Olympics Wrap-Up

The summer Olympics left quite an impression on me this time around.  From the opening ceremony (that apparently someone had awaken the Queen from a much-needed nap for) to the medal after medal after medal for the red, white and blue.

Here were some of the standout moments (good and bad) in my opinion:

Teletubby Hill: Yes, for some reason or another, they decided to use the mound in which the Teletubbies reside as a backdrop for the opening of the games.  All that build-up, but nary a Teletubby appearance to be had.  Not even for a little song or dance.  Not even to light the giant cauldron.  Not even Po.

Olympic Fashion: Jocks have never had a reputation for being the most fashion-forward of cliques.  But, some of the wardrobe choices at this summer's events left me particularly befuddled.  From the french-cut U.S. ladies gymnast uniforms (coming in a variety of hues, including particular shades of pink and purple that I don't recall ever seeing on our nation's flag), to the sports bra-over-tshirt look that many of the foreign beach volleyball teams adopted, to the men's synchronized diving speedos that managed to cover not even one buttcrack, to the fluttery shorts worn in the male gymnasts' floor routines, giving a whole new meaning to the sports term "ball out".

The obvious DWTS Predictions: Once they return home after the games, you just know that at least one lady from the glamorous U.S. women's track team and one beach volleyball gal with a lusciously thick ponytail will be receiving calls from the Dancing With the Stars casting team.

The Most Obvious Wheaties Box Cover Girl: Miss Gabby!  I just adore her.  Yes, I've called her She-ra... but, I meant it in the nicest way!

D-bag; Is he or isn't he? Ryan Lochte was the front runner to replace Michael Phelps as America's golden boy.  Then his mom innocently blabbed that, yes, he is single because he doesn't have the time for a serious commitment right now, just lots and lots of one night stands.  D-bag!   Well, then Ryan quickly went to the press to apologize for his mother's grasp on American slang. She thought one night stands were when you just go on a date with a girl once and it doesn't turn into a relationship. Awww... just misunderstood.  Then the paparazzi posts pictures of a blurry-eyed Lochte in the back of a cab with a blonde chick climbing all over him.  D-bag!  Well, the next day it comes out that Ryan was simply out celebrating with his family that night and it was just his sister climbing into the cab with him and the rest of the fam.  Awww... misunderstood.  Well, I'm sure the "is he or isn't he" debate is just warming up for now.  Until the world comes to a final consensus, Ryan, you might want to distance yourself from that family of yours!

Other Moments in "What Were Their Parents Thinking?":  Whoever decided to name their daughter Destinee Hooker should thank their lucky stars that she developed Olympic-worthy volleyball skills and thus could avoid the only two other sensible career options available to the moniker.  (Then again, while Googling the above pic, I came across some racy other shots of Miss Destinee and volleyball, sans uniform. Just stay on the court, girl.  Prove your mama wrong and stay on that court!)

Thankfulness: I personally like it when people of other nations also point to Heaven in praise when they win the gold, silver or bronze. It just goes to show, once and for all, that God doesn't favor particular sports teams.

Moments in Poor Sportsmanship:

Sore Losers:  For how many seconds did you feel sorry for McKayla Maroney when she botched up her vault routine, before you suddenly turned on her for pouting over winning the silver?  It's a silver medal in the Olympics!  You were second best in that event out of every gymnast in the entire universe!  (How much you want to bet she melts down Gabby's golds on the flight home in a jealous rage?)

Or, how about Morgan Uceny who, after falling down in the women's 1500 meter, decided the most sportsmanly thing to do was to beat her fists on the ground in disappointment rather than bite her lip, shed a tear and hobble her way to the finish line. 

Note to fallen heroes: Yes, you've trained and practiced for the past four years like you've never trained or practiced in your entire life. Yes, the last 1,460 days have all been leading up to this one singular moment.  Yes, you've let yourself down in your few seconds to shine, with the entire world's eyes on you. But, you have to remember, you're not just representing yourself out there.  It's your team, your fans and your country that you're letting down.  Not by tripping or falling, but by being a pouty second-placer or an angry non-finisher.  Bite your lip, shed your tear... but manage to cross that finish line and you'll still hear the roar of applause.

Haven't these people ever seen Cool Runnings?

Poor Winners: Usain Bolt.  Need I say more?  I also nominate Mr. Bolt for Most Likely to Bring Home a V.D.  Don't tell me this boy has never uttered the phrase, "Hey ladieees, who wonts to sleep witha win-na???" (Double or nothing, he'll also wear his medals to bed with you.) *cringe*

Which leaves us with my gold-winner (no pun intended) of the entire 2012 Summer Olympic Games:

Pee Water:  Once Ryan Lochte finished explaining away his family's errs, he casually revealed that all Olympic swimmers pee in the pool.  Which left the viewing audience forever distracted during all further water-related events.  They're peeing in the pool.  They're peeing in the hot tubs.  They're peeing while the water runs down them from the wall showers.  Synchonized swimmers are dancing in it.  Michael Phelps is gulping up pee water by the gallon.  Divers are splashing head-first into it.  Synchonized divers merit twice the amount of urine in their eyes. And, is that a bubbly current we see on the underwater cam?
 

Yes, the games that started out as a confusing episode of Teletubbies with a cranky royal as its host, went on to be forever summed up by the phrase "pee water."  Thank you, Olympians, for the memories... and whole new meanings to the phrases "Go for the gold" and "Number one!"

Odd Jobs

I'm starting a new temp job on Monday and the extensive interview process has caused me to fondly reminisce about the jobs of my past.

Babysitter:  Throughout junior high and high school I was the queen of all babysitters.  I started at the ripe age of eleven and babysat for family members, family friends, my brother's friends, friends of friends, church folk and the occasional babysitting gig of a friend that I'd end up crashing by slumber-party-default.  (Warning about tagging along on a friend's gig: You will inevitably end up doing most of the work and take home 0% of the cash.) 

The thing that made me the Babysitting Queen was simply that I actually played with the kids.  It was amazing to me how often kids would compare me to their last sitter with the statement, "You're nice.  You play with us."  Isn't that the gig?  "Well, what did your other babysitters do?"  "Sit on the couch, drink our pop, send us to bed early and watch tv." 

Another reason the kids loved me was that I would never rat out them out for misbehaving. I thought their obnoxious behavior somehow reflected poorly on my perfomance as a sitter.  If Matthew's parents found out that he wouldn't brush his teeth for me, wouldn't go to bed and that he peed on his brother, they'd think I didn't have things under control.  Solution?  "When your parents get home, at least pretend that you're sleeping!"  "How were the kids tonight.  Were they good?"  "Yes."  Cha-ching!  Job perks: Instant cash.  Cute babies.  Cons:  Poopy diapers, sometimes with corn in them.  Bratty kids that won't go to bed.

Bouvier?  Don't mind if I do.  Two dollars, please!

Dog Washer:  My first job out of high school was washing dogs over the holiday season at the grooming shop where my aunt works.  (Is that what they're called; Grooming shops? Pet barbers?  Doggie salons?)  I got paid $1.00 per small dog and $2.00 per large one. (Fortunately for me, the local community had a dense Bouvier population.) Job Perks: Instant cash. (I proudly purchased Taco Bell on a regular basis on the ride home.)  Coochy-cooing adorable pups all day. (Not to mention, the occasional cat.  P.S. Cats always pee when you bathe them.  It's a fact I learned by experience.)  Cons: Have you ever smelled a wet dog? Well, that's what I smelled like every day, all the way down to the bone.  The bathing room was equipped with several aprons (some with pictures of Bouviers on them.)  It was mentioned that I could change them as often as I deemed necessary and strongly suggested that I wear two at a time.  I wore three.  It would take one Bouvier and/or two Standard Poodles to soak through all three layers of aprons, two layers of winter clothing and one padded bra. 

Assembler:  Adding to the tradition of using family to find work, my first full-time job was at a factory my dad's friend owned.  I assembled computer parts.  Modemy-looking things, cabley- looking things... I have no idea what the heck it was that I was putting together.  I just know that at age eighteen, I could crimp, screwdrive and solder on par with any grown man.  Although, I did get fired from this job.  Not for my soldering skills, of course.  For being a motor mouth.  Job Perks: Minimum wage times 40 hours a week never looked like so much dough!  I couldn't believe I actually had hundreds of dollars at one time!  I opened my first bank account and spent it all on Levi's and scrunchies, if I recall.  Cons:  Carpal tunnel syndrome, daily blisters and the early signs of arthritis.  Too young!  I was oh so very young.

Buried alive in porn.

Video Store Clerk:  My first long-term full time gig.  My craziest work stories revolve around the video store where I spent ages 18-26.  I outlasted three store owners, one stalker, one sibling coworker and countless part-timers (including the senior-aged, the middle-aged and more than my share of the drooling and teenaged variety of males.)  The store closed mere months after my resignation.  Job Perks:  Free rentals, free movie posters, an endless wealth of pop culture knowledge, the opportunity to work with one the greatest handicapable souls I'd ever met and the most loyal customer base on planet earth.  I still remember some of my favorite customers' card numbers:

#12209 was a retired widower who was a avid car lover and drag-raced at the local track on the weekends.  He enjoyed war and action movies.  I would always hold a stock of new rentals for him on release day, knowing he'd show up by 4:00 pm and that he would trust me with his selections.  He missed his late wife dearly and still drove her gray sedan in memory of her.  We'd talk for hours about everything from his military enlistment in Guam to hot rods to his questions about the God that I believe in and he didn't understand.

#4528 was in his early-to-mid thirties and would talk my ear off.  His wife once chastised him at home, which he mentioned on his next visit. "She says I talk too much and that I'm boring people and wasting their time!  Am I wasting your time?"  No way, I told him.  Yeah, he talked my ear off, but at least he always had something interesting to say. 

#202 was an elderly friend of my elderly first manager.  He was always full of stories big and small.  I only believed about half of them.  He had a stroke in my last year there and lost his ability to speak.  His favorite thing to do!  God bless his heart. 

"Wild Bill", another senior citizen. He would sexually harass me to no end, but somehow managed to hold a small affection in my heart.  He loved the old westerns and would regal me with stories of his yearly trips to Wyoming. (He even invited me to join him one year. Yikes!)  He was a colorful character who smelled of heavy cigar smoke and wore gobs of Vaseline beneath his eyes.  He lost my affection one day by sneaking a Polaroid camera into the store and taking unsolicited paparazzi shots of me.  Creepy old man.

Joey, a handicapable customer of mine who would visit me at least 3 out of 5 shifts. Sometimes before I had even opened the store!  He loved watching old Wrestlemania tapes (Hulk Hogan era) and I would play them on the store monitors for him on the days when I had a heavy workload to do and couldn't get rid of him.

The couple whose names I can't mention because they were gay and hadn't outed themselves to family even, but had outed themselves to me.  They were featured in a local newspaper story (under assumed names) dealing with the issue that one of them had been living with AIDs.  His own mother was under the impression he had cancer while I, the video girl, was trusted with the whole truth.

Cons: #506 was a pompous foot doctor who once tried to lure me away to work for him.  He was always trying to seem more worldly and important than he actually was.  He would always ask me, "Parlez-vous français?", "Habla usted español?" and "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" My answer was always no, no and no (no translation required.) And, I somehow managed to keep my tongue from asking, "Are those the only phrases you know in French, Spanish and German?"  He was last seen shopping, a decade later, at the video store my sister-in-law worked for at the time.  With the same routine, I'm told, too.  Geezo petes, Doc!  (That's what he made us call him...)  No one cares about your Sprechen!

The one customer whose initial were B.S. (no pun!) He was a lovely person and fun to talk to, but always refused to pay his late fees.  B.S., you caused me a world of trouble!

The porn room and all of its inhabitants.  Especially the scuzzy guy who brought his 15-looking-year-old son in there with him, (His idea of a birds and bees talk?) the guys who stained the carpeting and the ones who would, upon returning their half-watched tape, advise me, "You were in this one" *wink* and have themselves convinced that this was an original line and that I had never heard it before. Shudder! 

Not to mention the obvious cons of lousy pay, lousy hours and zero vacation or sick time.

Video store shenanigans with sis.  I was going through my Pulp Fiction phase.

Which brings me to my last job:

Receptionist/Secretary/Insurance Claims Clerk Extraordinaire:  My most grown-up job to date, spanning the last eleven years of my life.  I can't complain about a day of it (although, I could... it just seems "too soon!")  Where, among the boring churn of the day-to-day, my coworkers and I found opportunity to carve out time to practice our runway walks, create our own Real Housewives intros and envision us in our own reality show.  We had a blast and I miss you gals every day!

I can only hope this next place fills me with such good times, stories, friends and fodder.  If not, oh well... It's just a temp job!

Not Normal

The fifteen minute drive between my brother's house and mine turns out to be the ripest setting for amusing conversations between my nephews, ages five and nine.

Today's was no different:

9YO: "When I grow up, I'm going to have five jobs. 1.) a D.J. I'm going to look so cool! I'll have awesome sunglasses, you know? The kind with the stripes. I'm going to wear a green jacket and have ginormous headphones, 2.) a zookeeper, 3.) a paleontologist, 4.) a fifth grade teacher and 5.) Ummm... a mega party animal, I guess."

5YO: "I'm going to be a gator wrestler when I grow up."

9YO: "No!"

5YO: "Yes. I'm going to have one job.  Wrestling gators and I'm going to wrestle them down!"

9YO:  "Well, when you die from a gator attack, I guess I'll see you at your funeral!"

5YO:  [thinks it over for another moment or two] "No.  Never mind.  I'm just going to be normal.  No wife.  No kids.  No job.  Normal."

ME:  [finding the perfect timing to interject with a teaching moment] "No, no, no... Normal people have jobs."

5YO:  "Fine.  I'll have one job, but no wife.  No girlfriend.  Just normal."

9YO:  "Don't you know that normal people are the most boring thing in the world?!  If there's one thing this family is not, it's normal.  We're too hyper.  We're not boring, we are not normal.  Normal people just sit up straight and watch way too much TV with either a dog or a cat sitting next to them.  Boring!"

5YO:  "Yeah, you're right.  Normal people are pretty boring.  That's not us.  We have fun."

9YO:  [launches into a three-minute diatribe against the lameness of normalcy and ends it with...] "Kimmy?"

ME:  "Yes?"

9YO:  "Just so you know, you don't have to worry... we're not talking about you.  You are NOT normal."

ME: "Thanks?"

9YO: [stares out the car window, watching the traffic going by and seeming content with his speech for the moment.  Then he dreamily footnotes:] "Normal people have the nicest cars."

Cooper for Husband in 2012

Anderson Cooper leaked to the press today the most incredibly dispensable news of his journalistic career. The fact that he is gay.  The world, in response, released a resounding, "Duh!" and went on about its breakfast.

We all figured it.  As any straight women can tell you, any man this good to be true will either fall under this category or the one occupied by Ted Bundy.  As the youngest son of Gloria Vanderbilt, who once (willinging and excitedly) worked as a child model, was sent to all-boys boarding school, suffered great tragedy in youth, knew Andy Warhol as a frequent family houseguest, has always been impeccibly dressed without a stylist and never forthcoming about his romantic entanglements, the ingredients all came ready-mix.  For the totally unobservant and those completely in denial, his befriending of Kathy Griffin should have been the last piece of this puzzle's solution.

Yeah, yeah... nature not nuture.  I'm just playing up sterotypes here.  The real news of the day is to all the men who are shocked to hear me say that I'd still marry him in a heartbeat.  Not just me, but I would bet large sums of money that I do not have on the odds that a huge percentage of honest women (and a possibly even larger number of dishonest ones) would too!

Do you think a straight man could make a Carhart backpack look this classy?  And, don't tell me the woman photobombing him wouldn't also still say, "yes".

Women love gay men.  It shouldn't be that confusing.  If it is, you clearly haven't watched enough sitcoms or romantic comedies to merit an opinion.  There's a certain appeal in the kind of mate who would share a bowl of popcorn during a Real Housewives marathon instead of trying to wrestle the remote away from you during one.  The kind of relationship where your wifely duties require exotic travel (instead of hunting and fishing trips), a deep and abiding support of your shoe habit and, well---depending on where your age and libido lie---alot less demand for actual wifely duties. Take us off the booty call list, Anderson, but don't take us completely out of the running! 

The more pressing question is society's need to "out" every celebrity in sight.  I don't care if John Travolta is or isn't.  I don't care if you say Tom Cruise has been lying all these years. I don't care if the "Cydney" who Jodie Foster thanked during a recent acceptance speech is male or female.  She owes nothing to me!  And, Anderson Cooper's sexual orientation should weigh no more heavily on our minds than the sex lives of our colleauges, teachers, pastors and grandparents.  We're not at all curious about what's going on in those bedrooms, so who cares about what's going on in his?  Pass the popcorn, Coops, I think Teresa's about to flip another table!

Wrapping up this broadcast: Cooper is gay. The world remains unshocked.  You may continue to fantasize about him all you want.  Thank you and goodnight.

I'll Be Hair For You

Today I feel the need to stand up for my convictions and publicly celebrate the most overrated and underappreciated haircut of my adult years: The Rachel.

Come the turn of the century, I've heard The Rachel referred to as the "ugliest haircut on earth", "the biggest mistake of my life" and something to filed under "What were we thinking?"---mostly online and most likely by females younger than I, because anyone my age (or Rachel's age, for that matter) hands down would list their biggest hair regret as The Dorothy Hamill.

You didn't have to go full "Rachel", mind you.  There were modified versions, ala Courtney Cox's longer version and Meg Ryan's shorter adorable 'do in You've Got Mail.

All bearing the same hallmarks of the cut---tons of choppy layers on top and ends chopped at a near 45 degree angle that could be flipped up or tucked under, depending on the funkiness of your mood that day.

I'm going to go against the tide here and state that this was one of the most versatile styles of my twenties. You could scrunch it, curl it, flat iron it, tease it, wear it natural, pin back part of it, pin back lots of it and still have enough for a ponytail (...if you didn't opt for the full "Rachel" in the back, that is.)

If any of you have seen Jennifer Aniston's hair before she became famous, you'll understand where I'm coming from.  It was an unfortunate mix of poufy and frizzy that was not quite curly/not quite straight. Or, in other words, exactly like the stuff that sprouts out of my own head.

Her hairstylist found the brilliant solution to those afflicted with our unusual texture by cutting away enough of it, making it actually manageable!  Our mornings got shorter for those few blessed years.  Then the cut went out of style and those of my kind were forced to go back to frying our rebellious tresses with curling and straightening irons and/or chemical treatments for hours on end.

Well, I'm striking back!  After flipping past too many old Friends reruns this week (because, seriously, it's on like every second of the day) and post one late-night viewing of You've Got Mail, I started to remember how easy my hair had it back in those days.

Well why can't I still have it easy?  Who's to say?!  My hair had already received an over half-a-foot self-chopping this week. (Yes, I've been my own hairstylist since the age of sixteen.  I have "issues", have I mentioned?)  And, even with that extra weight removed, it was still hanging all blobby and frizzy in this Michigan humidity. So I decided, against trend, "That's it!  I'm Rachel-ing!!"

And, so I did.

Forgive the lack of makeup. Did I mention it's like a 100 degrees here?! Why waste good concealer?

I did a longer version and not as choppy as I wore it back in the day, and minus the crazy layers in back that make it signature... plus I've got bangs... well, maybe it's not exactly a Rachel 'do, but what da ya know?

It's still lighter than air!

It dances!

It's glasses-friendly, which is important!

It works for me!

Whether it's a "Rachel" I wear today or not, I'll still defend the 'do to the end!  Layers are good for people like me.  We weren't all naturally blessed with good hair like Phoebe Buffay.  We Rachels of the hair world need to not be so ashamed.  They're just layers... get over it! 

If you don't think it's still in style, but you miss it, go for it!  It was never as bad as The Mullet, for crikey's sake.  And, long after The Rachel---in this same century, mind you---came The Kate Gosselin.  Do you really want to pick that battle?

(BTW: If we're not considering this a "Rachel" then explain why am I having a sudden urge to dance in a fountain and elope to Vegas with Ross?)

Anatomy of a Childhood Home

I had a small shock administered to my system as I took a spontaneous jaunt past my childhood home this afternoon.  You see, this is my childhood home as we left it when my family moved out in 2001:

This is how we found it today:

Bushes obliterated, Christmas lights hanging in June, grass coming up through the driveway, front porch swing replaced with piles of unused furniture...

... backyard toys in the front of the house, moldy siding, Mom's roses hacked out of the trellis, trees that seem to be growing out of the living room walls...

I fainted and swooned and made the appropriate amount of inappropriate Facebook comments about it shortly after.  Then I remembered that the new owners have a growing brood of three or four offspring, much like the four children of our own family who had the time of our lives growing up on that same lot.

I wondered if we had also left the yard in such disarray as we ran amok for the better part of the 70's and 80's.  Did we always have the time and resources to keep up with power-washing the siding and repairing every peel and splinter?  I decided to dig up some pictures and reanalyze the anatomy of my childhood home from the bones up!

This was the family home in its original form:

That's Tammy's hind and tail you see, my older sister screaming (right) and myself acting extra concerned.

A cinder block bungalow, painted yellow and insulated with old newspapers.  We didn't get around to pouring a sidewalk yet, so we walked on a row of press board sheets, laid single file, to get from the porch to the often muddy driveway.  This system proved good enough for a decade or so.  The boards would start to warp throughout the years, which added an extra ounce of fun to our childhood. Often on a dare and always with thrill, we'd take turns lifting up the boards one-by-one to see if anything good had crawled beneath.  It was usually just ants, worms and roly-polys to be found. But, on a special day, we might discover a crayfish hole.  On an even more special day, we might find a crayfish peeking out of its hole and snapping at us with one claw. Extra fun accompanied by extra squeals!

We had an above-the-ground green Kmart pool installed in the side yard (later moved to the back.)  It didn't matter that our house's paint had started to peel or that the phone line hung low.  This is where we all learned to swim!  My older sister, with obvious glee. Me, on the ladder, waiting to "get used to" the water temperature.  We all shared my yellow doggie bathing suit throughout the years as well as my sister's red one, and we all can now stave off drowning for an hour or two if need be.

I can't say much about the interior decor of our home in the 70's, because then I would also be commenting on the interior decor of your home in the 70's.  I'll let this one photo of baby me and older sis riding off into the sunset of our shared bedroom speak volumes.  I can tell you this, however.  It can be a dangerous thing to lazily roll over in bed and accidentally smack a wood-paneled wall in the middle of the night.  I can vividly remember waking up, on several occasions, with wood splinters underneath my fingernails and only having to venture one guess as to how they got there.  Not to mention, how the pattern of the wallpaper and linoleum flooring offered little comfort to any flu-sufferer stuck in bed. Already dizzy with fever from the virus, the dots and checkers would just spin and twirl until one was sure they'd somehow entered Lewis Carroll's wormhole.

As the 70's neared its close, this kid entered the house---apparently making it much too crowded.  Thus entering the family home into Phase II of its incarnation. That's my younger sister rolling around in her lead-based walker in the middle of an active construction zone. 

My dad designed an addition to be slapped onto the left side of the house.  It included a downstairs family room and dining room, and a new master bed/bath/closet upstairs.  The neighbors all pitched in with the build and, as far as I could tell, they were paid in McDonald's.  I remember climbing the staircase with my mom one evening to check on their progress only to find my dad and all the neighborhood teens sitting atop piles of two-by-fours and munching on as many quarter-pounders as they could stomach. I was incredulous!  We were only allowed McDonald's on Fridays!  Maybe if I could learn to build a house one day I too would be rewarded with fast food in the middle of the week.

Months of blood, sweat, toil and burger grease eventually gave way to this:

Black and white and red on the chimney.  The kids occupied the original right side of the house, still bungalow in style with the interior unchanged. And, the grown-ups took over the left side, where they could actually stand fully erect while digging through their closet.  Yes, as cute of an idea as a bungalow seems, let me present this warning: As I touch the top of my skull with the palms of my hands, I can still feel the lumps left behind from years of knocking my head into the sloping ceiling of my childhood room.  Permanent damage from the innocent notion that I could safely retrieve a clean pair of socks from the dresser drawer and emerge unharmed.  Consider yourself warned!

Well the house looked this way for the rest of my childhood.  The wood paneling doubled in quantity thanks to the doubling in square footage of the house itself.  Years of backyard fun was had as recorded for prosperity in an earlier post.  But, what about the issue of curb appeal that inspired this post to begin with?

With the arrival of my little bro in 1980, came the quadrupling of toys and noise spilling out of our yards, front and back.  I found evidence in this:

And this:

And this:

And this:

God bless the neighbors for still answering their doors when we rang!

We may have always had a project going on...

Maybe the dad who lived there then was a bit handier than the one who lives there now.  Maybe people didn't like our taste in style.  Maybe our dog yapped out back all night and the drivers passing by in the 80's were as appalled by the big wheels and bicycles strewn in the driveway as I was today.

Whether the bones of a house are strengthened throughout the years or left to rot, it will always be the structure the child remembers as "home".  I guess Christmas lights in summertime, furniture on the porch or mold on the siding has no effect on this.  Be it ever so humble... this is where every child's memories will be made, pages added to their story and fodder found for their future blogs.

"No Offense!"

I have a five-year old nephew who thinks "I'm sorry" is a get-out-of-jail-free card.  He thinks he can punch his brother, kick his sister, slap anyone's face and not get in trouble because, "Well... I said, 'I'm sorry!'"

It's not uncommon to hear a thud coming from the other room, instant tears accompanied by an "I'm telling!" that's very quickly followed with an "I'm sorry!  It's okay. I'm sorry!"  It's also not uncommon for me to enter the room as a slap-down is in progress, meet eyes with the five-year-old slapper and still have him play his card once it should be too late.  "I'm sorry!" he tosses out to his nine-year-old brother whom he's just publicly walloped.  Nine-year-old brother looks at me and tosses out an equally hasty, "It's okay, I forgive you."  Fake hugs are the next order of business and they think this means all is well.  Yes, he may forgive you, but it's not okay!

I don't know if I'm more perplexed by the logic of the apologizer or the forgiver in this scene.  That is, I was perplexed until I learned older brother's new piece of rationale.  The phrase "no offense" has entered his fifth grade vocabulary.

He uses his get-out-of-jail-free card as a means to criticize everyone's weight, looks, intelligence or natural body odor and thinks he can cash in our forgiveness by prefacing the whole insult with a "No offense, but..." 

Only someone with the audacity to say such things as, "No offense, but your armpits smell like toothpaste." and "No offense, Kimmy, but I weigh 70 pounds and you weigh a thousand times more than me." (Oh yes! Real life examples!) would have the same reasoning to forgive someone as they are simultaneously pounding in his solar plexus.  Maybe he's just laying the groundwork for a "No offense, but you're a big-headed buttface" that he knows he'll be dishing out within the hour.  Who knows!

I hope I've effectively used this weekend to clear up that once a bad deed is done, sorry or not, it is still wrong and there will still be punishment.  And that, if you feel the need to say "no offense" before making a comment, it's probably a comment left best unsaid.

Now if I could just remove the word "sexy" from the five-year-old's vocabulary. As in:

5YO: "There are three Japanese girls in my class.  They all love me and they are all SEXY!"

Me: "What?! What do you know about sexy?"

5YO: "I'm telling you, these girls love me and they are [in a creepily sing-songy voice] sex-y!!!"

Me: "That's the most inappropriate thing I've ever heard!"

5YO: "But, they are!"

Me: "That is not a word for kids. I don't want to hear of it coming out of your mouth again until you're at least twenty!  And, not even then!"
5YO: "I'm not lying.  They are sexy and HOT!"

Me: "That's gross.  No five-year-old is sexy!"

5YO: "It's okay.  One of them is six!"

No offense, but I foresee the principal's office calling next school year with a complaint that "I'm sorry" won't be good enough to fix. Sigh...

Things Unemployment Has Taught Me

Upon entering my fifth month of unemployment, I have decided the following things:

• I will never make judgemental comments about anyone on unemployment ever again. 
• I will never look down on fast food workers again.  Even accidentally.  Even if they forget my fries.
• I am not quite ready to work at McDonald's yet.
• Saving money is easier than I thought back when I was still making some.  Never realized how many unnecessary things I used to purchase each week until I stopped doing so.  Grateful to have learned that lesson before the severance checks stopped.  My bank account now thanks me!
• Politicians who make any mention of the unemployment rates have no idea what they are talking about.  If you really want to include that in your platform, refuse your pay and insurance for the better part of a year, live off your savings, pay your doctor's bills in cash, manage to still keep your home and cars somehow, and then you may speak.
• Although I'm desperate for work, I will not act desperate.  Just because I may need your job does not mean you do not need me.  I am still a valued worker.  Don't treat me as less than that.
• Single parents who work three part time jobs to feed their families deserve applause.  (And insurance.)
• For every job I don't get, I'm genuinely happy for the person who does.
• Magazines can be read for free at the library.
• They've got free books to read there too!
• Fresh air is a necessity.
• New clothes are a luxury.
• Taking thirty seconds to enter the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes every day is still a valuable use of time.
• Anyone paying off student loans while having to apply for the jobs ads listing "Bachelor's Degree required. Pay rate $10/hr." has my deepest sympathies.
• Money does not equal happiness.  Although, it could buy a little peace of mind.
• Maybe I'm not quite ready to retire.  Twenty-four free hours can be long ones to fill!
• I will still daydream about retiring one day, though.  It can not be helped.
• I am not a loser. 
• You are not a loser.

Bunheads

When I heard there was a new tv show coming out that had named itself Bunheads, it was the last thing I thought I would find myself watching.  However...

You know how nothing really good is on primetime tv during the summer?  And, how it's no fun doing hobbies at night, because that's regularly designated "tv time"?  And, how the same thing goes for reading a book because reading is delegated for quiet afternoons or bedtime?  And, how this leaves you, partially reclined, clicking the remote with such fervor that you're practically inviting carpal tunnel syndrome into your life?  Well, that's how I ended on the ABC Family channel last night, which---mind you---is a channel that I rarely ever flip to.

I had read that Bunheads was created by Amy Sherman-Palladino, the inventor of all things Gilmore Girls.  I loved Gilmore Girls as much as every other fast-talking sarcastic gal of my generation, but this show is called Bunheads for crying out loud!  There are toe shoes involved!  I'm no princess.  I'm a Lorelai! But, noting that I was already settled in my pjs and my other viewing options were the even less enticing reruns of River Monsters, Lizard Lick Towing or My Big Redneck Vacation, I decided to give it a go.

Our lead bunhead is named Michelle (played by Sutton Foster) who is a dancer gone cryptically wrong who somehow ended up as a Las Vegas show girl.  Which seems like an unlikely employment option once you see her slim birdy figure getting swallowed up by a giant red feathered headdress and spangly french-cut panties.  But, this is fiction... so we can overlook this and suggest to ourselves that maybe there are a few Vegas shows who consider themselves equal opportunity employers to the unimplanted.

Well, Michelle has a sweet-seeming fan/stalker who (uncreepily, they somehow convince us) shows up backstage once a month bearing lavish gifts and dinner invitations.  His name is Hubble, which is interesting and left unexplained.  But, even better, he is played by Alan Ruck (first seen, by me, as Cameron in Ferris Bueller's Day Off and last noticed as a nameless second-rate ghost in Ricky Gervais's Ghost Town.)

Michelle apparently still auditions for more noble productions whenever she can swing a break.  But, after a particularly disappointing veto and a pity dinner date with Hubble to vent, she finds herself imbibing in a few too many cocktails and waking up in a preppy-looking station wagon cruising down the early morning coastline (Left Coast, I'm assuming... even though it had a very Right Coast feel to it) with a little sparkler on her left ring finger.

Bunhead got herself hitched and out of Vegas!  Hubble lives in a quaint little town (They don't even have a movie theater! This is made very clear to us several times throughout the episode.)  Oh yeah, and with his mother (Gloriously played by Gilmore Girls Kelly Bishop) who runs the local ballet studio.  It's made very clear, very quickly, that the whole town---who she hasn't even formally met yet---absolutely hates her!  News travels fast on the West (or maybe East) Coast!  This all leads to funny little encounters with appropriately quirky, for a Sherman-Palladino production, town folk who mistakenly refer to her as "stripper", "hooker" and "Playmate".

I started to fall in love with the show a little just as Michelle was finally falling a little bit in love with Hubble.  THEN they had to go and kill my little show crush by ***SPOILER ALERT!  SPOILER ALERT!  DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU!!!*** literally killing Hubble!  (Poor Cameron, never could catch a break.)

I understand, this is probably just the writers way of finding a way to get the Michelle character out of Vegas and into this small town, but then allowing an open door for a little Luke-Lorelai sexual tension with some new character eventually down the road.  But, pilot episode?!  Poor Hubble never even stood a chance!

Overall, it was cute enough where I'll probably find myself tuning in again next week.  Sutton Foster has the right speed to snark ratio in reciting her dialogue to make this potentially a signature Sherman-Palladino hit.  They squeezed in a sweet bonding scene between her and the junior bunheads to hint at where her place might end up being in this sleepy coastal town.  And, have I mentioned the magnificent Kelly Bishop?

Now, let's just cross our fingers for Alan Ruck next pilot season.  Get at least six episodes written into your next contract, buddy!

Daytime TV

If there's one thing about unemployment that I simply cannot get used to, it's daytime television.  I've learned to make a habit of not turning on the tv before 5 pm, lest I sorely regret it. (Unless I'm catching a 3 pm viewing of Anderson. My one exception!)

The last time I enjoyed daytime tv, my age had a one in the tens column.  I'm convinced anything airing before the primetime news is solely directed to either the preschool or retiree set.  Somewhere along the line daytime talk shows have switched their theming from "talk" to "accuse". ("You are NOT the father!")  The allure of a full hour of paternity tests times five days a week is beyond me.  Soap operas don't catch my attention and watching court room shows is out of the question because televising petty claims always was and remains to be, well... petty.

These are the last shows I remember enjoying pre-suppertime:

Mr. Dress Up: Much superior in my mind to Mr. Rogers or any mister residing on Sesame Street.  There was something about Mr. Dress Up that made me unable to miss an airing (even reruns!) How he got his name, I don't know.  I can't even recall him dressing up that much!  Sometimes, yeah.  But, not enough to warrant a moniker.  I do remember alot of craft times, singing, stories and most importantly puppet shows with my favorites: Casey and Finnegan!  I had convinced myself the first two children I bore would be named Casey and Finnegan.  Seeing that I'm pushing forty and still childless, I have now convinced myself that Casey and Finnegan would also make excellent cat names.

Mister Rogers Neighborhood: Oh yes, Mr. Dress Up was superior, but that doesn't mean I didn't stay tuned for a trip to the Land of Make-Believe afterward.  Mr. Rogers was kind and gentle enough.  His voice was very soothing and there was an odd comfort in watching him change from his blazer to his cardigan (Not to mention the suspense of waiting to see if today would be the day that he finally drops his shoe during the theme song's toss!)  But, each day I was basically tolerating the science talks, factory tours, story times and postal visits; all in anticipation for that model train to come whistling through the hole in his living room wall. Yes!  It's Land of Make-Believe time!  The Land of Make-Believe was basically just a bunch of cardboard sets where the neighborhood puppets resided.  Again with the puppets!  I must have had a thing for paper mache' as kid!  If they ever revived any of these shows today, they'd have to add a heck of alot of felt to the characters as not to scare off the children.  The Land of Make-Believe puppets were pretty creepy-looking in retrospect. Especially that crabby lady who wore way too much blush.

Today's Special: Mannequin that comes to life after store hours.  No, not starring Andrew McCarthy... just some goofy Canadians whose names are long forgotten.  I don't remember much.  Just that they'd always get some visitors busting in on their skits (who must have been real slick to get into the mall that late at night and manage to give the security guard the slip.) And, there were probably some creepy puppets too, seeing that the show managed to capture my interest for very long. "Hocus pocus alimagocus!"

Polka Dot Door: "♫The Polka Dot Door. The Polka Dot Door.  Let's peek through the Polka Dot Door, for songs and stories and so much more. [ding dah-ding dah ding ding] The Polka Dot Door.  This is the time we always say, get ready, get set for [fill in the blank] Day.  We'll sing some songs, we'll pretend and play... so come in! The polka dot way.♫"  That's all I remember of the show, but it sounds like a bit of singing, pretending and playing was involved.  (Sidenote: I'm thoroughly convinced I could write a children's theme song after reliving that masterpiece.)

Now, onto the game shows.  Game shows aren't a hot commodity these days, but in the 70's and 80's boy did people get excited for the chance to win a couple hundred bucks.  Remember the days when you didn't get to carry your cash home from a Wheel of Fortune taping?  No!  They forced you to spend those winnings in their own revolving housing goods store where, anyone stuck with a remaining $100 and no furniture left to buy, would be forced to waste that last C-note buying an unwanted ceramic dog (who's value I'm sure was much less than its price.)

The Price is Right: I was hardly in charge of the household grocery shopping when elementary school aged, but that didn't stop me from trying to price household items along with the televised contestants.  Plinko and the big wheel spins were the best parts of the show.  (Maybe because I sucked at pricing household objects, considering the dollar/week allowance I was hardly budgeting well at that age, and these two games were strictly games of chance.)  I never understood how people could accurately price the huge prize packages at the end of the show without going over and be correct within $1,000.  Prices of cars, vacations, appliances and campers were totally beyond my scope of knowledge.  But, it was exciting to watch and made me think becoming a spokesmodel (minus the speaking) was a totally plausible career goal.  Why, I could shift my weight to the right leg while sticking out my left knee and simultaneously wave a hand up and down the contours of a Fridgidare.  Easy peasy!  How much do these girls make? (Bob Barker would have also been happy know that all of our family pets had been spade or neutered.)

Card Sharks: This was my absolute favorite of the game shows, which is hilarious because I can't even remember how it was played. I just knew that jokers were wild (no matter how creepy I thought they looked, you actually did want a joker card!) and that shouting out "No whammies!  No whammies!" was the Card Sharks equivalent to Wheel of Fortune's "C'mon big money!" chant.

Which leads us to the world of talk.  I watched Rolanda, I watched Sally Jessy and, yes, I even watched Jenny Jones.  But, in the mid-eighties a new host came onto the horizon and quickly climbed the ranks of talk royalty. 

Yes, and then there was Oprah! (Did you think I was going to say Montel?!) 

I don't know what it was about The Oprah Winfrey Show that superseded all other talk shows of the day.  Before she was a household name, men usually mispronounced her name as "Ofrah".  And, before all of the celebrity connections and favorite things, she started out just interviewing regular folk like you and me.  Maybe it was that she could calmly mediate between the most controversial of enemies or that she had the stones to let the KKK on her show and patiently let them speak their ignorance.  Maybe it's because she was unashamed to cry for her guests and unafraid to speak the horrors of her own past, if she thought it would touch one soul.  Maybe it was her humor, her spunky pal Gail or that she was somehow able to grab that coveted interview that no other host or reporter had a chance at.  Whatever it was, she set a new standard.  Yeah, she got a little high on her horse and big for her head for awhile there.  I hated when her audience decided she'd reached guru status and began treating her like a deity.  But, she was the best and I even enjoy catching her Next Chapter interviews every now and then.  There is only one Oprah and there will never another one like her. (Although, that Ellen is pretty good.)

Well, I've pretty much convinced myself that anything worth watching during daylight has either been canceled or become no longer suitable for my age range. Which is just as well, because I have enough distractions from productivity from blogging and Facebook alone! 

Besides, who can sit inside watching the tube when it's 2:15 in the afternoon, eighty degrees out and there's birdies chirping?  Thank God there's nothing good on tv!