Fashion ADD

I know, you all come here for incisive political commentary, fabulous commentary on Issues of the Day, and kick ass parenting tips. Right?

Well, even so, today's entry will address the worldwide shortage of fashion insights by Evil Mistresses. Really--no thanks are necessary!

Birthday Barbie

A million years ago, when my kids played with Barbie dolls, one of them got the "Birthday Barbie" as a birthday present. She came with an odd assortment of accessories, including a balloon and a blowout. By inserting the end of either item into her mouth, and then attaching the GlamourWhooppeeCushion to her back, Barbie could operate the blowout or inflate the balloon! Great fun for little girls. For Evil minded girls like me, however, I couldn't help but see her as "Blow Job Barbie," her lips slightly but permanently parted and the hole in the center.

Somehow, in the intervening decade, I had thought this particular excrescence had been discontinued. Imagine my surprise when I find out I was wrong:



















Interestingly enough, this "album" cover was heavily Photoshopped and put on the cover of Australia's answer to Cosmo, where it was deservedly fugged.

The Emmys

We "missed" the Emmys a week ago. If you call "not watching a ceremony about people we don't recognize winning awards for TV shows we don't watch" the same as "missing" it. Especially since we were out on the boat on a glorious late summer evening instead. . .

But I never miss the chance to check out fashions. So imagine my horrified glee to see this one:



















"What!?!?" I cried. "What the heck is Pheobe Price doing at the Emmys? Surely nobody has actually cast her on a show?"

Then I looked at the caption and realized that this was not the infamous "P squared," but instead Christina Hendricks from the period melodrama "Mad Men." What a relief.

My relief was shortlived, however, because the very next picture I saw WAS Ms. Price, trying too hard as usual:



















Oh well.

Jonas Brothers

Sometimes, it's fun to squick out the kids by pretending to crush on the latest prefab preteen item. This year's model is apparently the Jonas Brothers. So, while I am old enough to be their mother. . .I mean, older sister, at least I know who they are. And while my kids were dissing them as lame, I offered "Well, I think Kevin is kinda cute." The looks of horror on the girls' faces were priceless.

But really, how bad is this?



















In my defense, he is 21, and thus as old as I was when I got married. So I'm not TOTALLY out of line.

So, why in the name of all that is Evil, Kevin, did you go and get a man perm?



















There is nothing good to say about this, except maybe that it doesn't look any worse than Mike Brady looked, back in the day.

More Bumper Stickers

So, yesterday, I spotted a real jalopy in the parking lot at the grocery store. All four hubcaps were gone, and the wheel wells had rusted through. The back bumper had sagged from it's proper position, looking like a overly-burdened diaper on a toddler. One of the rear lights had been broken, and the whole car looked dingy, tired and old.

Of course, it did have a bumper sticker on it:





















Which just goes to show you that the poor sod probably doesn't have much treasure in heaven either.

Politics--Now Organic!

So, does California reflect the nation? Probably not, so why is this even news? A formerly best selling organic Chilean wine has now stopped selling in San Francisco. Not even in the whole of San Francisco, but in one particular San Francisco wine bar.
















Hello! It's not even pronounced the same. The wine is pah-LEEN, the candidate PAY-lin. The wine is sir-AH, the candidate SAIR-ah. And yet, the Bay City's discerning Democrats are refusing to drink their formerly favorite wine due to the alleged similarity of name.

Regardless of my politics, I wouldn't go cutting off my nose to spite my face like that--and NOBODY can read the label of the wine that's in a glass anyway!

Talk about odd bedfellows. . .

Arrrrrgh! It Be September 19th Agin!

Avast there, ye landlubbers! I be Keelhaul Kate Bonney, and today be Talk Like A Pirate Day! Did all ye bilge swilling wharf rats find yourselves awash in grog and wenches? Did ye loot and pillage and otherwise maraud the English language?

No? Why not, you miserable pitch monkeys?

Health News--Update

So, what do you do when you have a breast biopsy, and they refuse to give you the results directly, but send them to your primary care provider.

And you know your primary care provider is out on maternity leave?

You wait the 48 hours they say it will take, and you call your doctor's office and say: "Hey! There's a biopsy coming in and how do I find out what it says?" Because I'm sure as heck not waiting until maternity leave is over, am I right?

"Oh, well." Says the receptionist. "If there is something wrong, somebody will call you." Yes, she actually said this. "No news is good news."

No, I don't think so. How long am I supposed to wait to find out that I'm not going to get a call?

Fortunately, a very thoughtful and understanding nurse gave me a call. "I just didn't want you to have to wait all weekend until someone could call you on Monday, just to find out everything is normal."

So--YAY! Nothing to worry about over the weekend! Nothing abnormal, nothing questionable, no further medical intervention necessary. Now I am free to whine about how itchy my bandage is.

Plus Ca Change. . .

Sursels had a volleyball game today, and there is a dedicated cadre of parents who come to watch the games. Today I had the pleasure of watching with one of the coolest parents in the gym.

Because we are parents, cheer every play whether it is successful or not. So do the players. In fact, whenever one of them makes a good play, they high five. When one of them makes a bad play, they low five in support.

My friend mentioned this. "When I was a kid, I don't think we did all that congratulating and touching each other. You know, after every play?"

I thought for a moment and realized that she was right. "Actually, when we were kids, we were a lot more likely to point out the kid who made the bad play and blame him. 'You idiot! Why did you do that? We would have won except for you!'"

"Oh yes. Exactly! Maybe this IS better."

Health News

I had a biopsy today. Since my mother had breast cancer three years ago, my health history is a lot less rosy. A close female relative has had cancer. Recently. A friend of mine is doing a 3 day walk for the Susan J. Kommen Foundation, and she shamed me into getting my annual mammogram.

Shall we talk about mammograms? Ugh. Man, it's like they are calculated to make you feel differently about your body. Those aren't breasts! They are tennis balls in a stocking! No wonder they can get stretched and squashed and pressed flat. It's because they are just accidentally attached to your body. I mean, jeepers! As I get older, my skin is becoming less elastic, less able to snap right back to where it was. At some point, if I keep getting annual mammograms, I might as well just leave my breasts there at the doctor's office, since there's no way they are going to spring back onto my chest any more.

I thought that things looked clear when I left the doctor's office last week. But I got a call early this week--doctor wants to see some new views. He will look at the films right there, and possibly order a sonogram. You will have answers before you leave the office today.

So I made the earliest appointment I could, and went back over. I dutifully put my clothing and jewelry into the provided locker, donned the faded patient "robe" and waited to get squashed again.

It was even worse this time. Only one side was questionable, so the up side was that they only had to torture one breast. On the down side, I quickly felt asymmetrical, with one side pulled and stretched, and the other side left alone.

You know the stupid thing about the robes they give you? Once you get into the room with the machine, you have to pull your arm out, at which point you are essentially undressed anyway. And then the technician has to position the questionable boob, pushing and pulling it across a VERY FLAT steel surface. The extra fun part is that, because this is a retake, and they are trying to get a magnification of a specific area, the pain is extra exquisite. Because once the technician gets your boob in place, and squishes it flat like a pancake with the automatic Boob Squisher (I think that is the actual name of the device)--she then has to give the thing an extra turn to really make things painful.

So, there I am, squished and bent over a very solid and very square machine, which is also COLD, and the final turn has knocked the breath out of me. So it's really not necessary for the tech to say "hold your breath." Because really, who's breathing?

I went through this three times, and then was sent back to the waiting room while the doctor reviewed the films. I hadn't even made it all the way through an US magazine when I was called into a new room. A "procedure" room.

Turns out that I had calcifications. Not that that is unusual, of course. Lots of women have calcifications. These particular calcifications, however, had changed over the years. They were kind of hard to see. The doctor wanted to be certain, so he wasn't going to order an ultrasound. No. He wanted a biopsy.

And the reason I was in this particular "procedure" room was because that was where the biopsy would be. Right here! Here in this room where there was a large examination table with a hole the size of a dinner plate in the middle of it. Because that's where you put your boob so the doctor can shoot it full of lidocaine, cut it open, and use a computer to take tissue out. But the fun doesn't end there! No! Because as you are lying there, they run the tissue out and x-ray it to be certain they got what they wanted. And then! Are we done? No we are not! Then the doctor inserts a titanium thing that looks like a tiny staple, so that if they need to get another sample, they can go right to the same place. And! The titanium thing works as a marker, so in future years, they can watch for other changes in that location!

So! Do I want to do it now? Or do I want to schedule it for another day? It's clear they would prefer I do it now. Maybe they are afraid that if I leave I will never come back. The idea is kind of appealing. But really, maybe I can just get it over with. So I climb on the table, and have to lie perfectly still.

Which is easier said than done, of course. Because as I find out as the procedure takes its time, when I first lay down, I was very tense. Tension in my arms holding me up from the table, keeping my head parallel to the pillow. As time passed, the muscles in my shoulder and neck started complaining. Which was kind of distracting, and actually hurt more than the shots for the anesthetic.

I had a doctor and two technician/assistants. The two assistants took turns laying a hand on my arm or shoulder--to comfort, or to keep me from moving? You be the judge. "Now the doctor is doing X. Now the doctor is. . ." and the second one said, "Don't tell her what the doctor is doing now. She doesn't want to know."

It wasn't too bad, actually. Especially since I was given a list of things I can't do for a couple of days until the incision heals. Not that they put in stitches or anything. But I should mow the lawn or rake. I shouldn't lift anything over 20 pounds. "I'll bet I can't cook dinner either, right?"

"Oh, not for at least three days, up to two weeks! And no vacuuming. What else should she not do?"

After the doctor was done, I got to get up and. . .have ANOTHER MAMMOGRAM! Oh, what fun! Of course, my whole boob was pretty numb at that point, but this time, they don't need it to be as squished as they needed it every! other! time! Sure--the time it doesn't hurt is the time they don't hurt it anyway.

You know what else? They lied to me. They took the biopsy, but they didn't tell me anything about it. Nor will they. The results will be sent to my primary care physician, and SHE is supposed to call me. Oh, but by the way? She's out on maternity leave.

Well, too bad, but that's where the results are going, and I'm going to have to find somebody there to tell me what's going on.

What can you do? If I don't hear anything by Friday, I should call. Friday--is two days away! So, I'm just going to have to assume that everything is fine, unless I hear otherwise.

On Friday.

The Death Knell

Have you noticed how everybody even slightly famous seems to have a clothing line these days? Sarah Jessica Parker has Bitten, Madonna is at H&M, P. Diddy has Sean John, David Arquette (David effin' Arquette? Who died and left him behind as a style icon?) is starting one. All the cool kids have them too--Eminem, Snoop Dogg, Kanye West, 50 Cent. . .the list goes on and on.

So really, it should be no surprise that LL Cool J has a line as well. Actually, it is apparently this third line of clothing, after FUBU and Todd Smith. I was kind of surprised to hear about this latest one, however, since I haven't heard ANYTHING about ole LL since about 1989. While he's been making cds and acting and writing books since then, none of that ever showed up on my radar.

Hence, this latest effort has a decided whiff of desperation about it:

LL Cool J, exclusively at Sears.

Sears? SEARS? WTF? I mean, Sears has negative cool. Sears sells house paint! And lawn mowers! And tool boxes! I mean, if ever a store embodied dead white suburban dads of the 1950s, it would have to be Sears. If somebody cool went into a Sears, we'd experience a cool/anti-cool implosion that would rip the space time continuum.

Sears.

Huh.

Good luck with that.

Prius Easter Eggs

Some video games give you "Easter Eggs;" funny little extras that the game programmers put in for amusement. Easter eggs usually require that you do something unusual--some combination of moves and buttons that aren't ordinarily something you would do. The reward varies, but can be a video clip, an unusual inventory item, you get the picture.

In the Nancy Drew games by Her Interactive, the Easter eggs are really Easter Eggs that just sit in your inventory and sparkle.

Apparently, Toyota has some game programmers on their staff, because recently, I have had to do some pretty unusual things to change settings on my Prius to make it work the way I want it to.

The things I want to change are pretty innocuous--most recently, it occurred to me that my Bluetooth connection would be more useful if the person on the other end of the call could ACTUALLY HEAR ME. I mean, it's not terribly driver friendly to answer a call and then have to stick my mouth right up to where the microphone is hidden, just to be heard. Especially since I don't know where the microphone is hidden, so I just direct my voice toward the speaker from which I hear my caller, and TALK REALLY REALLY LOUDLY.

You could work yourself up to some road rage that way, having to holler until your neck veins stick out trying to make yourself understood.

"The word is 'flat.' FLAT. FLAT!!! F as in flag, L as in little, A as in apple, T as in table--you know--straight across! Horizontal! FLAT!!"

Yes, that was an actual conversation I have had from my car.

So, maybe, there's a way to increase the volume on the microphone? You know, make it so it picks up my voice better? That seems like a natural kind of thing--you change the volume on the radio, you can raise and dim the inside lights, you should be able to adjust the microphone as well.

So, clever me, I go to the MFD. It actually stands for Multi-Function Display, but sometimes we call it something else with the same initials. Anyway! I pull up the Information screen, get to the Phone screen, and tap the Settings button.

No sale. I can change the volume on the ring. I can change the volume of the caller. I cannot change the setting for the microphone. So I go look in the Owner's Manual.

First, I look in the index for "microphone." Nothing. Then I look up "BlueTooth." Yes! I go to page 272 and start to read. And turn the page. And turn the page. And turn the page. You are getting the idea, aren't you. There is nothing about the microphone--location OR settings--in the Owner's Manual.

Well, I'm not to be thwarted! No sirree! If there is even going to be a point to having BlueTooth in my car, I need to do something about this damn microphone. So, I go online.

Of course, there I find the answer. Answers, actually. I can find information and videos on how to install a second microphone. I can order a BlueTooth headset with attached mike, so I look like Britney Spears In Concert when I make a call.

And, bless their geeky little hearts, I find the answer on PriusChat. All I have to do is go turn on the car, hold down two buttons on my MFD and turn the headlights on and off. Three times. This will give me a new diagnostics screen on my MFD that will allow me to adjust the mike settings.

Of course, this is ridiculous, isn't it? Turn the headlights on and off three times in order to get a new screen on my in-dash monitor? Who would ever think of doing that? I don't know, but DANG! if that didn't give me exactly the tool I wanted. Factory setting for the microphone is "0" on a scale of 0-10! No wonder I sound like I'm living in the bottom of a tin can!

I wonder what would happen if I opened and closed the gas tank hatch three times?

Bumper Stickers That Don't Exist

We were talking about bumper stickers around the dinner table the other night, and Sursels presented us with her own composition:


HONK! . . .if you like noise.

Come Join the Conversation

I know I have mentioned the MinnMoms site here--it's a new site run by the St. Paul Pioneer Press to highlight newspaper articles that address mom issues. More to the point, it has community boards where I (along with 13 other metro moms) are talking and posting about the stuff that we are interested in.

We are having quite a lively discussion about Sarah Palin here. We are helping each other commit to writing with writing prompts here, and a round robin story here.

The main page is here, and you can contact me privately through that site. I'm AKAMom over there, and I hope you might come join us.

More Reasons to Love My Prius

Reason #4356: Cool young hipster at Labor Day protest parade points at Prius, points at me, and says "That's hip." (I'm hip! Who knew?!?)

Reason #4357: after getting a manicure, I can leave the keys in my pocket, and still unlock the car and drive away without marring the nail polish!

Sign that Prii are officially ubiquitous? Finding a parking place at Target, and ending up nose to nose with another one.

Bumper Stickers Seen in the Hood

The political season has brought out some new bumper stickers. Enjoy.

What Does It Mean. . .?

So, I just spent a LONG weekend nagging the kids to get ready for the first day of school. We bought school supplies, and I nagged and nudged and ordered them to pack their backpacks, and go over their class lists, and assemble their equipment, and clean out their closet full of last year's stuff, and made them pick out what they were going to wear. . .

And I STILL got a phone call because somebody forgot something and needed me to 1) find it and 2) bring it to school.

Does this mean I should stop nagging, or should I assume that my nagging meant only one thing was forgotten?

Oh, That Isn't What You Meant?

I was out on the river the other day, watching the alternative to water skiing: wave boarding.










Suddenly, I understood how the Bush Administration could keep saying that they didn't use torture at Guantanamo or Abu Garib. They just confused "water boarding" with "wave boarding!"

(Slapping palm against forehead) OH! So you mean we aren't subjecting suspected terrorists to healthy outdoor water sports? Who knew?

What I Did On The First Day of School

Did I mention? That today was the first day of school? Have I made that clear? Not that I'm happy about it or anything. . .

So what did I do with the family gone. Did I run around and clean up all the messes from the summer? Did I run 47 loads of laundry just because I could? Did I get out and pull weeds from the sadly neglected garden?

Of course not! It was a gorgeous day--bright and clear, with a lovely breeze and so I jumped into my little car and went to the zoo.

There are two zoos here. The Minnesota Zoo is where we usually go--it's large, it's glamorous, it's a zoo that exists not just to introduce people to animals, but to help preserve endangered species by participating in breeding programs and international efforts. Today, I went to the other zoo.

The Como Zoo lies inside the city limits of St. Paul, and has a humble beginning. It was started as a deer park when someone donate a pair of deer to the city. I went there often when the girls were little: it was free, it had a sea lion show, it had many different kinds of animals in an area easily managed by little legs. While it no longer showed animals in iron cages on concrete slabs, you could see those old cages still attached to one of the education buildings.

When my girls were little, there was a rickety carnival that set up on the edge of the park, run by the kind of carnies you thought only existed in the movies. These (mostly) men were tough and grizzled, tattooed and dried out. Their skin was dark from the sun, and possibly also from the thousands of cigarettes they smoked. The rides ranged from toddler-level to teen-level, although there were only a few of each kind. Everything rattled, and shed paint flakes, and had the eerie aura of being only half real--you could wake up one morning and it would all be gone, with only grease spills and trampled grass to show it had been there.

About five years ago, the city ended its contract with the carnies, and built its own rides. The first year this happened, my kids were disappointed, as all the new rides were too small and too tame for them. With the loss of the rides, we tended not to go to that zoo any longer, becoming members of the newer, more glamorous zoo. I was not prepared for what I saw when I went there today.

A great deal has changed in the last five years! The rides area, called "Como Town" has added back many of the old carnie rides, but with new and shiny bright equipment. It has added places to climb and dig, rides that require pedalling to make it work, and a sort of go-cart track that is used to teach kids traffic safety. Almost everything has an educational component, and now it's larger than the old carnival ever was, with more food, more guest services, and more restrooms, all brighter and cleaner than before.

Como Zoo has also opened an enormous Visitors' Center, which provides a clear entry point, and offers wheel chairs and strollers and clean and lovely bathrooms, as well as a gift store that looks like it actually is profitable! The polar bear exhibit has been closed, and the bears sent to another zoo while a new habitat is being built. This is a wonderful thing, since the old space was terribly small, made mostly of concrete terraces, and the bears tended to swim in the tiny pool in mind-numbing circles.

Even the Primate House has expanded, with at least four new species of monkeys and lemurs, with several updated habitats. Yes, the older exhibits remain, and seem a bit small for the animals, especially the giraffes. But surrounded as they are with all the new construction, they no longer feel tired and old, but rather temporary and soon to be remodeled and expanded.

This is only to the good, and I highly enjoyed my day at the zoo. Although I was the only person there who didn't have at least two kids under the age of 10 with me.

The New Beginning

Today, my girls went back to school. The house seems quiet without them here, and a little empty. This is when I can start to focus on my work--however I define that.

Not that this summer has been anything like as hard as when they were younger and looked to me to organize and enrich their lives. Those days when I felt like an ER surgeon must feel--constantly on call and having to be ready to rush to someone's aid when they call. Now, with the girls being older, and with iPods and computers and headphones and YouTube, the house actually isn't any quieter then when they are here: it just feels like it.

So, this feels like the right time to make a change to the cast of characters of this blog. "Pony" is now nearly 4 inches taller than I am, and will be eligible for drivers' training in a matter of weeks. "Bunny" has also topped me, though not yet by much, and has started 7th grade. Those names were what we called them when they were babies, and they no longer fit these Amazon warriors. So I'm looking for what to call them.

"Bunny's" new name is likely going to be "Sursels." This is her nickname from German camp--she made a name tag with her German name, "Ursel" but decorated it with squiggles, and so her camp buddies read it as "Sursels." "Pony" is harder. Her Chinese name is phonetically close to her real name, so I don't want to use that. It translates into "Elegant Writing," which isn't a good nickname at all. Maybe I'll just call her "Tonks" in honor of her love of reading, Harry Potter, and punk rock.

So here's to a new year, new beginnings, and new names.

Olympics Overload

So, really, I like the Olympics. I might even go out on a limb and say that I love the Olympics. I love opening ceremonies and will even sit through the parade of nations. I watched them 12 years ago after delivering my baby and having to be awake for 2 a.m. feedings. Did you know that rhythmic gymnastics as 2 a.m. are mesmerizing?

Captain Sweetie comes home and the Olympics come on. Which is great--I like watching people at the peak of a sport where only the tiniest of margins marks the difference between gold and silver. People who have spent their productive time training their bodies to do things I wouldn't want to do even if I could.

But I am TIRED of NBC's coverage. It's not Olympics, it's The Michael Phelps Show! Starring Michael Phelps! Produced by Michael Phelps! With the Michael Phelps Orchestra! Last night, we were treated to a montage of his races, because now that he has won EIGHT GOLD MEDALS IN A SINGLE OLYMPICS it appears NBC is physically cannot last an entire night without Michael Phelps.

It is not Michael Phelps' fault. He is being as thoughtful and cooperative with all the dumb ass interview questions as it is possible to be. But lay off the man already! You don't really need to ask him how he feels being the #1 most requested friend on Facebook. What do you think he's going to say?

I blame NBC. It's like they have this terrible crush on the guy (they are not the only ones, it seems) and they are all writing "Mrs. Michael Phelps" all over their trapper keepers, and decorating it with hearts and flowers. They've already picked the wedding colors and decided who to ask to be maid of honor. Let it go! There are other sports, you know.

Last night, an American woman won gold in discus, which was apparently the first gold any American has won in 76 y. ears. Not that there would be any interest in watching any of that competition, which is an event that dates back to the original Greek Olympics. No way! So we get a Michael Phelps retrospective dream montage, and we see the discus thrower for the duration of time it takes to play her national anthem at the podium.

I know--broadcast television sells viewers to advertisers, and their job is to put out something that the most people will want to see. Apparently, NBC has decided that most people want to see Michael Phelps, and aren't interested in anything else--not even his TEAM MATES who swam the OTHER THREE LAPS of the relay that brought Phelps his 8th gold medal. Nope. If you just listened to the commentary and didn't look at the pictures, you would think Phelps swam it all by his ownself.

It's just a sport! Not even a sport NBC covers any other time than the Olympics. Michael Phelps did something no one else has done, but he didn't invent cold fusion, or discover a cure for cancer, or save drowning puppies. He got in a pool, and swam. Fast. Get over it.

The News From Munchkinland

Well, it happened. Less than a week after her 12th birthday, Bunny is taller than I am. I am now officially the shortest person in my family.

I have long expected this--after all, Captain Sweetie is quite tall, and the girls have always been the tallest of their grades. So it wasn't nearly as traumatic as, say, turning 30 had been. But nobody really warns you about this happening--the day your kids are taller than you are. I mean, I am not a particularly short person--hell, I used to be the tallest girl in my class for years!

Fortunately, I know more nasty tricks and I have a MUCH more forceful personality, so I don't expect to have to give up my utter domination of this family. Plus, I still have the car keys.

Kiss 'n' Tell

So, I haven't been posting much lately--mostly I've been too busy making out with my new Prius. You know how it is, when you first fall in love, and you can't think about anything but the one you are totally crushing on? Yup. It's like that.

Do you think it's cheap to sleep together after the third date? Because I'm totally having the Prius' babies. Think how cute a baby Prius would be! Kind of like a Miata, with better gas mileage.

The touch screen in the center of the dashboard operates just about everything except the brake pedal, and it won't get you a Diet Coke, but short of that, it's amazing. Kind of like an iPhone, only bigger, and you can drive it. It takes voice commands for phone calls, gives incredibly useful driving directions--better than Google maps, or even your own husband/wife. Too bad Amelia Earhart didn't have a Prius navigator along instead of Fred Noonan, know what I'm saying?

I've had the car for a couple of weeks now, and I'm finally starting to notice a few things that are less than optimal. Some things are probably not included to cut down on the weight and improve the gas mileage, so I don't begrudge those--things like motorized seat adjustments, for example. It doesn't come with all the DVD screens and cup holders and skee ball lanes you can get on the minivans these days--it's a "family car" potentially, but not really a "mom car"--you'd never get the entire soccer team in it, for example. It supposedly seats five, although the middle back seat is pretty slim.

A major improvement (other than the gas mileage) over my last vehicle is that the Prius has an auxiliary jack in the center console between the two front seats, as well as a 12 volt outlet (what used to be known in the quaint old days as a "cigarette lighter"). This allows me to plug in the iPod directly to the stereo system, avoiding the hassle of finding unused FM frequencies. With the purchase of a nifty little "car kit" from Belkin, the iPod plugs into the outlet, and the audio jack runs from the charger to the auxiliary jack, which produces better sound than plugging in through the headphone jack. The downside? The iPod can't be controlled through the stereo controls, so you have to manually change playlists, albums, whatever. This can apparently be addressed through the addition of an aftermarket item, but shouldn't it be standard? If satellite radio capability is standard, can't they do the same for my iPod?

Another minor stereo glitch is the way that it posts information from radio stations. The audio screen shows six (pre-set) stations--the one actually playing is highlighted, and shows the name of the band and the song--more or less. There are only a limited number of characters visible at any time, which means that you have to watch for a significant amount of time to get all the information. Distracting much?

There is a "message" option, where a separate screen shows the station, band and song in an easy to read format, with no odd broken lines, no time delay to scroll. BUT! The message screen DOES NOT work while the car is in motion.

The other glitch is that once you change stations, the last bit of message remains on the screen--posting old data about what WAS on the LAST time you tuned in to that station. So I was driving around with "FOGHAT" staring at me--which I assure you I did not actually listen to.

Every day it seems I learn something new that the car can do, or else there is something new I can customize. I turned off the annoying reverse beep, programmed in my default destination for the GPS navigation, enabled Bluetooth for my cell phone and entered my four most frequently called numbers.

So, I'm off to see what else I can do with it. It's like a really good boyfriend--it's perfect, AND it can change!

Points to Ponder

They say that exercising the mind helps avert senility. So, as a public service, here's something to stretch your brain around:










If a man determines to fail, and he succeeds, which has he done?

Feel free to send me your $20 co-pay, and I'll submit the bill to your insurance.

Photo source here.

Journey to the Center of the Earth, A Review

With the kidlets off for two weeks of summer camp, Captain Sweetie and I have had to fill the sad and lonely hours, taking what consolation we can from the echoing emptiness of Castle Evil, and desperately filling the long days with what amusement we can find.

HA! Fished you in! We are totally treating every night as Date Night! On Wednesday night, we took ourselves out to see Brendan Fraser's movie Journey to the Center of the Earth. Or rather, Brendan Fraser's FIRST movie in what promises to be the Summer of Brendan Fraser. (The Mummy comes out next week.)

The question arises, "Why is this a movie, and not a theme park ride?" Because frankly, if the seats moved in sync with the action on the screen, and fans blew wind through your hair, you'd think you were at Universal Studios theme park.

To start with, the movie was shot to be seen in 3D, pulling out every 3D trick the film makers could think of. Trilobite antennae wave in your face; a yo yo flies out of the screen at you; a Swiss Army knife hovers in the air--none of which have any point other than to highlight the 3D effect. Some theaters do show this in 2D, which must be even more pointless.

The plot, such as it is, is that Brendan Fraser's older brother Max went missing some 10 years ago after a trip to Iceland. The seismic events he was studying seem to have re-aligned precisely as they were 10 years ago, so Brendan Fraser and his brother's sullen pre-teen kid go up to Iceland to follow his trail.

They meet the incredibly competent and cool Hannah, who is a mountain guide and leads them up to one of Max's sensors. A storm blows up suddenly, and the three take refuge in a cave. Of course, lightning strikes the hill and the cave gets closed off. Our Intrepid Three have to find another way out.

They have some adventures, yadda yadda mine cars, yadda yadda rappelling, yadda yadda follow bio-luminescent birds and they find the other world hidden inside the earth. Our Heroes immediately find a tree-house that contains items from the original expedition (which is chronicled in the Jules Verne book) as well as signs that Max had been there. But time is short, as lava is rising and making the place to hot for human survival.

Cue the Act 2 adventures: yadda yadda build a boat; yadda yadda ugly fish with big teeth getting eaten by pleisiosaurs; yadda yadda parasailing; yadda yadda some nonsense about reversed polarity so north is actually south. We get a very silly sequence involving running from a T. Rex-- which, contrary to any survival strategy that actually works, chooses to turn away from the ocean teeming with life, and chase a kid the size of a single tooth across a baking desert. No, I don't know why either.

Our Heroes get separated, get reunited, and finally escape back to the surface by riding a dinosaur skull up a volcanic tube which turns out to be in Italy. Yay! The End.

Really, the whole thing would be totally pathetic, if not for charm of the principal actors. I mean, how can you salvage a movie that gives us Brendan Fraser brushing his teeth and gargling in 3D? At least Brendan Fraser plays a smart but bumbling nice guy; the character of Hannah is actually tough and resourceful and doesn't scream once; the nephew is attractive and believable, with the added bonus of not being Spencer Breslin. As it is, though, you would probably enjoy this movie more if you chug a couple of margaritas before putting on the 3D glasses.

Love, Prius Style

So I've had my Prius two and a half weeks, and man does it rock! I'm getting roughly 50+ miles per gallon, which is really the only reason I bought it. My 1998 Odyssey is still in excellent condition, and runs really really well. It only gets about 22 mpg, and when gas was hitting its head against $4 per gallon, better mileage was the tipping point to getting a new car.

Although I didn't get a new car so much as I got a computer with four tires and a steering wheel. It seems like every day requires me to program something new. Today, I managed to get the garage door opener (cleverly located on the rear view mirror) programmed.

Did you know:

• That the plural of Prius is Prii (pronounced PREE-eye)?
• That you cannot operate your iPod through the stereo controls? (Boo!)
• That certain touch screen features are disabled while the car is in motion?
• That window controls on the arm rests mean your dog can open his own window to stick his head out?

Blame it on Microsoft

After some quick research, I have come to the conclusion that the reason this blog was not openable on Internet Explorer for the last two days is NOT due to my indifferent posting skill, but is actually a glitch in IE7. It is a correctable problem, but first you have to know that it is there.

At least one fix can be found here. I have not tried this program, and I make no promises that it will fix the problem. What WILL fix the problem is to ditch IE altogether and go with Firefox, which is what I have done.

But for those of you who are still in thrall to the clutches of Microsoft. . .I mean, "still using Internet Explorer" I have replaced the actual Harry Potter 6 video clip with a link instead, which will take you to YouTube where you can watch it in it's spooky entirety.

Reason 4,538,116 To Switch To Firefox

I have just been informed by Captain Sweetie that my previous post cannot be opened in Internet Explorer. There is apparently some problem with the embedding of a YouTube video of the newest Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince trailer.

I am not a particularly savvy programmer, but this should not be! I am therefore posting this in an attempt to make the blog openable in IE. Look quick, or I may have to take down the trailer too.

New Harry Potter Trailer

I don't know about you, but now that Rowling has released the last Harry Potter book, I am less ravenous to see the latest movie. I guess I was always watching them to get a clue about what would happen in the next book. Now that the world KNOWS what happens, the movies seem like more of an after thought.

Which doesn't mean I'm not going to go see it opening weekend, of course.

See it here.

FYI--the boy playing young Tom Riddle is Ralph Fiennes' nephew, so there is THAT creepiness -- it's terribly believable that this little boy will grow up to be this:

Oh Realllllly? Or, Get Smart!

So, you know what is really NOT a good idea for somebody with periodic insomnia?

Drinking half a pot of tea at 9 p.m. at a Chinese restaurant!

HELP! MY EYELASHES ARE GLUED TO MY EYEBROWS, AND I CAN'T SLEEP!!!




(Be alert. The world needs more lerts.)

It's Complicated

Captain Sweetie reports receiving this compliment(?):

If I were straight, I would totally fall for you.

Is it? Is it not? I say--hey! Take it as a compliment and move on . . . .

Nation Relieved: New Timewasting Web Site Launched

Spy Magazine used to have a feature called "Separated at Birth" which took unflattering photos of people and put them next to other unflattering people. Yes, I totally stole this for my Separated at Birth series.

Now the Good Folks who brought you cheezburger cats and hot dogs have a (mostly) human site: Totally Looks Like.


see famous look-a-like faces

Now you have something else to do other than actual work. You are welcome.

So Now I Have To Change My Name

I spent the weekend visiting my sister in her cute new house in Virginia. (Hi Suefunky!) And I'm feeling all cosmopolitan and c to .ool and fabulous as I just ran out for the weekend and came back on Monday morning and I'm all ready to hop in a cab and drop off my bags and go get my dog from the vet.

Except I upgraded to first class on Sun Country (NB: Price has increased from $89 to $99. Do you get $10 more free drink? Discuss) and because it was a morning flight, I drank Diet Coke instead of alcohol. And, due to the frequent patches of turbulence throughout the flight, the "Fasten Seat Belt" sign is on for most of the flight--except it gets turned off just long enough for the flight attendant to get me more Diet Coke.

Fortunately, I'm in the second row, so I can get off the plane pretty quickly and get to the restroom. And I am literally in there for 34 seconds, when somebody comes in and makes an announcement that "Cate Ross left her ID on the plane. Is there a Cate Ross here?" Okay, I'm here, but I'm in no position (ha ha) to go reclaim my ID at this particular moment. So I call over the door, and I am told to go pick it up from the flight attendant.

But! The news spreads! Because why? I don't know! But every damn woman who comes into that bathroom is worried about this whole ID thing. "Did you hear? Cate Ross left her ID on the plane!" "There's a lost ID. It belongs to Cate Ross!" "Do you think Cate Ross knows she left her ID on the plane?"

I have never been so tired of hearing my own name! By the time I emerge, EVERYBODY knows that I am Cate Ross and I have left my ID on the plane! I'm not watching the local news.

(Actually, I didn't LEAVE my ID on the plane--it was inside my bag, and fell out when I stowed the bag beneath the seat in front of me. I could have happened to anybody! Really!)

Craig Ferguson Rocks My World

My newest celebrity addiction is now Craig Ferguson. Something about his delivery just cracks me up. Maybe it's the accent as well--nothing wrong with a sexy Scottish accent. If he wore his kilt instead of a suit, that could increase his viewers.

Last night, he actually forced me to laugh out loud--sure it was a re-run, and as a result the jokes were somewhat dated, but they got me anyway. They went something like this:

Gay couples can now apply for marriage licenses in California. All I have to say about that is. . . George Clooney, call me.

I think, this whole gay marriage thing is a right wing conspiracy to wipe out gay sex.

I may have to add him to my little list of Imaginary Boyfriends.

In Which I Go All Girl Crush On A Prius

According to the Toyota website, I am number 55 inline to get a Prius.

According to my salesman, who called me yesterday, my Prius is actually on the boat from Japan and should arrive before the end of the month. The secret, for those of you who want to get one before 2010, is to be flexible about the color. It might also help to ask for the Totally Tricked Out Package (TM).

And, although I requested only that the interior be grey instead of beige (which makes me car sick), it turns out that MY Prius is silver, which would have been my first choice anyway.

SQUEEEEEEEEEEE! My Brand New Shiny Car Is Almost Here!

Is It, Or Isn't It?

Muttered at me today in Target by a grizzled 70+ year old African American man, missing at least one front tooth:

"Nice tan. You're starting to catch up."

Compliment, or not? Discuss.

New Math?

I went to my local PetSmart today to pick up some Desperately Needed guinea pig litter. And--well, the place was just weird. Picked over in some places, and not restocked. What the heck? I asked myself as I wandered past piles of clearance items and boxes in the middle of the floor.

Oh. See that? Right there? Those ENORMOUS RED SIGNS plastered all over the frontage of the store? Oh, those signs. The ones I didn't see when I came in. The ones that say "We're Moving!"

So, I take a look. "Come join us at our new location!" it says, all jaunty like "hey, stop by and we'll totally open that bottle of Nicaraguan rum we've been saving! " Like your friends back in college who would move from one student dive to another, and have beer and pizza while opening boxes--it's fun! It's friends! It's a chance to chill and josh each other.

But wait. "We are moving" to a "new location"--

where there is already a PetSmart.

So, excuse me if I've not got this right, but if you are moving your store into a location where there is already a store, isn't that just closing a store?

/counting on fingers/ Yep. The result is the net loss of one retail outlet. That is a closing. You can't fool me, because I took math!

Like I Need This!

Barnes and Nobel is having their annual clearance sale. Can I resist the opportunity of picking up books for less than $5?

My already groaning bookshelves vote: NO!

Now Serving Number ****

I have tried to limit myself from checking in on my Prius status to once per week.













I can log on to the dealership website and see how many people are ahead of me to get a Prius. It took about 10 days to even get my data entered, and when I first checked my number was. . .

90.


When I checked in the following week, it was still 90. Well, what did I expect. It's not like cars arrive from Japan in a steady stream. Cars are not fast food, after all. No, they arrive by container ship, which means that a large batch arrives all at once, and get purchased, and then everybody waits until the next ship arrives.

So last week, my number was. . .

Still 90.

I'm totally prepared to wait until December. I'm having a bit of emotional deja vu from those last weeks of pregnancy, when I'd go to the OB once a week, who always informs you that "there is no more effacement and dilation, so we'll see you again next week." I would invariably become convinced that the baby was never going to be born.

Today I am number. . .

67!

And Now An Opposing Viewpoint

Despite having just listed my Crabby Summer list, I do have to point out that although it is June, we haven't had a day that has officially hit 80 yet. Okay, maybe one. We still regularly wear our jeans because the weather at night is so cool that shorts are simply uncomfortable. Overnight lows have dropped into the 40s this month.

So WHY are all the stores on the face of the planet having their Summer Clearance Sales right now? It's still too cold to go swimming outside, for crap's sake! There is no way the population of Evil-ille is finished buying everything that they will need when the real summer weather hits. Sure, it's lovely having 50% off sales, but not when that means that the next time I go looking for patioware for a summer party, all that will be available are brown plates shaped like autumn leaves! Why do you send all the bathing suits back to stock school uniforms BEFORE THE SUMMER SOLSTICE?

I have kids heading to summer camps at the end of July. Let's just hope Target will still carry mosquito spray by then.

Yes, this is proof positive of the existence of parallel universes--the one in which summer is over by June 15, and the one where the rest of us live.

Signs of Summer for Crabby People

I have no reason to bitch about the weather right now. It's beautiful! The sky is clear and bright blue, the temperature is hovering just under 80 degrees, the garden is full of roses and peonies. So, I can't complain, right?

Ho! You don't know me very well, do you?

Because every silver lining has a gray cloud, here are my Crabby Signs of Summer:

1. I have mowed the lawn. Twice.
2. Caterpillars have dropped down my neck while walking the dog today. Twice.
3. I killed my first mosquito, but only after it bit me.
4. Twice.

Happy June!

Something You Don't See Everyday

The kidlets and I went to the zoo the other day, and there is such a decided demographic: namely people with strollers. This encompasses kids in strollers, moms pushing strollers, dads lifting strollers in and out of buildings, strollers used for carrying the diaper bag while the kid walks.

We purposely went a bit late in the day, figuring that the Stroller Brigade would be heading home for naps by then. Yup, it worked. We pulled into a parking spot ridiculously close to the entrance, and battled up the Stroller River to get inside.

I am still fascinated by all the different formats Moms come in. There are definitely 'types" of moms and I am always mentally trying to see where I fit. There are the cute tiny Asian moms, who look all of about 14--not me. There are the short shorts and halter top wearing moms, who are often identifiable in the restrooms by their ridiculous footwear. High heels at the zoo for gods' sake? Nope, not me either. Plus, they are so damn perky!

There are the fun moms, with cute but practical hair, wearing sensible walking shoes that are still cute--a lot of Skechers' cross straps in this group--who are interacting with their kids in positive ways. I want to be one of them, but let's face it--they usually have at least FOUR kids, and I'm just not that organized. Face it--I know they have coolers full of healthy picnic lunches and 100% juice drinks in reusable cups. I'm always the "we can buy something there" mom--my pre-outing packing routine stopped shortly after "Do I have my keys?" and "Did we remember to bring your sister?" Yeah, I wanna be one of that gang, but I don't have the cred.

Older moms? Well, no, and that is NOT just my vanity talking. Broadly speaking, older moms tend to have just the one kid, often adopted from a foreign country. Most of them look exhausted, except the ones who are more Earth Mother-y. You know the type: long curly hair, equal parts brown and salt-and-pepper; ankle length denim skirt; t-shirt with liberal slogan or activist cause on the front; Birkenstocks.

There was an actually specimen from this phylum near the exit as we headed for home. Barrettes clipped into hair? Check. Denim jacket on the stroller? Check. French pedicure?

WHA. . . ?










Who wears Birkenstocks and a French Pedicure? I bet nobody who works at Mother Jones gets French Pedicures! French Pedicures scream "I get pedicures AT LEAST every two weeks which means I have an hour and a half during daylight hours to spend on myself! Plus the ability to drop a substantial bit of money as well!" French manicures say "I pose for J. Crew catalogs for the employee discount on polo shirts."

They do not say "I carry my own reusable hemp backs when I shop at the co-op to save the trees." They do not say "I only eat tomatoes I grow myself in the back yard." They also don't say "long denim skirt with activist slogan on the front."

So now I'm stuck on this. Why would this Older Mom Type have a French Pedicure? I'm just guessing here, but I'm thinking maybe she has a daughter from a previous marriage, or maybe a step daughter, who knocked her over the head with a sock full of quarters, and she only came to sitting in a massage chair with her bare feet in bubbling water.

Yes, I think we have spotted the opening signs of Wedding Season.

Photo source here.

Oh CRAP

I haven't posted about the sleep apnea thing for quite a while. No, I haven't gotten used to the Damn Machine--in fact just the opposite. After about 5 months of using it, my breathing patterns seem to have been significantly retrained, and I haven't used it since about March. Yeah, I love being able to sleep on my stomach again.

But recently, I've been noticing a tendency to be tired again. It creeps up on one, this lack of sleep, and suddenly I heard myself saying something I hadn't said for months. "Gosh, I'm tired!" (I try not to swear in front of the kidlets.)

So I waited for a night Captain Sweetie was away on business travel, and reattached the Damn Machine for the night. God I had forgotten how it makes me feel like an elephant--the long air tube coming off the front of my face and getting tangled up as I sleep. Did the mask used to leak like this? Air is streaming into my left eye, and across my nose. This must mean readjustment. Fine, so I get the air to stop escaping. . .and now I can feel the mask material searing into my skin, so I have to loosen it and the air is escaping again. . .

It was a long night. For the three hours I actually managed to keep the Damn Thing on.

You know the real tragedy? After one night--ONE NIGHT--and not even an entire night with that Damn Machine, what do I get.

Insomnia.

Killer insomnia. The kind where you toss and turn and wake up your bed partner (who falls asleep again in under 0.075 seconds, so he doesn't remember it, but he doesn't hear the scary noises he makes when he is startled from sleep). The kind of killer insomnia where you (and by you, I mean "me") go downstairs and watch the sun come up before feeling the least bit sleepy.

Four hours of sleep for a number of nights in a row isn't good for me. Know how I can tell? Because I can't even remember how many nights it has been.

But there is a silver lining! When I have insomnia, I don't have to wear the Damn Machine!

So! How Are The Children?

This is apparently a well known African greeting--meaning that if the children are doing well then the society is doing well. There are many political subtleties inherent in this, which I am not going to go into.

Life is too short right now.

The children, BTW are doing fine. Pony is volunteering at the Children's Museum and having a lot of fun with it. She's 14, and is taking the city bus to work and home again. I spent about 35 seconds feeling guilty for not taking her myself, but of course I realize that in a NORMAL world, she would have been taking a school bus everyday since she was 5, and it is NOT neglect to let a human being who is almost old enough to DRIVE get herself through an 11 minute bus ride.

Bunny is enjoying the opportunity to chill out and feed her Newsies mania through You Tube. I came downstairs one morning to see her sitting with the laptop, all dressed in black, with a Post-It note (TM) which read:
Do not worry. I am mourning the Newsies set, which burned down.

We let her alone with her grief.

So, me? Posting? Not so much, huh? Do I get an excused absence for the fact that my kids are now out of school for Summer Break? No, I do NOT use the word "vacation" here. I think "break" is apt, as there are days I feel like something is going to break before they go back to school, and I only hope it is something that can be glued.

Anyway, I'm back online and dedicating myself to posting more often. And losing 10 more pounds. And dating George Clooney. (Hey--he never marries any of his girlfriends, so he shouldn't mind if I am already married, right? That means no pressure on the relationship.)

Yes, I live in a fantasy land. But I like it here!

Kilroy Was Here

I mowed the lawn yesterday. I had to. I was looking out the window and realized there was a rabbit in the backyard, but the grass was so long I could only see its eyes. It looked like this:



















Except it was rabbit shaped.

Photo source.

Indecisive

Fortunately it's June and the final frost date has finally passed.

Unfortunately, it has rained for nearly every day.

Fortunately, it makes the garden grow.

Unfortunately, the garden is mostly growing weeds.

Fortunately, the weeds are green!

Unfortunately, they are also prickly and invasive.

Fortunately, the damp ground makes it easier to weed!

Unfortunately, nobody likes to weed when it is actually raining.

Fortunately it's early in the growing season.

Unfortunately, even when it isn't raining, the humidity makes it feel 20 degrees hotter than it actually is.

Fortunately, it's Minnesota, and it will be winter again in about two weeks. So stop complaining!

Tech Lust

Yes, I confess. Forgive me Father for I have sinned. I lust after the new iPhone.

Which is totally stupid, because hello? I'm getting the whole map thing in the dashboard OF MY NEW CAR! Where I would ACTUALLY use it!

Plus, I already HAVE a iPod. Which holds about FIVE TIMES more data than the iPhone does. AND has pretty pretty cases that are variously purple and shiny! Which you can't put on an iPhone because you use the whole darn front to work the dang thing.

Plus, it would be cheaper to just have one of those broadband/phone thingies for my laptop, if I wanted to have internet access anywhere--especially since I ALREADY HAVE THE LAPTOP.

So I ask you: Do you think Steve Jobs has figured out how to put crack in his hardware? Is there such a thing as "visual crack" that you can put into design? There was that infamous episode of Pokemon that supposedly put kids in the hospital through the use of flashing colors. Has Apple figured out how to make people into retail zombies so we see the newest gadget and mindless proceed to the nearest store and buy it?

I mean, logically, there is no reason I would want to spend that kind of money on a phone? When you can get all kinds of phones FOR FREE! Plus, why would I want to pay that much in service charges to AT&T? We're talking about easily 4 times what I pay in monthly fees for my current cell phone. The iPhone really only duplicates what I already have, so I'd only be paying substantially more for. . .what?

For that hunk of gorgeous gadgetry, that's what. It's like Steve Jobs has surgically damaged my amygdala, and now I can't control myself. All I can do is think "I want I want I want."

This is such a First World problem, I am embarrassed for myself. But not too embarrassed to post this!

Edited To Add: check out the price calculations from Salon.com here.

Second Guessing.

I'm now in line for a Prius. According to the dealer's website, there are 90 people in line ahead of me. I'm not going to see it until at least November. Which is really hard for me, since one of my personal mantras comes from Postcards From The Edge: "Instant gratification takes too long."

But you know what? I still love my 1998 Honda Odyssey--it's still a great vehicle. So I can look at the intervening months as a farewell tour. You know, like Cher, who had a "Farewell Tour" that lasted at least 3 years and kept coming back to the same cities where she had already said "farewell." By the time I actually get a new car, I will have been saying farewell for at least another 50K miles, don't you think?

The down side is that it means I also have months and months to second guess my decision. Did I make the right choice? Should I have waited for the (unspecified) new technology that is bound to be released right after I buy the Prius? Should I have gotten a different car all together?

So imagine my horror when I heard Ira Flatow on Science Friday interviewing a Honda exec about the new All Electric Honda they are about to release. I didn't want to hear it. But shouldn't I hear it? Can't I still take my name OFF the wait list for the Prius? Shouldn't I consider an All Electric car if it's about to become available? Or should I just switch the station and pretend I didn't hear anything?

Then the guy from Honda said something I hadn't expected to hear. "Hydrogen fuel." HA! It wasn't all electric, it was fueled by something! You didn't just plug the car into the wall and drive--you had to fill a tank with something, even if it wasn't gas. Okay, then, maybe I could listen after all.

Honda Guy was tossing around impressive statistics: 270 miles on 4 gallons of hydrogen. Drive from LA to Las Vegas with only one fuel stop. New technology--limited release--future promise of hydrogen processing in your own garage, creating electricity, heat and auto fuel from your garden hose! Robot maids and personal jet packs! (Okay, I just made that last part up.)

But then the dirty details started to emerge. The car will only be available on a pilot basis in California. You have to register at a web site and submit a personal essay--and probably your GPA and SAT scores as well--and Honda will review them and pick the first people allowed to be customers. The car itself looks kind of stupid. And the kicker? The hydrogen is produced from natural gas.

So when I got home, I Googled the process for converting natural gas into hydrogen. The result? It takes between 11 and 12 gallons of natural gas to make 4 gallons of hydrogen. So, in fact, we are talking about a car that gets about 23 miles per gallon of gas. My 11 year old minivan gets 21 mpg.

I'm feeling better about my decision.

The 11th Commandment

Direct from Mt. Sinai--the 11th Commandment:

Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor's iPhone.



















One can only comply with this, because Apple has announced the new iPhone 3G (which stands for "third generation"). The best new feature? Apple has dropped the price--8GB will be only $199, and 16GB will be $299! This is down from $399 and $499 respectively. You can't even buy a Palm Treo or a Blackberry from my wireless provider for that price!

Its going to be faster, and come with GPS, with the promise of new applications that continue to be developed. The new iPhone 3G will be available July 11.

I love my RAZR, I don't need an iPhone.
I love my RAZR, I don't need an iPhone.
I love my RAZR, I don't need an iPhone.
I love my RAZR, I don't need an iPhone.
I love my RAZR, I don't need an iPhone.

Keep repeating it until you don't covet it!

I love my RAZR, I don't need an iPhone.
I love my RAZR, I don't need an iPhone.
I love my RAZR, I don't need an iPhone.
I love my RAZR, I don't need an iPhone.




Photo source.

At The Zoo With The Improv Twins

I went with Pony and Bunny to the zoo today, and we made a point of visiting the prairie dogs. They have a nice little set up that mimics the dry western states, with plenty of bare dirt, some large rocks, and half a dozen scattered cow skull. No, I don't know if the skulls are real.

Although technically rodents, they are terrifically personable and engaging, and are always busy doing something. As Pony put it, "I know they are considered pests, but I'd rather have an infestation of prairie dogs than, say, cockroaches."

To which I say amen.

But because the kidlets are highly verbal, as well as trained in the art of improv, a trip to the zoo is not just a chance to see the animals, but to also engage in a running voice-over, narrating events as they happen. Thus, the sight of two prairie dogs standing on their haunches nibbling hay lead to this exchange:

Hello chubby little prairie dog. Are you on a diet? You look like you could lose a little weight. Is that your lunch? I'm going to call you "Lunchy." Luncy is a vegetarian, you know.

Oh? As compared to all the other prairie dog carnivores?

Yes. Look at all the skulls. You see, at night, they dig out of their habitat, and they go over there (the next area) and they grab one of the bison and bring it back. Then they roast it.

Prairie dogs have discovered fire?

Yes. They sneak out at night, carry the bison back upside down, with its feet pointing up in the air, and they take it underground, where they have their underground cooking fire. If you could see inside their burrows, you would see they have prairie dog planning sessions, where they all stand around in a circle, then they clap their paws and say "Break!"

Logic Bombs

(If you need to ask what a "Logic Bomb" is, go look here. They explain it better than I could.)

Like the kind of creep who uses Sudafed and fertilizer to make explosives in the garage--I give you our home made logic bomb:

My vacuum cleaner sucks. It doesn't suck.

Conversely:

My vacuum cleaner doesn't suck. It sucks.

Feel free to use it the next time you are held captive by an evil supercomputer!















Photo source.

Graduation

Today, the fledgling robins have graduated from their nest. Two of them are sitting on the wooden swing set in the back yard, hunkered down, looking fat and a little bit scared. They obviously ad to fly there from somewhere, but there is definite body language in the way the one of them is hunkered down.

"Gravity. It's the law."

So, the "law" abiding birds are sitting solidly, occasionally stretching to full height, but soon returning to their impression of immovable stones. Even the squirrel, who has started to climb up to were the birds are lurking doesn't startle them into flight.

Something else does. Big Mamma's here.

The adult robin settles herself on the cross bar of the swing set. She doesn't make any obvious moves, but the younger birds look less stable, less determined to remain where they are. Maybe it isn't Big Mamma--maybe it's the kind of stereotyped thug, issuing vague threats. "Ya know, it'd be a shame, something happened to somebody who hung around dis here swing set. Yah. A real pity, ya know?" Because there. . . they. . .go.

The most reluctant one just took off, and glided across the yard to poerch at roughly the same height over on the privacy fence across the garden. And hunkered down again.


UPDATE: It's not Big Mamma, or Guido Soprano--it's the avian personal trainer! She found the Reluctant One and proceeded to chivvy him u p and down the fence. But he's more nervous of flight than he is of her, and he's resolutely remaining where he is. Perhaps learning to fly is like learning to ride a bike without training wheels. You have to want to GO more than you want to STAY.

Talladega Nights, A Review

I am old. I am cranky. I have long felt that Phil Hartman was overrated as a comic. I avoid Adam Sandler, Rob Schneider and Jimmy Fallon whenever possible. I remember when Bill Murray was "the new guy."

Will Ferrell?

Loved the cowbell. Didn't find anything funny in Roxbury. That's about my SNL experience of him. I'll catch his movies when they come on cable occasionally. Loved Zoolander--he was funny in that. Ron Burgundy was fine for watching while sorting socks. He was unexpectedly terrific as The Man In The Yellow Hat in Curious George.

Blades of Glory made me laugh. Sure, it was crude, crass, and stupid, but it was also very funny. Funny enough that I flicked it on and found myself watching the whole thing. Even the big chase scene on ice skates made me laugh. So I rented Talladega Nights, the Ballad of Ricky Bobby. I had heard it was very funny, and I have a goofy love for John C. Reilly.

Cut to the chase: oh my god was this lame.

You could tell Ferrell was coasting--the movie didn't call for him to do much. Some of the actors clearly poured all the energy they could into their roles: John C. Reilly as the best friend, Leslie Bibb as the enabling trophy wife, Amy Adams as Jenna Fischer from Blades of Glory.

They tried. They really tried, but what can a mere actor do when the whole movie is paced like an episode of Teletubbies? The only lively bits were the NASCAR computer graphics. For a movie about speed, it was downright somnolent. Honestly, I gave up after the first 40 minutes, though Captain Sweetie watched it all the way to the end.

I'd write more, but I have to go yell at some kids who are on my lawn.

Adventures In ADHD

I went to see The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian this evening. I must point out, to give this story its proper context, that the Famille Evil saw this film about a week ago, and Captain Sweetie and I saw the new Indiana Jones movie just two nights ago. Accordingly, I have had it about up to here with hand to hand combat.

I went back to see Prince Caspian because Bunny and Pony wanted to see it again, and had invited a friend to see it with them. They did not go see Indiana Jones a scant 42 hours before. They had not overindulged in CGI hocus-pocus, nor were they particularly worried about suffering through Yet Another Epic CGI Battle sequence.

On the other hand, I could barely sit still.

This is unusual for me, this inability to sit still--the sheer number of hours I spend reading and computering would seem to be Olympic level training for the Sit-a-thon (expected to be an official Summer Olympics event by 2016).

Nevertheless, I really did not want to see this movie again. However, I have not prepped my kids to expect to be dropped off at the theater and then picked up again TWO AND A HALF HOURS LATER. As a result, this was a test of my Mom-a-liciousness.

At first, I faked it. I had an interesting bout of insomnia last night, lasting until some time after 5 a.m. this morning. I was up before 8:30 a.m., so I used the dark and comfy seating at the theater to take a nap. So, I snoozed, and woke up, and the movie was LESS THAN HALF OVER. Oh my god, how was I going to survive? I toyed with the idea of leaving entirely, and shopping, or heading over to the bar next door and drinking margaritas--but rejected that as possibly leading to leaving the kids at the theater for an inappropriately long time.

So, at first, I went to the restroom. Then I went out and got a refill on my Diet Coke (TM). On the way back, I peeked into the theater across the way, and saw the last 10 minutes of Baby Mama. SPOILER ALERT!!! Tina Fey turns up pregnant. Even I saw that coming, and I had only seen about 2 minutes before that.

So, back to Prince Caspian. Sure, Ben Barnes is a hottie hot hottie, and I'd have stayed in Narnia for the chance to score with him. But there were just too many scenes of battle to suffer through, so I went back to the restroom (yes, there was much Diet Coke (TM) consumed--this was not entirely unwarranted) and then went to check out Sex and the City.

Oh. My. God. It was downright pornographic. Do we really need to see walk in closets the size of my entire house? Complete with individual lighting sources for each three linear feet of drawers and rack? Did you know this movie got an R rating to ensure parental guidance of real estate exploitation? I felt so. . .so. . .dirty and cheap, lusting after that pre-war penthouse that was larger than my entire city lot. So I tried to go back to Prince Hottie Caspian of Pre-Teen Appropriate Narnia--and that movie was only half finished!

So I whispered to Bunny that I was off to watch some other movies, and I went to watch the end of SATC. It was not about fashion labels and product placement that got to me--it was the obsessive pricing of everything. "Don't leave those Blahniks behind! Those are $400 shoes that have never been worn!" "Actually, they are $525 and I'll go get them."

Never mind that the constant flipping of NYC real estate must have resulted in realtor fees into six figures--clearly the world is much better for knowing that the throw pillow the Yorkie is humping cost $300. (Not that anyone mentioned that the Yorkie himself must have cost at least five times that--you can't put a designer name to a Yorkshire terrier, nor can you purchase one at Barneys, so we won't mention that price tag).

I wanted to write letters to the actresses, as follow;

Dear Kim Cattrall;

You have the world's best eye brows. Please let the rest of us know how you got them. Plus, there is nothing wrong in wearing a bra once you are 50--show off those assets to their best! Love, Me.

Dear Kristin Davis;

Please give me the name of the painter who did that portrait in your attic. Or else just make a Public Service Announcement about the perils of getting an ID that says you are 21 when you are only 7.
Your friend, Me.

Dear Sarah Jessica Parker;

Please publish your diet and exercise program for the rest of us. Also, please remove that weird pre-cancerous bump off your chin, and we will forgive your squinty eyes. Plus, "Three inch plus stilletto heels: the American answer to footbinding? Discuss."
Prophylactically and culturally relativistically yours, Me

Dear Cynthia Nixon;

You are perfect.

Me.


So SATC ended, and Ding Dong, Bridezilla Is Dead! But there is still another agonizing 45 minutes before Narnia is freed and Britannia rules. So I leave the theater, AGAIN, and stop into What Happens In Vegas. Nothing is happening in Vegas at the moment, but Cameron Diaz is in NYC and actually wearing shoes she can run through Central Park while wearing. The SATC girls had practically convinced me that NOBODY who was ANYBODY wore anything less than a 3 inch heel. Yet here is Cam, running through the City, lobbing unripe tomatoes at Ashton Kutcher without three other women in crippling shoes conjoined to her.

But surely, Narnia is safe by now.

No? Not even yet?

Hell with it. I'm getting out my cel phone and sending text messages to Captain Sweetie. If I'm suffering, isn't it only right that he should suffer too?

I think I'm entitled to as much wine as I can drink, once I get home.

Dear Fug Girls

Dear Fug Girls (and Intern George);

Please please please please please consider shoes when assessing outfits for fugliness. I appreciate your recent post on Who Fugged It Better, but could you take a moment to notice that Lake Bell's shoes are at least one size too big? Which is, at least, a departure from the formerly ubiquitous trend of wearing sandals at least one size too small, so that little toes stuck out oddly from the sides, and all the toes overhung the ends of shoes as if the stars in question were multitasking by using red carpet events to practice their surfing technique of "hanging ten."

Your friend,

The Mistress Of All Evil

P.S. Can we go drink margaritas together sometime? I want you both to be my new Very Bestest Friends.

Dear Internet

Dear Internet;

Could you maybe slow down a little bit? I'm having trouble keeping up.

Your friend,

The Mistress of All Evil

P.S. Except the Fug Girls. They should be required to post at least hourly.

How To Charm Me. Again

For a long, convoluted, and unimportant reason, Captain Sweetie was in church without his glasses on. Because he sings in the choir, he was in the front of the church. Before the service started, he leaned over to one of his friends and whispered, "who is that cute blonde chick who just came in?"

It was me!

See--love really IS blind!

More Reasons To Love Audible.com

I admit it--I am an evangelist when it comes to Audible.com + iPod. I love love LOVE being read to, and it makes so many things better when I can do them while listening to a book.

But! I do have to pay for the books I download. Wouldn't it be better to get books on CD from the library for FREE! and just load them onto iTunes for FREE!?

So, I did a little test--I am currently downloading a book, and I just timed how long a single disc took. Just under 20 minutes. The book I am downloading has 13 discs. That is over FOUR HOURS just to load the dang thing! Audible can do it in about 7 minutes, plus you never have to go in and edit EVERY SINGLE DAMN TRACK to make all the tracks of the same format so they actually play in the right order.

Get a membership, and the Audible books are about $7 each. That works out to, what, $1.75 per hour? WORTH IT!

Things That Make Me Laugh

I am a late comer to the Craig Ferguson Fan Club, but he had me in his riff on the Sex and the City movie.
"I didn't go see that movie. You know why? Because I'm a guy! Seriously, the audience for that movie is 85% female."

Beat.

"I once dated someone who was 85% female. . ."

That particular joke can be found at 4:41. It's worth it for his delivery. I just wanted to preserve it for posterity.

Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull, a Review

It's been 19 years since Indy and his father went on their Last Crusade and found the Holy Grail. Indy is back and the world has changed. Nazis are out, and communists are in. The US now has atomic bombs, so the Soviets have to come up with an even bigger weapon. You can hear the executives telling the script writers to "make it bigger! Even BIGGER!"

So we get Cate Blanchett as Ninotchka, but without the silk stockings to turn her into a decadent Westerner. She is after a weapon that makes atomic capability irrelevent, although it's inconveniently metaphysical and requires some big leaps of logic. Of course, Cate Blanchett has ways of making you obey her orders, so off we go to find a mythical "crystal skull."

The movie as much a roller coaster ride as ever. Colonel Doctor Ninotchka (or whatever her name it) drags Indy and a supposed long time collegue out of a car trunk and turns them loose in an airport hangar numbered "51." This is the place where the U.S. Government apparently stores all the paranormal artifacts that Indy has recovered over the years--and there are an enormous number of them. Ninotchka wants one particular one, and expects Indy to lead her to it. He does, with some nifty CGI effects involving gunpowder and bullet shells leading them to a highly magnetized crate. In the next 15 minutes, he escapes, outruns automatic weapons fire, launches himself and a random communist on a rocket sled and witnesses an atomic test. Where do you go from there?

Well, you go to an anonymous bunker to be bullied by nameless FBI wonks, you ride a motorcycle through the grounds of Yale University, and cleverly discover El Dorado, as well as communing with Ancient Astronauts. Who knew that Erich von Daniken was right?

Sadly, the years have not been entirely kind to Indy. Oh, Harrison Ford looks as sexy as any 64 year old man has a right to, but what is the deal with the baggy old man pants in the first sequence? I think my grandfather wore pants like that, and nobody was making movies about him.

But there is something kind of creaky about this outing: Indy looks too old to be winning fist-fights against the cream of Soviet military. It's a bit disconcerting in the middle of a "death before dishonor" fight to find yourself thinking "what did those Foley artists use to make those spectacularly meaty sounds?" Because, frankly, NOBODY would get up after a punch that was really hard enough to make that kind of sound.

The rocket powered sled was dramatic and funny, but I found myself wondering "But did they get to the eighth dimension?" SPOILER ALERT!!! They do. Eventually.

The stuff that is classic Indy stuff--ancient secrets, outrageous indigenous warriors, booby trapped catacombs--they are all here, but they have also been done better National Treasure I (the cave of priceless artifacts from all the ancient civilizations) and National Treasure II (the floodwater trap that protects the treasure). We see sword fights in unlikely circumstances, but nothing nearly as imaginative or compelling and the three way swordfight in Pirates of the Caribbean II. We've even seen the "don't mess with the DA" schtick--AND the ever present comb--done better by Fonzie. I have to admit, I was delighted to see Karen Allen again.

And yes, the existence of CGI makes the literal cliffhangers less compelling. Sure, it looks like Our Heroes are driving dangerously close to a sheer cliff, but we all "know" that the cliff is just spliced in. Even if it wasn't actually spliced in, we are so used to it being done that way that there is no sense of relief when they make it safely to land--after all, we never believed they were in any danger anyway.

When one of Our Heroes swings through the jungle like Tarzan on vines--it is easy to spot that the sequence was tweaked--there is no physical way that a human could make the kind of leaps that we see because there is no gravitational pull on the trajectories. He simply swings across, letting go of one vine only to travel across space in a straight line until his outstretched hand grasps the next vine that moves him forward at the same height. There is no arc in the sequence, no sense that he is any heavier than the ten in tall monkeys who swing beside him. If there is never any "down," even in the moments he is unsupported in the air, there is no risk in the endeavor and we are simply not engaged. There is no risk, no danger, no reason to cheer on this character, for whom even the laws of physics have been suspended--how could he fail?

The CGI list goes on: the CGI ant horde isn't really frightening--and the couple of ants that are squished release more goo than is possible to contain. The heroes go over a waterfall, and pop up out of the water still clinging to their boat-car. And then they do it again. And then they do it YET AGAIN. It's not believable the first time--doing it twice more, each time with a slightly higher waterfall doesn't actually increase the stakes.

It comes down to the loss of the truly human element. The original Indy wasn't so infallible, so superhumanly gifted. Remember that wonderful moment in the first movie when Marion and Indy have a quiet moment together, and she helps him off with his shirt. He is dirty and bloody and SORE. He winces and moans as she tries to ease him out of the shirt without hurting him. "It's not the years, it's the mileage" he says, and we see a hurt and weary human being, faced with a nearly impossible task, exhibiting the toll the job is taking on him.

There are other such moments from the first film "Why did it have to be snakes?" Harrison Ford put real humanity into that phobia--he really did have fears that he had to work to overcome. Or, remember the female student in Indy's classroom, who had written "I love you" on her eyelids. She blinked at him, and he lost his place in his lecture--startled and a bit scared by the predatory maneuver.

The Crystal Skull Indy is never so vulnerable, despite being visibly older. And that is what flattens this movie into being merely a thrill ride. Spielberg has taken out all the moments of recognizable human emotion, and made Indy a cartoon and no longer a man.

New Car Shopping, Part Deux

Well, I did it. I got my name on the list for a new Toyota Prius.

The reality is that it will be at least 4-6 months before my name gets to the top of the list. The trick to getting to the top earlier? Being flexible about the color of the car.

Hell, that's easy. None of the colors is purple, so what does it matter? Actually, I am pickier about the inside color than the outside: I am constitutionally unable to choose a beige interior. Call it "taupe" or "ecru" or "ivory," I know it is really beige, and I don't want it! So, my color preference is officially listed as "anything that comes with a gray interior."

With luck, in 4 to 6 months, Toyota will have released its 2009 model, and maybe there will be an option for a plug in. This is popularly reported to improve gas mileage because you don't need to run the gas engine to charge the battery, but can start the car purely on electric power.

And maybe, a 2009 model will come in purple.