Why God Invented Cell Phones & Put Cameras in Them

Behold, my neighbors' driveway ...

The picture doesn't have anything to give you a sense of scale, so you'll just have to trust me that my neighbors' kids used a warm spring day, their idle hands, and some sidewalk chalk to create this masterpiece that can be viewed from low-flying aircraft. Each letter's about five feet tall. 

Their use of the exclamation point makes it all feel like an urgent command, which I find ironic, since my dog usually poops in their yard. (Yes, we pick it up.)

In My Corner

In my latest endeavor to lose the ten pounds that I've been trying to lose for the last nine years, I went out and got myself a Wii - and all the Wii Fit Plus accoutrements that go along with it.

I'm three weeks in, and 3.6 pounds have been lost.

On the right track, but I know I'll have to pick up the pace (and put down the bon bons) if I really want to see the remaining 7.4 pounds disappear.

Along with learning fascinating facts about my BMI and center of balance (I tend to favor my right side by about 2%.), the Wii Fit has taught me about what it takes to motivate me.

Apparently, it takes Burgess Meredith.

My most satisfying moments on the Wii are spent doing what is called "rhythm boxing". Not exactly an Olympic sport, but, somehow, swinging my Wiimote and nunchuk while stepping on and off the balance board in time is oddly gratifying.

Deep within my pacifist soul, I harbor a desire to throw the occasional punch. And rhythm boxing lets me do it in a socially-acceptable way. It even gives me gold stars when I've done it well, which is, I must say, all the damn time.

Seriously, I'm up to expert mode.

But enough about me.
Back to Burgess Meredith...

You see, I'm put through my daily rhythm boxing paces by the computer-generated approximation of the voice of a grizzled old trainer.

I'm his Rocky Balboa.
And he's my Mickey.

He pushes me to hit harder, calls me Fighter, and always ends the workout by telling me that I'd better hit the gym again tomorrow. Saying, "Nice block!" is as close as this guy gets to gushing.

And I'm totally working my ass off to win his approval.

Yes, I desperately want my virtual rhythm boxing trainer to be proud of me.

Is that odd?

Here's the thing, though. I don't really give a shit what the computerized lady with the perky breasts who leads me through yoga and strength training thinks of me.

When she tells me that how great my balance is, I get all, "Oh, don't patronize me," with her.

And when she gets so nurturing and concerned about me when I "... seem a little shaky" doing the tree pose, I just roll my eyes.

She's fake and soulless, and a bit like too many people I've actually met.

I read an article recently about how researchers figured out that you can't truly fake a smile. Not even to a baby. A smile is too complex, involving a perfectly timed coordination of movements at the corners of the mouth and the edges of the eyes.

Maybe praise is the same way. You can't just program a machine to say, "Good job!" and expect to affect me the way genuine praise from a genuine person can - even if you have programmed the machine to say it fifteen different ways.

So, I turn down the sound when the virtual lady with the hollow words comes on.

And I smile as I throw punches for my own Burgess Meredith, who respects me far too much to ever tell me how impressed with me he is.

Can't Stop the Music

     For me, the holiday season has always been about the music.
     I have fond memories of stomping along in the snow, going caroling with the other kids from the neighborhood - back when it was still deemed safe to knock on strangers' doors and sing in their foyers for some cookies (and a few coins they'd put in the coffee can we'd conveniently brought along).

     Every year I'd look forward to going to Christmas Eve services at my Grandma's church, just so we could all sing "Silent Night" together, accompanied by a slightly out-of-tune organ, holding candles with those paper drip shields to protect our hands from the wax that would start to melt with wild abandon around the middle of the second verse.
     But, for sheer awesomeness, nothing beats being in a school holiday concert.
     Sure, I did the elementary school thing.
     We all did.
     Then in middle school we were all forced to choose our life path: band or choir.
     Mine was choir.
     Three years of the ridiculously high-pitched desecration of texts both sacred and secular ensued.
     My middle school choir had one boy who could actually sing.
     And I mean he could sing.
     He had classical training, amazing posture, and the ability to hit the high notes with pristine clarity. After getting a load of him, our choir director did the only thing she could do: make the rest of us his back-up singers. 
     That year we ditched Frosty and did numbers from Ahmal and the Night Visitors instead. It was probably the most culturally-edifying holiday concert our middle school had ever seen. Of course, most of us spent the evening singing "Ahhh...." and "Ohhh...." in hushed voices, so that the tone-deafness that pervaded our ranks would not overshadow il divo. Still, the applause was hearty that year. Yes, it was.
     Our high school choir was headed up by a dictator who demanded absolute allegiance from his minions. We bought fabric from him and were instructed which pattern to buy so all the girls' skirts matched perfectly. There were shoe rules (pumps, black, one-inch heel, no embellishments) and hideous red poly-blend sweaters.
     He was a perfectionist of the first order, and the only reason I'm still alive to type this is that no one would rat me out when I blurted, "Oh, shit!" after coming in a measure too early during a noontime concert at a shopping mall.
     Our holiday program was entirely sacred, much of it in Latin. We'd start practicing for it in early-October. All that lead time was necessary for the non-Catholics in the room to learn a new language, as well as the notes to sing.
     One year he went all Benjamin Britten on us - not a pretty sight. Totally fucked up my ability to spell for half my junior year.
     And when a Norwegian exchange student with a glass-shattering soprano showed up, we all found ourselves singing in her native tongue too. Man, the crowd lapped that one up like dogs.
     Every year, we ended the program with the same song: "Beautiful Savior" (Finally, something in English!).
     The school I teach at has been holding their holiday concerts this week, and I've been thinking about those adults out there in the crowd. Sure, they're all proud of their whipper-snappers up there belting it out, but it does get to be a long night, doesn't it?
     I recently realized that my parents stopped coming to my holiday concerts when I learned how to drive. Yes, once I had a way to get my sensible-pump/fugly-sweatered self to the venue without them, they were outta there. Can't say I blame them, though. I really can't.
     Now I get my holiday groove on singing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" with my daughter. As I watch her stand in the middle of the living room, belting it out solo, smiling proudly, and hitting her marks on all the hand gestures that go along with it, two words enter my mind: show choir.
     And it's a fate I am more than willing to accept.
     Until she can drive.

Titular

Now, a lot of people make fun of Sex and the City for its overuse of the pun. 

I for one appreciate a clever play on words and like the fact that, having seen all the episodes numerous times, I can immediately set myself in the right frame of mind (comic, tragic, poignant, etc.) for any episode as soon as the theme song winds down and those white, lowercase letters appear against the black screen.

I find that as I'm trying to come up with the title for a new blog, I often click into SATC pun mode. It gets the job done. And I'm usually pleased with the results. 

Here are, in no particular order, my ten favorite Sex and the City episode titles:

•  "The Fuck Buddy" - Yes, blunt is beautiful.

•  "Are We Sluts?" - I love that they dared to ask the question that pretty much everyone with HBO was asking about these women. 

•  "Belles of the Balls" - A pun with bonus clever points for linking to all four stories. (Trey gets his sperm analyzed, Steve gets testicular cancer, Samantha gets hired because Richard "admires her balls", and Aidan and Big duke it out playing basketball in the mud.)

•  "I Love a Charade" - Again, a pun. And Nathan Lane getting married? To a woman? Priceless.

•  "A Woman's Right to Shoes" - It seemed like just another clever pun at first, but, after watching the episode, you realize that it really IS about the choices me make. Bonus points for surprising me with that one. And for making me wish I'd registered at Manolo Blahnik when I got married. 

•  "The Post-It Always Sticks Twice" - The second I see these words, I think I'm sorry. I can't. Don't hate me. And then I curse the name Jack Berger. 

•  "Change of a Dress" - More fun with puns. And that scene with Carrie and Aidan in front of the fountain? Heartbreaking!

•  "Politically Erect" - Blunt AND a pun. More bonus clever points!

•  "Running with Scissors" - I love this one because it suits the episode so beautifully. Everyone's mom warned them not to do foolish, dangerous things, and this is the episode that shows us why.

•  "One" - Simple and clever. It's about Brady's first birthday and Miranda's realization that Steve is, in fact, the one. It's also one of my favorite episodes, which for some bizarre reason On Demand tends to skip. Every time I see that this one's an option, I get all happy. 

Stranger in a Strange Land

The part of the city where I work is not the part where I live, and sometimes I feel like I don't quite fit with the locals in that neck of the woods. 

For example ...

At 3:22 today I was about six blocks from work, in the left-turn lane, waiting for that blasted little arrow to turn green. I noticed that the car ahead of me had a decal in the rear window. 

It read: Badass Girlz Drive Badass Toys. 

The car? A Toyota Corolla. Yep. I know. Totally badass.

As the light was taking forever to change, I had some free time on my hands to ponder the situation. 

My Thoughts:

•  Shouldn't it read Badass Girlz Drive Badass Toyz  (or Badass Girls Drive Badass Toys)? Seriously, if you're gonna eschew tradition and signify the plural form of a noun with a z instead of an s, you should consistently adhere to your own rule, no? You don't hear Elmer Fudd correctly pronouncing his r's from time to time; no, it's "Wascal Wabbit" every damn time. No exceptions. That guy's as dedicated as De Niro, and we all respect him for that. 

•  I'm all for gender equity, but this decal is so obviously a rip-off of the more commonly seen Badass Boyz Drive Badass Toyz, without the inherent charm of its predecessor's rhyming couplet format. Sequels are never as good as the original (exception: The Empire Strikes Back), and, Ladies, we deserve better than a shoddy sequel of a window cling. Dammit, if I want to tout my car's badassness to the masses, I deserve to do so in rhyme too. And in an original rhyme at that. I am shocked to find myself so blatantly discriminated against in this day and age. Things would be SO different right now if Hillary had won. 

•  Again, badass? On a Corolla? Is that supposed to be ironic or something?

The green arrow appeared - fleetingly. It only lit up long enough for the cars in line ahead of Badass Corolla and me, so we were stuck there together through another cycle. I was pretty well tapped out on judgmental thoughts about her, but, being where I was, another show pulled in line behind me. And this one had audio.

Actually, I felt the presence of the car behind me before I was even aware that I was hearing anything. It was some non-descript Chevy sedan, driven by a teenage boy who had, apparently, discovered the secret location of the volume and bass controls on his stereo. It was all bass. Entirely bass. Treble need not apply. Only bass. 

I sensed an odd fluttering in my lungs and bowels as the Chevy pulled up behind me. My eardrums started pushing in and out with each pulse of the bass, and I wished I had some gum to chew to help them pop. 

I assume what Mr. Big Audio Dynamite was playing was music, but with only the bass audible, it really just seemed like a series of low-frequency pulses being sent down through the earth. Perhaps he was calling out to a herd of far-off elephants. Or searching for oil deposits. I duuno. I was just trying to get home from work. 

I've always taken issue with the whole play-the-car-stereo-excessively-loud thing. It demonstrates such an odd combination of not giving a crap what other people think while simultaneously seeking their attention. Desperately. 

I could see Mr. Big Audio Dynamite in my rearview mirror, and he had that smug expression on his face. He was stickin' it to all of us and our stoopid rules. He'd had to behave at school the whole damn day, and now he was showing the world who was boss.  

And everyone at the intersection - the elderly couple in the car next to me, the middle school girls crossing at the light, the dog tied up in the neighbor's backyard  - had the same expression on their faces - the one that says: That is just so sad. 

Finally, the arrow lit up green again, and we all went on our way.

You don't suppose Badass Corolla and Big Audio Dynamite are out there somewhere, blogging about that judgmental-looking woman listening to MPR in her practical German sedan, do you?

Workin' 5 - 9

I've read in numerous sources that we should eat five to nine servings of fruits and vegetables a day, but, honestly, unless I get all Reagan-administration about it and start counting ketchup (which I DO eat pretty much every day) as a vegetable, I'm having a helluva time getting past five.

I Heart Heinz.

I Feel Giddy. Oh, So Giddy.

Even though my day started out a bit rough (stomach flu, day two - the pain is gone, but the malaise lingers ..), and I spent most of the morning hours sitting comatose on the sofa, two things happened later in the day that gave me a nice hit of giddiness, which was just what the doctor ordered.

Moment Of Giddiness #1: When I finally did snap out of my funk, I was overcome with the desire to engage in a bit 'o my favorite flavor of spring cleaning - the windows. It's not that I enjoy the process of cleaning them per se (though seeing all that grime on the paper towel is oddly satisfying), it is the end product that fills me with delight. 

Oh, how I love a clean window. 

I get this primal pleasure out of seeing not a single doggie nose smudge, toddler hand print, or rain splotch sullying the sparkly perfection of the glass. Few things in life are cooler to me than that moment when the light comes pouring in and seems so much brighter and happier. I know that I have accomplished something. I know that I have made the world a better place. Yes, all things are possible when my windows are clean. 

Moment of Giddiness #2: Ice out. Two simple little words that say so, so much. 

I have been ready to kick winter to the curb for some time now, and having a couple square miles of ice sheet in close proximity to my home has been a nagging reminder that winter still hadn't gotten the message, packed up its CD's, and stopped calling me already.

This afternoon, as I drove by the lake, I saw it: water, water everywhere! I literally felt a surge of happiness in my heart. Seriously, the joy I felt at seeing that ice-free lake was palpable. I sat up straighter and thought for a moment that my chest just might burst open, shooting little pink soap bubbles and glitter confetti all over the damn place. It was like falling in love. Or having the first bite of a really good cheeseburger. 

Ah, the wonderful optimism that is spring, when a little sunshine, clean windows, and an ice-free lake are all it takes to reassure me that great things are not only possible, but waiting just around the corner.

Those Beans Don't Scan, Sheila!

I needed to go on a decongestant and low-fat ice cream run during work hours today and, since the nearest place that stocks both these items is CVS, I ended up there. 

Driving time from work to CVS: 2 minutes

Picking out items time: 3 minutes

Standing in line while the one person ahead of me was paying time: 7 minutes!

Listening to cursing under breath from old guy behind me in line time: 4 minutes

Wondering why it took seven minutes long for one person to check out? 

Let me walk you through it.

The lady in front of me was buying six small bags of jelly beans. (Why she didn't just buy one big, inexpensive bag of jelly beans and divvy it up at home, I have no idea. That's her biz.) Anyhow, the cashier couldn't get the scanner to "read" the jelly beans. After fumbling around at it a bit, the cashier got on the PA, "Sheila to the front, please." 

"Thank God. Sheila's on her way. Sheila'll make it all better," I think to myself. (Who else would I be thinking to?)

Sheila, the Honcho on Premises, waddles up to the check out, and the cashier tells her, "I can only get one of them to scan."

What??!!

So, I'm waiting for Honcho Sheila to go crazy on the cashier (whose name I never did catch) and tell her to just push the damn buttons for "times six", since the lady's buying six of the same item.

No dice.

Honcho Sheila makes some attempts at scanning the jelly beans and, when she finds it ain't working, she stomps off. The cashier and customer just stand there, as do I - wondering if there are any other clerks working and if they could pu-leeze open another register so Mr. Swears-Like-A-Sailor and I can get on with our day.

Honcho Sheila comes back with MORE of the un-scannable jelly beans and proceeds to try scanning them. 

"Dammit, Sheila! Those beans don't scan! Go to Plan B! You have keys to the register, don't you?! Use 'em, Sheila! Shit, Girl, that's what they're for!!" I'm screaming in my head, trying to look calm on the outside, as if I'm one of those people who is heavily into yoga or meditation or just really digs hearing "Endless Love" on the piped-in music or something.

Suddenly, Sheila gets one of the bags to scan.

It's an Easter candy miracle!

Two down, four to go, ladies!

We're on our way!

Now, I am getting a wee bit impatient about standing there, swinging my basket of decongestant and low-fat ice cream so it bumps my knees in rhythm to "The Pleasure Principle", which is only barely drowning out the string of cuss words coming from Popeye the Sailor Man behind me, but, I have to admit that I'm also getting a little sucked into the drama of it all. Will Sheila and the cashier lady EVER succeed in scanning six bags of jelly beans? After having invested six minutes into this story, it becomes oddly compelling. 

I was actually a little disappointed when another cashier appeared out of thin air and signaled me over. She rang up my order in about ten seconds. I had the cash in hand. She gave me my change and receipt. No dramatic tension. No story arc. Ho hum.

As I walked through the doors and back out into the world, I glanced over at the first register. Honcho Sheila, the cashier lady, and the customer were all still there, plugging away on the old Scan the Jelly Beans Project. I'll never know how for sure how their story ended, but I hope it ended well. They deserve it after all they've been through.

I committed a moving violation to bring you this picture, 

which isn't even integral to understanding the story 

now that I think of it. 

I Know What Boys Like

We do a little thing every spring where we create two-week's worth of phony holidays to celebrate at work. It's silly stuff about wearing fake tattoos and building make-your-own sundaes and such - fluff, basically, to keep morale up during what is traditionally a bit of a slump during the year. We all share a laugh and blow off steam by being just a little bit silly. 

All but one of us, that is.

I got word through the grapevine that someone in our office got his undies in a big ol' bundle and went after one of our own. His complaint: the holidays we'd chosen were too girly. Sure, Wear No Make-Up Day is decidedly feminine, but we had actually gone out of our way to make sure that nine of the ten days on the calendar were friendly to both genders. (Office demographics: over 20 women, 4 men). 

Hearing about his tirade motivated me to take down our current calendar and replace it with ...

March Man-ness

A Celebration of Straight, White Male Stereotypes

Monday, March 23rd - Bitch About the Dumbass Women You Work With Day

Tuesday, March 24th - Bodily Function Jousting Tournament

Wednesday, March 25th - Talk About Your Car Day

Thursday, March 26th - Malt Liquor and Porn Day

Friday, March 27th - Scratch Where It Itches Day

Monday, March 30th - Eat Cookies the Dumbass Women You Work With Baked Day

Tuesday, March 31st - JARTS, Anyone?

Wednesday, April 1st - Homophobic Comment Day

Thursday, April 2nd - Tater Tot Festival

Friday, April 3rd - Wear That Sexy Cologne You Bought at Walgreen's Day

Party on, Dudes!

(And just 'cause I'm on a forgiveness kick doesn't mean I'm not allowed to get pissed off once in a while. So no bitching about that. Consider yourself warned.)

The F Word

We had a big wind storm go through our neighborhood last fall, and some people who live by the lake had their stone chimney damaged by a branch from a big oak tree that grows right up next to their garage. It took the whole top off the chimney, and, as I drove by the house this winter, I'd notice the blue tarp that had been put over the damaged part until it was warm enough out to fix it.

Well, the warm weather has come, and the homeowners are making some improvements to the property along with getting the chimney fixed.  What is somewhat surprising is what they've done to the tree. Or rather, what they haven't done. Instead of cutting it down because it's in the way of their expansion (or because it thunked one of its big branches down on their chimney - and has plenty more where that came from to toss at them in another storm), they decided to build a new section of their garage and patio AROUND the tree - so it pops up through a specially-built hole in the roof's overhang. This is, in my opinion, a rather impressive act of forgiveness. 

Seeing their willingness to not only forgive but embrace that which has "done-them-wrong" got me thinking about my own ability to forgive. 

My self-assessment upon reflection: I am not a particularly forgiving person. 

I harbor anger, resentment, and petty jealousy about far too many infractions - real and imagined on my part - by friends, family, colleagues, et cetera - to be doing myself any good. And most of what I'm clinging to says more about my own failings than anyone else's.

This can't be healthy. 

I gotta let some stuff go.

So, I'm going to do a little spring cleaning of the soul, and you get to come along for the ride.

I'm not going to name any names, but my hope is that by committing to writing my intentions to forgive these folks - on the internet, no less, where everything is true and real - that I will be better at following through on forgiveness than I have managed to be in the past. 

Here it goes.

I forgive you for talking shit about me. I never heard your exact words, only the interpretations of others long after you'd said them. I'm going to assume that you were coming from a place of concern for me rather than intentionally trying to be mean. I hope you can forgive me for gossiping about you in an extremely seventh-grade moment of retaliation. That was small of me, and even though we're no longer really friends, you deserved better than that.

I forgive you for not being able to read my mind and know exactly what I want/need from you. You're on the mark more often than not, and I need to be better about appreciating that. For someone who doesn't actually live inside my head, you do a mighty fine job. I hope you can forgive my occasional lack of patience. 

I forgive you for succeeding at the things I still struggle with. Rather than feeling resentful of your accomplishments, I should be inspired and motivated by them to improve myself and tackle the tough stuff I've been avoiding. You are a wonderful person. I am proud of you; it just gets buried under far less-appealing feelings sometimes. 

Are there more I need to forgive? Of course. 

But there's only so much mental clutter I can carry to the curb at one time. 

For today, I'm making progress. 

And I forgive myself for not being able to get it all done at once.

I Loathe Lanyards

I wear a lanyard at work. 

I hate the damn thing. 

I've received a couple of them at work as gifts/prizes/unsuccessful motivational tools. I dutifully stuffed each of them in my desk drawer to find it months later, wonder aloud "Why did I keep this piece of crap?", and throw it in the trash. Or stick it in some unsuspecting victim's mailbox in the office. 

I've spent my own hard-earned cash to purchase several different ones, hoping the pretty beads would somehow compensate for its lameness, but, alas, I persist in hating the damn thing. 

I hate how my keys and ID go thunk against me with each step I take.

I hate how it makes a really nice outfit look so damed proletarian. 

I hate how it's basically a leash, and I'm required to wear it. 

I even hate the word lanyard. It is impossible to sound sexy and cool while saying that word. Try it. You will fail.

Now, I understand the reasoning for wearing one at work - identification, safety, keeping me from looking TOO stylish, blah-blah-blah ....  I know that no amount of fussing on my part will make the lanyard of wretchedness go away. I accept the futility in trying to throw off these shackles, but that doesn't mean I have get all rah-rah about it and hop on the pro-lanyard bandwagon, which appears, by the way, to be a very crowded bandwagon, indeed.  

"Stupid Stuff I Found on the Internets 

as Evidence of the Crowded Conditions 

on the Pro-Lanyard Bandwagon"

OR

"I Had No Idea It Was This Bad Out There"

The Wrist Lanyard:

When Dangling Crap Around Your Neck Just Isn't Enough

It's dark out! 

Where'd my arm go?! 

Oh, THERE it is. 

Man, that was a close one!

And here I hated the thunk of keys against me.

Imagine the sensation of being whacked with a bottle of 

Lipton Green Tea with every step.

Or if you had to run wearing this.

Even our friends at Coach have stepped into the lanyard arena.

It's extra-pricey and comes with bonus dangly crap!

I also found many sites selling products to make your own lanyards, which reminded me of the only lanyard-related thing I've ever truly loved ...  Billy Collins reading his poem "The Lanyard".

Back in the late-nineteenth century, the lanyard was originally used to carry a jack-knife, so you'd be ready to whip it out if you happened to need to stab someone that day. Interesting to know if you ever end up on Jeopardy! and have Lanyard Lore as a category. Or if you travel back in time and happen to have your lanyard on.

If IKEA Nomenclature Were a Jeopardy! Category and I Were on the Show

Me: I'll take IKEA Nomenclature for 100, Alex.

Mr. Alex Trebek: The name of the most everyday of IKEA's everyday line of dishes and linens.

Me: Um, what is 365+?

Mr. Alex Trebek: Correct! 

Me: Great! Let's try IKEA Nomenclature for 200.

Mr. Alex Trebek: The styrofoam-peanut free way IKEA packages its assemble-it-your-damn-self furniture.

Me: That's easy. What is flat-pack, Alex?

Mr. Alex Trebek: Yes, you're right again!

Me: Wow, I'm on a bit of a roll here, Alex. Gimme IKEA Nomenclature for 300. 

Mr. Alex Trebek: Mammut.

Me: Hmm, what is a line of brightly-colored, polypropylene bedroom furniture for children?

Mr. Alex Trebek: Correct again! You certainly know your IKEA!  And that's a lovely sweater you're wearing, by the way. What's next?

Me: Back off, Alex. I'm married, and you're old enough to be my dad. Just act like a professional and hit me with IKEA Nomenclature for 400.

Mr. Alex Trebek: Of course. The tool IKEA shoppers can totally rock.

Me: What's an 'effing Allen wrench?

Mr. Alex Trebek: Yep! Care to sweep the category?

Me: Don't mind if I do. Bring on IKEA Nomenclature for 500, Alex.

Mr. Alex Trebek: The name of the company the makes the big ass fans that keep the air moving in your local IKEA's warehouse.

Me: Oh, it's gonna take more than that to stop me, Alex. What is Big Ass Fans?

Mr. Alex Trebeck: I stand in awe of your highly-specialized brand of trivial knowledge.

Me: I know. I get a lot of that.

This Smells Like Ass

I was correcting a paper from one of my students when I found this moment of typo:

"I always wear the clothes from Abercrombie, but I hate the smell of their colon."

I'll take her word for it.

It's a G Thang

Sure, she advocates drinking toxic quantities of castor oil and stands like a goofy school girl while showin' off her duds, but I think I just might be starting to respect Gwyneth Paltrow. 

HuffPo just announced that the Divine Ms G is going to be opening a gym. Part of the post shows video of her working out with her trainer. There's our girl, sweating up a storm with no make-up on. She even allows herself to be filmed doing the borderline-degrading "dog peeing on a fire hydrant" move to tone up her skinny ass. 

You know that scene when the Grinch feels his heart growing inside his chest as he hears the Who's singing? That's exactly how I felt about Gwyneth when I saw her being all human-like. 

I want more human celebrities. And I want them to do it like Gwyneth - voluntarily, not just because some paparazzi caught them at the beach or at the A & P on a bad day. 

Voluntarily human celebrities. 

How revolutionary is that?

What Can't I Do?

•  swim

•  explain why I watch The Real Housewives of Orange County

•  find my waffle-maker

•  drop and give you twenty

•  hide my love for Mason Jennings

•  resist cupcakes

•  sing worth a damn

•  imagine a job I'd love more than the one I have

•  keep my feelings from showing all over my face

•  eat with chopsticks

My New Love

I have found my latest passion/obsession. It's a little show on the DIY network called Renovation Realities. The premise is that they find some couple - usually a husband a wife, though I did see one AMAZING mother and son duo - who have renovation ambitions that extend far beyond their knowledge, skill level, time limitations, and budget. But these intrepid duos take on their home improvement projects anyway, and, thanks to a camera crew, we get to see every delicious moment of it. 

Each episode begins with a voiceover saying, "The renovation you are about to see is real." Then the words, in stark white across a black screen, come up: sometimes getting from the "before" to the "after" can be a real bitch. That pretty much sets the tone for the show. (It reminds me of those horrible movies they showed us in driver's ed. to scare us into behaving behind the wheel, except this time they're making us think twice before setting off to install ceramic tile.)

The people are usually confident bordering on smug at the beginning. They talk about how they're going to redo their entire kitchen in three days on a $3,000 budget or build a mammoth deck in two days for $1,500. It soon becomes obvious that they've done zero homework/preparation; they haven't measured the space, priced out supplies, done any research online or in books, or even started moving furniture out of the way. 

Since they start with the confidence that only the truly ignorant possess, watching their struggle is massively-entertaining and shockingly-similar to viewing a Greek morality play. I keep waiting for the chorus to show up.

Some great moments I've seen so far:

• the twentysomething guy screaming, "It burns, Ma! Get the hose!" in his wicked thick Boston accent after he dumped a gallon of paint stripper all over himself.

• the couple who had an estimated 50,000 bees who lived in a massive hive under their back steps (They called in a lady who, I swear I'm not making this up, "relocates and rehabilitates honeybees from the wild".)

• a woman's horror at having to use a chemical toilet out in the yard for five days while the old bathroom was out of commission. (She was mortified that the neighbors would know that she was peeing. I assume my neighbors are savvy enough to already know that I do that.)

• the wife who blubbered to her husband, "I'm just a woman. I can't do hard stuff like this."

They drop things.

They never measure correctly.

They don't buy enough materials.

They suffer from sleep deprivation.

The wife cries.

One or both of them questions why they ever got married.

They end up calling in a pro.

And, after spending an enormous sum of cash, their project is miraculously completed.

Then they hug and talk about how proud of themselves they are.

Being on the camera crew for this show must take enormous restraint. How hard must it be to not roll your eyes or let out an "uh-oh" as you see these folks doing such stupid, stupid things? I couldn't do it. I'd drop the camera and double over in laughter or run to call 911 at least twice each episode. My theory: most of their camera crew have worked in combat zones in the past. How else could they stay so calm in such extreme conditions?

The fights and foibles these renovators go through make for some damned compelling TV. And each episode is just jam-packed with life lessons: Know your limitations. Start small. Set realistic goals. Do your homework. Measure twice; cut once. If you don't know, ask - even if you are a man. 

Honestly, if it weren't for all the swearing, I'd recommend they show this program in middle-school math classes across the nation.

Hospitality. Industry.

Christmas Day has passed, but, due to an odd bit of scheduling, the festivities ain't quite done at our house. 

We have relatives coming to visit tomorrow for a belated Christmas. There will be brunch. There will be gifts. There will be an inspection of the premises. You see, our guests are the sort who can and will comment on our homekeeping shortcomings: "It looks like you didn't rake up any of your leaves this fall.",  "Wow, you still haven't finished the floor in the entry?", "Doesn't it bug you to have all those pine needles on the floor?" 

Their visits are generally pleasant, but it's those little negative comments that tend to stick with me. It has gotten to the point where I can no longer separate their actual words from those of my own inner-critic. I have made a bit of a twisted parlor game of anticipating their negative comments and imagining their barbs in advance.

This morning, as I was vacuuming between the sofa cushions in preparation for their visit, I kept thinking: we love them, and they love us, so why is it such pain in the ass to have them come over? 

They are the guests we kinda dread. The ones we have to put on a bit of a show for. The ones we couldn't bear to have know that sometimes, on occasion, there are dirty dishes that sit by our sink for a day or two before we clean them. The ones we would rather die than have see the current state of our bathtub. You get the picture.

I just finished reading an amazing book called Snoop: What Your Stuff Says About You by Dr. Sam Gosling. In it he talks about how our personalities are reflected, unwittingly and on purpose, in the spaces we inhabit. For tomorrow's guests, I'm striving to make our home say, "We are responsible, tidy, and conscientious people. Bask in our cleanliness. We are, in all ways, good enough." Yes, our homes do say something about who we are, but why do I care so much more about what is says with some guests rather than others?

All this makes me think about what kind of a guest I aspire to be when I visit someone else's home. 

I want to be the one who could show up with little notice and not detect the slightest hint of Oh, crap! I need to scrub down the fridge! crossing your face as you open the front door. 

I want the to be the one who gets to see your folded piles of laundry stacked on a chair by the bed 'cause you're just too busy/lazy to put it in that dresser that's only about five feet away. 

I want to be the one who gets to know that you do, in fact, read People magazine. And not just in your dentist's waiting room. You unashamedly subscribe, and, baby, I totally dig that about you.

I want to be the guest you can be your true, human self in front of. That's what it means, in my book, to be truly close to someone - to let them know the real you, not just the person you think they want you to be. 

Who are the people in your life you are brave enough to be yourself in front of?