I was writing this a few days ago but hadn't finished it yet to post, and sadly, Bea Arthur died yesterday. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beatrice_Arthur
Will finish it today, but honestly? A little sad about the whole thing.
From Friday:
The best show on TV today? Any guesses?
The Golden Girls. Hands down. It's not syndicated enough in my opinion, and it's offered 2-4 hours a day on different networks around here.
How old do you think the characters (not the actresses) were on The GG? When you're nine, which I was when the show originally aired in 1985, anyone older than about 26 was really old. Which could explain why I always thought the characters were in their mid-70s. Didn't you? But I was watching the other day, and it turns out they were meant to be in their 50s!
There are a lot of surprises about that. First, my mom's around that age -- plus or minus. Well, plus -- and dang, she looks good! Way younger than any of them. Second, what was with the blue-rinse, poodle-perm set hair? Third, how is it the image of a fifty year old could change so drastically in a matter of a few years?
Watching as an adult, I'm more clued in on the jokes, and there lies another surprise: how'd they get away with that content two decades ago? Suppose that's what makes it still relevant in 2009.
I also wonder where that kind of talent is today. What comediennes of my generation will have careers spanning 7 decades, winning Tonys, Emmys, and stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame? All singing, all dancing real talents? TV, movies, Broadway. Seriously, name one. I do love the old-timey movies for that reason. Pure talent. Give me a Betty White any day over...god, I can't even think of anyone current. OK, I'll give you Tina Fey.
From Today:
I was watching today, as most days, and I realized just how relatable Bea's character was, especially to me. In this episode, she was meant to remarry Stan, so Sophia -- in an attempt to change her mind -- brings home their shoe-repair guy. Sophia says something about the guy knowing Dorothy's shoe size and is willing to date her anyway. Reminded me of my mom when I was learning how to scuba dive in Australia. Told me to point my feet toward the shark should I be attacked as I could stand to lose a few inches in that region. Moms. Love-hate relationships, eh?
So here are a few classic Dorothy lines as stolen from imdb.com:
-- "You'll have to excuse my mother. She suffered a slight stroke a few years ago which rendered her totally annoying."
-- "Good night, Rose. Go to sleep, honey. Pray for brains."
-- "I got the feeling I was the man's first date that wasn't inflatable."
-- "Remind me when I feel better to kick the crap out of her."
Alas.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
"Riff"-Off Bursturds
I was lying in bed, listening to classical music to go to sleep (as the young kids do these days), and on comes this symphony I knew. This was a bit odd because even though I am 80-year-old lady enough to listen to the classical station and am familiar with the names of most and works of a few of these composers, I'm not as sad as knowing them off by heart and humming the tune before it's played. But there I was, la-dee-dah-ing right along with. It was so strange!
Halfway through, it hit me. Brahms, the cheeky git, stole the melody for his 3rd symphony, 3rd movement, from none other than Santana and Dave Matthews' song Love of My Life. Or possibly it was the other way around.
It appears I can't add YouTube clips to the individual posts, so here are the links. I like the quote from Dave, "The song that Carlos started was an idea he had...". To apparently rip off melodies from dead guys who won't know the difference. I'm guessing this happens a lot, so if any of you wacky funsters out there have other examples, drop me a message because I find it really interesting. I won't judge you or your eclectic music taste.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BA266naCH_0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1trE3ms3AGo
PS Dave, if you are reading this, I in no way think less of your musical talents and will wholly blame this on Carlos because surely he duped you, and I will certainly follow you on tour if you ask me.
Halfway through, it hit me. Brahms, the cheeky git, stole the melody for his 3rd symphony, 3rd movement, from none other than Santana and Dave Matthews' song Love of My Life. Or possibly it was the other way around.
It appears I can't add YouTube clips to the individual posts, so here are the links. I like the quote from Dave, "The song that Carlos started was an idea he had...". To apparently rip off melodies from dead guys who won't know the difference. I'm guessing this happens a lot, so if any of you wacky funsters out there have other examples, drop me a message because I find it really interesting. I won't judge you or your eclectic music taste.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BA266naCH_0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1trE3ms3AGo
PS Dave, if you are reading this, I in no way think less of your musical talents and will wholly blame this on Carlos because surely he duped you, and I will certainly follow you on tour if you ask me.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Susan Boyle
If you don't tear up while watching the YouTube clip of Susan Boyle, then I'm pretty convinced you are a cold fish with no heart and are probably cruel to animals.
The YouTube clips are plentiful.
The YouTube clips are plentiful.
America's Birthday (not the 4th of July one)
Considering I'm from Aumsville, Oregon, it's surprising how many brushes with fame I've had.
My neighbors in Australia were rag-mag-worthy TV personalities. I helped them move in and they invited me to a party as thanks, where people couldn't figure out who I was and how I knew them. It went something like this:
How do you know them?
I helped them move in today.
No, seriously.
Seriously. I'm their neighbor.
Do you know who they are?
Nope.
They're famous.
So people keep telling me.
We got on fine for that reason. They knew I wasn't after anything, and I made good friends who regularly forced champagne at me at 8am. There was a slight hiccup when I mocked his singing voice and asked when his CD was coming out. And it already had. Thought the room full of people were going to simultaneously pass out.
The prince of Spain was one seat behind me on a chairlift in Baqueira-Beret, Spain. I was riding with his body guards and was *this close* to a party invite. Catherine Tate (if you don't know her, YouTube her -- I've done this for you -- and love her) was filming on our street in Cardiff and I was so surprised to see her -- and all of five feet away -- all I could uber-cool tell her was, "Catherine Tate! I love you!" She was very polite and said hello back, though no proclamations of enduring affection. Stevie Wonder's group tried to kick me off business class once, but I stayed on and sat next to his brother. Colin Farrel, Kristin Davis and Cynthia Nixon all walked by us at JFK.
Never in a million, however, did I ever expect to be on the guest list for America Ferrera's 25th birthday party. Libby, my bff from day-one of college, moved to NY to work in film and TV and by-golly she's only gone and done it. She's worked on the Ugly Betty set off and on during the last few months and scored the invite, plus one!
Needless to say, whatever I was supposed to wear to the party was neither in my closet nor in my budget, but I waded through the mom-fabric and found something that didn't scream old-fart, mother of 18 month old, needing to put down the cake. I spent a stupid amount of time getting ready and think it turned out OK.
It turns out, I needn't have worried. Though Pat Fields (stylist from Sex and the City) was there along with a range of high-end label people, there were also those wearing things I'm pretty sure they'd had on all day. And, shocker, no one was really looking at me.
Except, oddly, America and one of her friends. We were dancing and I looked over to find both of them staring at me. It could have been the foot height difference between us. It could indeed have been what I was wearing. Thinking back, it may have even been the large screen showing photos behind me...but it was my chance to wish her a happy birthday with a European hello kiss on the cheek. Eh, why not, right? I mean, I did contemplate whether one should bring a card to this kind of thing, and you can't really go and ignore the guest of honor especially if she's doing what looks like staring at you and talking about you.
Now, I am and am not impressed with fame. It's exciting to see someone, but I've never asked for a photo or autograph. The "they're just people" mentality in equal parts makes me leave them alone, and also not shy away if the opportunity presents itself.
However, as you can probably tell from the content of this post, I do love me some name dropping. You could hardly swing a cat without hitting someone you knew -- or thought you should know. Pretty much the entire cast of Ugly Betty was there, as well as America's co-stars in The Traveling Pants (though they had to be pointed out to me). We chatted half the night with Pat's Greek house guests and exchanged email addresses. Vanessa Williams was cutting a rug with us (and man, her scissors were fierce!). My only, very deep regret is that I did not muster the courage to say hi to the Karate Kid himself, Ralph Macchio. Though we did make eye contact on several occasions and the opportunity very nearly presented itself, it slipped through my fingers. I mean, come on. Who doesn't want to know where he's been since My Cousin Vinny?
At midnight, the club opened the doors to the general riff-raff and we left full of memories and bragging rights. I escorted Libby to her train stop, then I was escorted to mine by what I can only guess was an Ecuadorian gigolo or green-card seeker trying to convince me that at some point in my life -- sometime soon apparently -- the unbridled desire and curiosity to be with a short man would compel me to seek out someone of his description and break my happily married bonds.
Which pretty much brought me back to my normal reality of brushes with sick-o perverts that usually involve indecent exposure.
http://www.startracksphoto.com/site/Gallery/Gallery.aspx?ev=35263C1F31&ps=0&ix=0&ct=&tm=3
My neighbors in Australia were rag-mag-worthy TV personalities. I helped them move in and they invited me to a party as thanks, where people couldn't figure out who I was and how I knew them. It went something like this:
How do you know them?
I helped them move in today.
No, seriously.
Seriously. I'm their neighbor.
Do you know who they are?
Nope.
They're famous.
So people keep telling me.
We got on fine for that reason. They knew I wasn't after anything, and I made good friends who regularly forced champagne at me at 8am. There was a slight hiccup when I mocked his singing voice and asked when his CD was coming out. And it already had. Thought the room full of people were going to simultaneously pass out.
The prince of Spain was one seat behind me on a chairlift in Baqueira-Beret, Spain. I was riding with his body guards and was *this close* to a party invite. Catherine Tate (if you don't know her, YouTube her -- I've done this for you -- and love her) was filming on our street in Cardiff and I was so surprised to see her -- and all of five feet away -- all I could uber-cool tell her was, "Catherine Tate! I love you!" She was very polite and said hello back, though no proclamations of enduring affection. Stevie Wonder's group tried to kick me off business class once, but I stayed on and sat next to his brother. Colin Farrel, Kristin Davis and Cynthia Nixon all walked by us at JFK.
Never in a million, however, did I ever expect to be on the guest list for America Ferrera's 25th birthday party. Libby, my bff from day-one of college, moved to NY to work in film and TV and by-golly she's only gone and done it. She's worked on the Ugly Betty set off and on during the last few months and scored the invite, plus one!
Needless to say, whatever I was supposed to wear to the party was neither in my closet nor in my budget, but I waded through the mom-fabric and found something that didn't scream old-fart, mother of 18 month old, needing to put down the cake. I spent a stupid amount of time getting ready and think it turned out OK.
It turns out, I needn't have worried. Though Pat Fields (stylist from Sex and the City) was there along with a range of high-end label people, there were also those wearing things I'm pretty sure they'd had on all day. And, shocker, no one was really looking at me.
Except, oddly, America and one of her friends. We were dancing and I looked over to find both of them staring at me. It could have been the foot height difference between us. It could indeed have been what I was wearing. Thinking back, it may have even been the large screen showing photos behind me...but it was my chance to wish her a happy birthday with a European hello kiss on the cheek. Eh, why not, right? I mean, I did contemplate whether one should bring a card to this kind of thing, and you can't really go and ignore the guest of honor especially if she's doing what looks like staring at you and talking about you.
Now, I am and am not impressed with fame. It's exciting to see someone, but I've never asked for a photo or autograph. The "they're just people" mentality in equal parts makes me leave them alone, and also not shy away if the opportunity presents itself.
However, as you can probably tell from the content of this post, I do love me some name dropping. You could hardly swing a cat without hitting someone you knew -- or thought you should know. Pretty much the entire cast of Ugly Betty was there, as well as America's co-stars in The Traveling Pants (though they had to be pointed out to me). We chatted half the night with Pat's Greek house guests and exchanged email addresses. Vanessa Williams was cutting a rug with us (and man, her scissors were fierce!). My only, very deep regret is that I did not muster the courage to say hi to the Karate Kid himself, Ralph Macchio. Though we did make eye contact on several occasions and the opportunity very nearly presented itself, it slipped through my fingers. I mean, come on. Who doesn't want to know where he's been since My Cousin Vinny?
At midnight, the club opened the doors to the general riff-raff and we left full of memories and bragging rights. I escorted Libby to her train stop, then I was escorted to mine by what I can only guess was an Ecuadorian gigolo or green-card seeker trying to convince me that at some point in my life -- sometime soon apparently -- the unbridled desire and curiosity to be with a short man would compel me to seek out someone of his description and break my happily married bonds.
Which pretty much brought me back to my normal reality of brushes with sick-o perverts that usually involve indecent exposure.
http://www.startracksphoto.com/site/Gallery/Gallery.aspx?ev=35263C1F31&ps=0&ix=0&ct=&tm=3
Adventures in Potty Training: Volume 2
Obviously, Cam is a baby genius. From when I last wrote, we have gone from him pooping up the wall to saying (sometimes yelling), "poopie!" and him actually producing said item, as well as pee, in the toilet. Mitch discovered that he hates the potty we bought -- another product in a long line of bad baby investments -- and will only sit still on the actual toilet. He'd totally fall in if we didn't hold onto him, but he loves looking between his legs to see how well he's progressing.
We're certainly not 100% on this. A lot of the time he says poopie whilst doing poopie and we get to the toilet too late. Though it is funny to watch his dilemma about trying to say what he's doing while pushing and going red.
He's been remarkably good about doing both functions while out and about, which opens a whole new chapter in my life called "grotty public toilets." And what's really awesome about that, is how quickly Mitch developed his own response to potty training. Because when Cam says poopie at a restaurant or wherever, Mitch's response is, "Mommy, poopie. Good luck with that one." Sometimes he even follows that with, "Better go quick."
Were Mitch reading this or had any input on what I write whatsoever, he would say, "Hang on. I'm really good about changing his diapers and putting him on the toilet at home." As if this deserves a medal. But the most galling part of this, is that upon our return from Grottsville Toiletland, Mitch beams with pride and brags to whomever we're with how well Cam is doing and how we're so proud of him. Meanwhile, I'm the one who has rushed to the bathroom, wiped down all the surfaces I can manage while holding wipes and diapers in one hand, Cam in the other. Tried to keep his hands out of the water, off the seat, out of the feminine hygiene bin or away from the toilet brush. Tried to wrap the toilet seat in paper, but of course public toilets have that big gap in the front where all the gross stuff collects and that's inevitably where Cam slips into. Balanced everything -- including Cam -- on one knee so I can wipe him, and then manage to diaper him while he's standing. And then try to explain that he can't flush his poopie (a reward at home) because the germ-infested handle will only be touched by my foot. All the while missing a relaxing dinner with friends and returning to cold meals.
And Mitch takes credit for Cam's genius.
Back on the home front, today I'd just put him in his highchair for breakfast when he says poopie. So I took him out, put him on the toilet and nothing. I figure, I'll leave him without a diaper for breakfast, if he wees, he wees. And he wees. In a big puddle on the floor. He told me he was doing it, but there was no time. Put him on the toilet, nothing. Minutes later he does a big covert poo in his diaper, and after I wipe him down but before I get him in the shower, he runs to the oven -- his fave lookout point and play area as previously discussed -- opens the door and starts "cooking" on the stove. And as I'm watching him stir with a spoon in a frying pan, I see an arch of pee stream down the cracks of the oven and into the pan storage below.
In cleaning up, I've turned on the oven to burn off the pee, and as I type the whole house is filled with the aroma of hot urine.
As I said, we're not 100%. And Mitch really is good about changing his diapers and taking him to the toilet at home. And he also hopes that no one will have any qualms about coming over for dinner.
We're certainly not 100% on this. A lot of the time he says poopie whilst doing poopie and we get to the toilet too late. Though it is funny to watch his dilemma about trying to say what he's doing while pushing and going red.
He's been remarkably good about doing both functions while out and about, which opens a whole new chapter in my life called "grotty public toilets." And what's really awesome about that, is how quickly Mitch developed his own response to potty training. Because when Cam says poopie at a restaurant or wherever, Mitch's response is, "Mommy, poopie. Good luck with that one." Sometimes he even follows that with, "Better go quick."
Were Mitch reading this or had any input on what I write whatsoever, he would say, "Hang on. I'm really good about changing his diapers and putting him on the toilet at home." As if this deserves a medal. But the most galling part of this, is that upon our return from Grottsville Toiletland, Mitch beams with pride and brags to whomever we're with how well Cam is doing and how we're so proud of him. Meanwhile, I'm the one who has rushed to the bathroom, wiped down all the surfaces I can manage while holding wipes and diapers in one hand, Cam in the other. Tried to keep his hands out of the water, off the seat, out of the feminine hygiene bin or away from the toilet brush. Tried to wrap the toilet seat in paper, but of course public toilets have that big gap in the front where all the gross stuff collects and that's inevitably where Cam slips into. Balanced everything -- including Cam -- on one knee so I can wipe him, and then manage to diaper him while he's standing. And then try to explain that he can't flush his poopie (a reward at home) because the germ-infested handle will only be touched by my foot. All the while missing a relaxing dinner with friends and returning to cold meals.
And Mitch takes credit for Cam's genius.
Back on the home front, today I'd just put him in his highchair for breakfast when he says poopie. So I took him out, put him on the toilet and nothing. I figure, I'll leave him without a diaper for breakfast, if he wees, he wees. And he wees. In a big puddle on the floor. He told me he was doing it, but there was no time. Put him on the toilet, nothing. Minutes later he does a big covert poo in his diaper, and after I wipe him down but before I get him in the shower, he runs to the oven -- his fave lookout point and play area as previously discussed -- opens the door and starts "cooking" on the stove. And as I'm watching him stir with a spoon in a frying pan, I see an arch of pee stream down the cracks of the oven and into the pan storage below.
In cleaning up, I've turned on the oven to burn off the pee, and as I type the whole house is filled with the aroma of hot urine.
As I said, we're not 100%. And Mitch really is good about changing his diapers and taking him to the toilet at home. And he also hopes that no one will have any qualms about coming over for dinner.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Adventures in Potty Training: Volume I (from March 2009)
So, we're officially potty training. This, to me, means I put Cam on the pot every time I change him, and try to catch him when he's pooping.
Today starts with him peeing all over the floor before I can get him in the tub. After the bath, he's running around naked and I'm on poo watch. Think I've gone as far as I'm willing to go, so I put a nappy on him. He takes it off, sits on the red leather chair and pees. Aaaaaaaaall into the seems and places I can't reach as it's all connected.
Cam usually poos after breakfast, and we've done pretty well sitting him on the pot for the experience. He didn't go this morning, so I potted him before bed. He immediately proceeds to poo a big pile and want off. I was so proud. So we wipe, flush, say bye-bye poopy. He turns, walks out from the side of the toilet, and has continued to poo up the wall, all over the floor, has stood in it, got it all down his legs, in his shoes, all over my hands. Do you realize how fast poop dries? By the time I got him bathed, diapered and in bed, I had to scrub, scrub, but still couldn't get it all out of the tile grout.
So close, yet sooooooooooo far.
Today starts with him peeing all over the floor before I can get him in the tub. After the bath, he's running around naked and I'm on poo watch. Think I've gone as far as I'm willing to go, so I put a nappy on him. He takes it off, sits on the red leather chair and pees. Aaaaaaaaall into the seems and places I can't reach as it's all connected.
Cam usually poos after breakfast, and we've done pretty well sitting him on the pot for the experience. He didn't go this morning, so I potted him before bed. He immediately proceeds to poo a big pile and want off. I was so proud. So we wipe, flush, say bye-bye poopy. He turns, walks out from the side of the toilet, and has continued to poo up the wall, all over the floor, has stood in it, got it all down his legs, in his shoes, all over my hands. Do you realize how fast poop dries? By the time I got him bathed, diapered and in bed, I had to scrub, scrub, but still couldn't get it all out of the tile grout.
So close, yet sooooooooooo far.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Happy Easter Meets Fatal Attraction
We lived out in the country, and anyone who has lived near a farm, or near farming hunter types, knows that animals in your neighborhood don't usually have long lives. Indeed, at the passing of an animal, you rarely hear things about good lives and times to go and the like.
No, it's usually some tragic, often horrific and untimely end. Cars hit your cats, dogs eat your chickens, the slaughter truck pulls up at the cow farm across the street. Dump trucks cut the neighbor's dog in half, cats die from eating rats that have been poisoned and are then found during your birthday party, your dad accidentally backs over family goat. Parakeet kills two mates, lays an egg months later and dies - that was weird and still unexplained but a totally different kind of story. Still, all true.
Anyway, as a kid, you have to get used to the carnage. What you don't have to get used to, but what makes you popular with the other country kids, is a mom who - god knows why - freezes dead animals in the basement freezer along side the summer berries and Popsicles. On any given day you could usually find an animal from each species: a salamander, a chickadee, a snake, and/or turtle and/or cat, fish, whatever. That was the decade of the little old lady asking, "Where's the beef?" and believe you me, that's what we were asking, too.
All this leads me to my Easter story. My mom might have been a crazed Ms. Hyde in the freezer, but she was a genius Dr. Jekyll when it came to holidays and birthdays. We had themes and events and games and you name it. For some reason Easter was a particular favorite, and I know to this day, at the ages of 32 and 38 (holy crap, Josh, 38?), were we to live near my mom we would still not only get baskets, but would be sent on an egg hunt as well. So there I was, seven or thereabouts, big Easter party planned, families and kids coming over, and my parents decide to barbecue rabbit. And there I was, seven or thereabouts, and I thought nothing of it. Wouldn't most little girls have cried? Perhaps yet another cat had recently died and I was all out of tears, or maybe it was just another in a long line of dead animals, but it didn't phase me one iota. I suppose I just thought, "Bunny. It's what's for dinner."
Happy Easter, everyone. Enjoy it for it's true meaning: chocolate, candy and egg hunts.
No, it's usually some tragic, often horrific and untimely end. Cars hit your cats, dogs eat your chickens, the slaughter truck pulls up at the cow farm across the street. Dump trucks cut the neighbor's dog in half, cats die from eating rats that have been poisoned and are then found during your birthday party, your dad accidentally backs over family goat. Parakeet kills two mates, lays an egg months later and dies - that was weird and still unexplained but a totally different kind of story. Still, all true.
Anyway, as a kid, you have to get used to the carnage. What you don't have to get used to, but what makes you popular with the other country kids, is a mom who - god knows why - freezes dead animals in the basement freezer along side the summer berries and Popsicles. On any given day you could usually find an animal from each species: a salamander, a chickadee, a snake, and/or turtle and/or cat, fish, whatever. That was the decade of the little old lady asking, "Where's the beef?" and believe you me, that's what we were asking, too.
All this leads me to my Easter story. My mom might have been a crazed Ms. Hyde in the freezer, but she was a genius Dr. Jekyll when it came to holidays and birthdays. We had themes and events and games and you name it. For some reason Easter was a particular favorite, and I know to this day, at the ages of 32 and 38 (holy crap, Josh, 38?), were we to live near my mom we would still not only get baskets, but would be sent on an egg hunt as well. So there I was, seven or thereabouts, big Easter party planned, families and kids coming over, and my parents decide to barbecue rabbit. And there I was, seven or thereabouts, and I thought nothing of it. Wouldn't most little girls have cried? Perhaps yet another cat had recently died and I was all out of tears, or maybe it was just another in a long line of dead animals, but it didn't phase me one iota. I suppose I just thought, "Bunny. It's what's for dinner."
Happy Easter, everyone. Enjoy it for it's true meaning: chocolate, candy and egg hunts.
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