Best gift ever! This picture to the left is actually the Disc version of my LeClic (found the image online), but you can still get the gist... that they were totally rad. (I also had the matching pink mini boom box, but I'll stop boasting now...)

From the 110s, I made the mature decision of moving up to the 36mm. More complex to load, but I could now take 24 or 36 pictures per roll as opposed to 12. Yee haw! From there I eventually hopped (a little late) onto the digital train. With digital came quantity. I can take between 100-200 snapshots on any given day trip. And, up to 50 just on a mere house call. When I went digital, I guess I also went a little picture crazy. And, that's also when I became the Camera Destroyer.

Another one bites the dust...

I didn't move on to digital until about four years ago, if you can believe it. And, that's when this basket began its accumulation. I call this basket my camera graveyard. Today I have moved on to what is either my fourth or fifth digital camera in four years (I've, sadly, lost count at this point.) I don't think of myself as being considerably rough on my personal belongings, but somehow I've been breaking cameras left and right.

Maybe it's an undiagnosed early onset of Parkinson's Disease or something. I notice a couple 35 mms in the basket too, so the problem must date back further than I'd care to admit. (We won't mention the missing members of the basket who were returned to whence they came.) I don't know what make digital cameras so fragile. Maybe whatever sturdy parts once existed to encase a roll of film also served as a safety cage.  No film, no cage?

Sylus 840's last hurrah!

Well, today my latest comrade bit the dust. My beloved Olympus Stylus (same make as my favorite 35mm as well.) It fell from the back deck, never to return to consciousness again. I have to give the chincy-looking thing credit though. This wasn't its first fall. It survived several drops and healings. I've surgically extracted the lens barrel several times. And, have perfected the advanced "palm bopping" technique to do the opposite procedure on many occasion. But, today's blow was fatal (forever documented in the picture to the left) caused its innards to go kablooey once and for all. Never to be resuscitated again.

It's okay though, don't mourn for me. Another camera is already on its way.  I've learned this lesson years ago and have trained myself to buy used. I have little patience for salesmen and like to do thorough research on my own online before such purchases anyhow. Knowing what you're getting into and then buying used because you're (I'm) cheap and you're (I'm) just going to end up breaking it one day, just makes good sense to me. (Plus, your top price limit can either get you something new of lower quality, or something used that would otherwise be above your budget.) I went for the 8X zoom this time. Point and shoot as always. But, switched to a Panasonic for a change this time around (Lumix FH20. And, it's Smurfy blue!)   Hope the dozens of reviews I read pan out!

The worst part of this whole deal is waiting 'til Friday for it to arrive. I'm on a four-day weekend and have no way to document it! I don't think I've gone one weekend since becoming an aunt without flashing a bulb into any given set of young irises. I have field trips planned! I don't know how to function on a day at Greenfield Village without photographic evidence!

I guess I could do what other people do and actually pay attention to the children for once. Instead of having them wander off while I stop to take a picture of the same windmill for the 400th time. Maybe I won't have to listen to them bicker over who gets to use the camera next (to ultimately shoot self-portraits up their own nose hairs.) Maybe, I won't find myself yelling at the five-year old when he tries sneaking fake gang signals into my group portraits... Or yelling at the ones who run off while the self-timer is still flashing.

But, lo, what do I find here in the graveyard basket, but my trusty Olympus 35mm.  I must have moved on while it was still in working order. Batteries still seem fresh. A roll of 24 exposures still in the orange Kodak box. Hmmm...  (To be continued?)