Blythe Spirit

Lush Life

2010-10-06T19:46:00.001-07:00

Life is good.

Theo is hilarious and exhausting. He spent the evening dragging his wheeled suitcase around the house, whispering “I am searching for sick animals. I will help them.” Then he bossed us around and had a time out for arguing about bedtime (again) and told me he wanted to rub noses with me before going to sleep. He says he wants to be an Expert for Halloween.

I am watching this season of Dancing with the Stars but I’m not particularly intrigued by any of the contestants. I can’t allow myself to root for Rick Fox because I think he’s slimy but then again he’s sort of charming. I don’t understand why Tom Bergeron hasn’t won an Emmy. I think he’s a genius. I still miss Gilles.

There are a few reasons I haven’t been writing here much. Since moving back from Germany I’ve gradually become more private. Theo is getting older and becoming more of a person with friends and opinions and stuff he might not want splashed all over the internet. I have a great job that I love, and I’m not sure I want them to know all my Stuff just yet.

But I’ve missed writing and I’ve missed being part of the internet dialogue. So I am thrilled and delighted to be joining the writing team for Style Lush. I can’t wait to share my favorite stuff and my shopping dilemmas over there. I hope you’ll join me.

Rudely Interrupted

2010-07-07T22:16:00.000-07:00

The stories of bad manners over at Jonniker's post are apt to curl your hair. Rudeness abounds, apparently, particularly among our families-in-law and surrounding special occasions. The combination of the two - weddings! - is a powder keg, especially because it involves gift-giving and catering and lots and lots of money. Soliciting gifts! Proffering laxatives to encourage weight loss! Holocaust references! Reading those comments should have made me feel superior, right? I write thank-you notes. I get along with my mother-in-law. I strive not to tell people they look like concentration camp survivors. But as I read, I began to cringe. Because some of those stories could have been written about me.

Confessions:
-Before I had a kid, breastfeeding kind if icked me out, and I expressed disdain for the idea of nursing past a certain age.
-I once called a bride and asked if I could bring a date to her wedding, even though the invitation was addressed only to me.
-I did not make an effort to greet all the guests at my own wedding reception.
-I've made comments to a friend, favorably comparing the size of my home with the size of her smaller home.
-I've straight-out asked people about their ethnic backgrounds.

RUDE, RUDE, RUDE. I'll admit it. I do strive toward good manners, but sometimes I fail. And all of the incidents above have context that might make them sound slightly less horrifying, but they probably really bothered someone who was around when they happened, maybe even the people involved, probably people who I love and would never want to offend. They all involve situations that make me uncomfortable. And so I avoid them (see: wedding reception) or over-compensate by trying to justify them (see: house conversation, breastfeeding conversation) or just plow ahead with the discussion, searching for a bright light and a point that everyone can agree upon. Never mind that I may have shocked everyone in the room.

I am not easily offended. I like to talk about what's really going on, what I'm really thinking. I want to hear what you're really thinking. Most of the time, unless it's way over the top or a repeated problem (a family friend who never fails to make a sexist remark to me each time I see him comes to mind), I see rudeness as either a manifestation of nerves, a colorful personality, or laughable idiocy. I try not to take it personally. But I've finally learned that most people don't really feel like that. (Well, except the Germans. And maybe the Dutch.) (See? Now I've offended some people. But probably not anyone who is really German or Dutch.)

And I find it all a bit exhausting. Hurt feelings are one thing - I do my best, and sometimes fail, not to be insensitive. But taking a circuitous route to asking a question or sharing an opinion just because culture dictates it annoys me. If a good friend who is known to be a bit spacey invites me to her wedding and doesn't put my fiance' on the invitation, I'm going to quietly ask if she would mind if he comes. (She said yes. She just forgot to put "and guest" on the envelope. Wouldn't it have been a bummer if I'd gotten angry and felt slighted because of her perceived rudeness in excluding my date? Then again, maybe she still can't believe I called and asked if he could come. I'll never know.) If I have questions about nursing and how it feels and wonder why someone would want to extend it into toddlerhood, I'm going to ask, hopefully of someone who will answer me honestly and confidently, but I don't know, sometimes I misjudge my audience. However, if living abroad taught me one thing, it's that behavior is judged on a continuum. There are few objective standards of right and wrong, rude and polite, cruel and kind.

I'm sure I've horrified some of you with my behavior. But I'll bet you have some confessions too. Here's your chance. Any rudeness you'd like to share?

Angels

2010-06-30T22:15:00.000-07:00

We spent last week in Los Angeles. Our vacation was well timed, taking into account the early summer doldrums of cloudy/rainy Oregon, the end of a busy work period, and the cabin fever that I begin to experience when my little nuclear family hasn't been out of town together in almost a year.

Three days of Disneyland took it out of us. We ate breakfast with Minnie, we rode the Dumbos, we squealed at and got splashed by the pirates. There were churros and mouse ears and light sabers and more rides on the Buzz Lightyear AstroBlasters than the recommended daily allowance. After finally extricating ourselves from the Pixar Play Parade on the last day, we were undecided about what to with the rest of our time in the sunshine. San Diego with LegoLand and spectacular zoos almost won the day. But, in the ended we decided to stick around Los Angeles and see what we could see.

I love getting to know new cities. My ideal urban vacation begins with spending the first day traveling from one end of the city to another, absorbing the neighborhoods and snacking at the cool bakeries and eating street food and riding public transportation. I follow that up with a boutique and bookstore shopping day and a museum day punctuated with stops at restaurants I've read about in advance. I like to stay in a downtown hotel with a groovy bar in the lobby and a doorman.

Even pre-parenthood, my southern California experiences had been the opposite of that scenario. I'd either gone straight from airport to Disney to Knotts Berry Farm to airport, or I'd ridden around wearing a suit in the back of a rental car with a bunch of coworkers with a projector on my lap, traveling from conference hotel to conference hotel. I began to wonder if that image of LA as a wasteland of air conditioned malls and backed-up freeways were true. But in the end, I refused to believe it.

So our L.A. vacation landed somewhere in between a shoe-shopping, wine-swilling poolside retreat, and a traffic-bound dash from complimentary breakfast to theme park and back. We ate some great meals, including a magical Mexican dinner at Border Grill in Santa Monica. Jeff and I traded off sprawling on the sunny lawn watching Theo run barefoot across the grass and taking in the collection at the Getty Museum (a place I'd vaguely head of before, but one that is a must-see, especially if you like spectacular views and cool architecure or gardens). There was no bar in our hotel, but we had air conditioning and Froot Loops at the complimentary breakfast. We drove around Hollywood and Bel Air and Beverly Hills while Theo slept in his car seat. We went to the beach.

We had a great vacation. But it's good to be back.

The Winner!

2010-03-11T22:13:00.000-08:00

Our Oscar Pool winner is...

KENDRA with 17 correct picks out of 24. As she pointed out in comments, she came in near the bottom of the pack last year, so if you feel like you suck at this, never fear, a comeback could be nigh!

The final results:
Kendra - 17
Sandi - 15
Jeff - 13
Jennifer - 13
Gerry - 13
Daniela - 12
Kerri W - 12
Jennie - 12
Tom - 12
Monique - 11
Kristen - 10
Cody - 10
Britten - 10
Amy - 10
Dan - 9
Hollie - 9
Kathryn - 8
Anna - 8
Erin - 8
Emily - 8
Kerri Anne - 8
Kerri B - 7
Francie - 7
Erica - 6

Oscar Post V

2010-02-11T22:13:00.000-08:00

If there's anything that could bring me back from the blogging grave, it's the Oscars.

Enter the pool here!

Of course, there will be prizes.

Bless Us Every One

2009-12-29T22:12:00.000-08:00

Best of

2009-11-30T22:11:00.000-08:00

This month, I'm going to write about my best moments of 2009. It was quite a year.

Best Trip:

Our life was all about travel for so long, we'd become experts at hotel sleeping and bag packing and hellos and goodbyes. So when we moved back to Portland, we plunked down our suitcases, heaved a sigh of relief, and pledged to settle down for a while. We took a couple of weekend trips and a quick Vegas getaway, but there wasn't much glamor to speak of - nothing compared with Easter in Spain, or a villa in Tuscany, or an accidental trip to Hong Kong.

Whatever my twentieth high school class reunion lacked in glamor, however, it made up for in genuine fun and good will and laughter. It reminded me who I am and how I got here and made me proud of the people I started with, and who know me in a way that no one else does. (They also lived through the bad hair years with me. Never fear, you'll get to see more of that this month too.)

Growing Up

2009-11-16T22:11:00.000-08:00

The past few nights, Theo has taken a few toys to bed with him. Each night when he finally goes to sleep, we find the cars and plastic animals laying on their sides or their backs at the foot of his bed. Last night, he half-woke when Jeff tucked the blanket around him and noticed as Jeff absentmindedly turned one of the cars right side up.

"No, Daddy!" he said, suddenly awake. "They sleeping!"

------

He was in his room the other day, playing quietly, "reading" his books. I heard a sudden sob and peeked into the room. He was sitting on the floor with a book in his hands, weeping. "What's wrong, buddy?"
"I can't read it!" he said, obviously frustrated.
"What do you mean?" He'd been happily thumbing through books, saying he was reading them, for weeks.
"I don't know HOW!"
Well. Yes. That's true.

This is It

2009-11-08T22:10:00.000-08:00

I haven't had much positive to say about MJ over the past decade or so. He was so, well, strange, and whenever it seemed like he might finally fade into the background and raise his kids, he would do something creepy or bizarre that confirmed how troubled he was and that he was passing that trouble along to his children. And as much as I love to dance around my living room to Beat It, all the available evidence suggested that the plastic surgery and the financial and legal problems and the rumored drug use had combined to sap his health and his talent. I wasn't even that sad when he died because the part of him I loved, his magic, appeared to have evaporated years ago.

But I did love him once upon a time, and I'd heard "This is It" was worth seeing. So I saw it.

And it made me sad and happy. It was the closest I'll ever get to seeing a Michael Jackson concert. It reminded what a genius he was. It made me question the news reports about his health. It made me think of him as a man and a professional, not just an over-the-hill singer who had had way too much plastic surgery and dangled his baby over a balcony.

If Michael Jackson had allowed the world a glimpse of his life like the one I saw in "This is It," things might have been different for him. He seemed capable, physically healthy, in tune, and professional. I've read that he wished he could live his whole life onstage, and I can see why. He was skinny and his nose looked weird, but he knew exactly how to act up there, and exactly what he wanted, and he was humble but directive. He danced and sang like a gracefully aging pop star, not like the slightly crippled and over-dubbed skeleton he seemed in the press. It's true, he couldn't move like he did in 1983, but neither can I, and neither can Madonna.

Unfortunately it seems like he was incapable of living a happy or normal offstage life. He hated the press so he became a recluse, which only made him seem incapacitated and strange. He made his kids wear masks and he left the country and then held cryptic press conferences. He spent a lot of time with "spiritual advisors" who then sold their stories to the tabloids. His relationships with women were, well, inexplicable, and his relationships with young children were, at the very least, suspicious. His family and his upbringing were probably partially to blame.

But it seems to me that he had one main problem, which was also his gift: he was simply a vessel for his art, and outside that art, he absolutely couldn't figure out how to function. (Bear with me here for the artsy fartsy section. I just can't think of this in any other way.) Michael Jackson's body and his life offstage were seriously flawed, but his art was close to perfect. And when I say his art, I mean the whole package - the songwriting, the charisma, the singing, and of course the dancing. The film makes clear that it was all of a piece for him. He didn't write a song, then learn to sing it, then choreograph a dance. It all came to him at one time, and when he sang, it appeared that he had to move; he couldn't imagine music without song, without dance. And I can only imagine if he lived his whole life knowing the perfection of that feeling, he was flummoxed by the imperfection of every other aspect of his existence.

I wonder if that's why he was enamored with the innocence of children, and why he kept searching for spiritual fulfillment, and why he took drugs to help him sleep, and why he couldn't stop shaving off parts of his nose.

Lessons

2009-10-18T22:09:00.000-07:00

-It is difficult to maintain a blog when one's computer has finally succumbed to death throes.
-Computer shopping sounds like fun but it feels like throwing a lot of money at something I don't know enough about. A little like buying a car.
-When I don't feel confident about a purchase, I tend to come up with creative work-arounds for having to buy a new one.
-My creativity only goes so far.
-Posting to my blog via my phone is, apparently, the last straw.
-Macs sound really great but I'm not convinced they are worth the money.
-I'll believe the above statement until I actually get one, and then I'll go around evangelizing about them like I do my iPhone.
-If you're going to make your child a pawn in your quest for fame, don't let him talk directly to the media.

Coughing it Up

2009-10-04T22:08:00.000-07:00

Our little family of three does just fine with my new working mom gig as long as nothing disrupts the precarious timing balance we've so carefully constructed. As long as Jeff doesn't have an early meeting, as long as Theo doesn't wake up too early and disrupt my shower, as long as I don't have to stay late at the office. But then I went on a business trip last week.

I got home late Sunday evening after starting my trip with a canceled flight (and an exchange with an airline employee that was really just unrivaled in its rudenes. And the rudness was not mine, for once). But I was happy to have made it home and fell into bed, got up and went to work, and just about collapsed in a heap at 10am when I realized it was only MONDAY and OMG THERE ARE FOUR MORE DAYS OF THIS.

When I'm in my little routine, I spend Sunday evenings getting my clothes ready (I almost typed "ironing my clothes" but who am I fooling), figuring out lunches and dinners for the week, and going over the day care pick-up and drop-off schedule with Jeff. So without that structural safety net I found myself eating BBQ potato chips and Twizzlers I found in my desk drawer at lunchtime while sweating through an inappropriately-wintry turtleneck. But the turtleneck was clean at least, because I chose clean over seasonal.

All three of us have some version of a cough/runny nose/day care pestilence, so I've also been contending with fearful looks from bystanders as I hack up a lung. I feel like I should hand out anti-bacterial wipes everywhere I go. I'll admit, sometimes I cough right into my hand instead of into my elbow, and sometimes I don't wash my hands immediately after wiping my nose. It's hard when you're sitting in the middle seat on an airplane. But I am sick and tired of and, well, getting downright pissed off about, people's reactions to my condition. Let's be clear here: I do not have a fever. I do not have chills. I am not oinking. I just have a cold and a cough and when I get a cough it tends to last for a long time. And I'm not sure exactly what I'm supposed to do about that besides politely stuff my face into my elbow when I feel a cough coming on. Stay in my house for the six weeks it takes for me to stop coughing? Wear a surgical mask?

I am too lazy to expand this little rant into a well-constructed argument about the media and "news" and how the public has been not-subtly convinced to fear illness over the years and now we're all judging one another for our germs. But you get my drift. On the other hand, I am sympathetic to health concerns, I have a freaking toddler for goodness' sake. I have allergy-induced asthma. I know we have to take a health threat like H1N1 seriously.

But let's just all calm down, please. Please. Deep breath.

I feel much better now.

And as long as I'm going on and on about whatever is on the top of my head, let me send you to a couple of things I've been enjoying lately:

Penelope Trunk is always interesting and I'm finding her latest series on Asperger's Syndrome in the workplace really fascinating. She also just angered a whole lot of people, using 140 characters or less, and in a way that is sparking all kinds of conversations. Check her out.

Have you read The Unlikely Disciple? Speaking of controversy, it's a book about religion and sex and Jerry Falwell and college. I'm only about 1/3 through and I can't put it down.

Was I Right?

2009-09-23T22:06:00.000-07:00

So, was I right?

Yes and No.

The Good:
Mya and Donny both did well. And Mark was all right. If he can get over the Kung Fu poses he'll do well.

The Bad:
Chuck Liddell was not good, but he has that sincerity of purpose that it's hard not to love. I practically had to turn off the TV when Tom DeLay came on, if only due to his practice wardrobe. And what can you say about Macy Gray? It almost feels mean to criticize her - she seems like she's living in some far-off wonderland.

The Surprising:
Kelly Osbourne was very good! And she'll get even better with practice. I guess Louis really is a genius teacher. She's also got the personality lacking in everyone else but the snowboarder hobbit. He's charming but I'm not sure he has anything in his bag of tricks besides those backflips.

Aaron Carter was even more annoying than I thought he'd be. Ick. I also had hope for Ashley Hamilton and there's no denying he's attractive but man, he hasn't an ounce of rhythm.

Joanna Krupa could be the next Brooke Burke. Unfortunately that means we'll also being seeing Derek again, week after week.

Who knew Kathy Ireland was so tall? And poor Tony, he really deserves to win, but this is not going to be his season.

I felt an overall lack of pizzazz. Even in the glare of the sequins. It's why Kelly Osbourne stood out so clearly and why Donny did well. Where is the sex appeal? Where is the passion? WHERE IS GILLES? (Excuse me, I've started channeling Bruno.)

Working for the Weekend

2009-09-13T22:06:00.000-07:00

I'd forgotten about the weekends.

For a long time, I've taken care of my to-do list on the weekdays. I grocery shopped, I made dentist appointments, I called the insurance company. I found a baby shower gift. I searched online for a recipe for that applesauce cake I was going to try to make. When weekends came, they were devoted to sleeping and eating waffles and having fun.

I anticipated the exhaustion I'd feel on weekday evenings after I started working, and it arrived right on schedule. By Thursday night last week my eyes were droopy at 6:30pm and Theo was singing his "Wake up, Mama!" song and reminding me that the sun wasn't down yet. But I remembered that feeling, and I kind of sunk right back into it, my throat scratchy from talking all day and my feet hurting from wearing stiff shoes. For me, it's a little of what accomplishment feels like. I like it.

But I'd forgotten about cramming the rest of my life into the weekends. Now we're trying to do the fun stuff on Saturdays and Sundays - seeing friends and playing with cousins and going to the library and eating out - and then doing laundry and buying diapers and packing lunches after the kid goes to bed. No more lazy weekends for us.

I'm tempted to become a weekend hermit, holing up with my little guy and my big guy and eating Cheerios and watching America's Funniest Home Videos for two days straight. In fact, I'm sure there will be weekends when that happens. However we'll run out of cereal eventually so there will be a trip to the store on the agenda at some point.

Party on.

Good Advice: Eek! A FB Friend Request from an Ex

2009-09-04T22:04:00.000-07:00

A thirty-something woman lounges on the couch with her laptop. She sips a diet Coke as she cruises through Zappos and checks her e-mail. Partner/live-in boyfriend sits further down the couch with either his laptop or a remote control in hand.

Close-up on her screen. She has opened a message from Facebook. It's a friend request.

Dun-dun-DUNNNNNN

From her ex-boyfriend. Her first love. Who broke her heart and to whom she hasn't spoken in fifteen years. She glances furtively over her computer at the guy on the couch, her mouse hovering between "accept" and "ignore."

END SCENE

I fully expect to see this on my television soon, either as an intro to a Dr. Phil segment or an ad for anti-anxiety meds. Because the drama du jour, besides who's really writing celebrity Twitter updates, is What To Do With The Ex on Facebook. Do we ignore and wonder and worry that the ex will think he's won? Do we accept and keep it a secret from our current flames? Do we accept for politeness's sake then de-friend when no one is looking? Do we accept, write "CHEATING ASSHOLE" on his wall, and then de-friend? Do we accept with the knowledge that there's still a little bit of feeling there, and what happens then?

What we do right now, if the people I know are any indication, is let it sit in the in-box and then dish with our girlfriends about it. We talk way too much about what "friend" really means, and motives, and what would I do if I knew my husband were Facebook friends with that hussy he dumped when he met me, ad nauseum. And then we go off and stew a little more.

A few weeks ago, a very wise friend of mine got just such a request. He was a significant person in her life for several years in her early twenties, but it ended in a difficult way. She had always wondered about him and where he'd ended up, but she moved on. She now has a happy family and a successful career and hadn't really thought about him in a while. But still, when she got the friend request, on her wedding anniversary no less, she sent an email to us, her faithful girlfriend sounding board, with Subject: OMG OMG OMG. As one does.

We, her bumbling band of advisors, hemmed and hawed and said wow, that's crazy timing, I wonder what he's doing now, that's so wild! And gave her no useful advice at all. So she took matters into her own hands. And she put on her grown-up shoes (mine are red patent peep-toe heels) and wrote this reply to her ex:

Hey there! I hope you and your family are doing well. Thank you for the
friend request. Unfortunately, I will have to decline. My husband and I
have a deal, no exes. Especially significant ones. I really hope you are
doing well and wish you all the best. Today is my 10yr wedding anniversary
and we have a beautiful 3yo daughter and 17mo old son. I would love a quick
note hearing about how you are doing. And I hope you understand and respect
the decision about the request.

And then, of course, she practically lost her mind as she wondered what he would write back.

Later in the day, she got a reply. It was extremely kind. It included the kind of apology that every person wants from an ex who has broken her heart. It gave her a nutshell description of his life since they were together. And it ended with sincere respect for her choice to honor a promise to her husband.

I'm not sure why I was so surprised at the happy ending here. My friend just did the responsible thing, the thing that most people would do outside Facebook. But for better or worse (better being the fact that I can officially count myself as a fan of Bacon and put up an avatar of Molly Ringwald in memoriam to John Hughes, worse being the "friend-ing" and "de-friending" drama), Facebook pulls some of us into junior high school mentality even though we all swore we would NEVER go back to junior high, given the choice.

So although I can't promise that you'll get as gracious a response as she did, my friend and I both give you permission to cut and paste her message into your Facebook reply box when the ex-boyfriend from 1998 who moved out of your apartment in the middle of the night and who you later saw sucking face with the receptionist from his office tries to friend you.

You're welcome for that memory.

Not Yet

2009-08-25T22:02:00.000-07:00

Theo is just starting to grasp the ideas of time and place. He understands Now and Later and When and Where. This means he comes up with questions like, "Where I going, Mama?" just before we walk out the door, and replying "Not yet. I playing," when I ask him if he's ready for lunch. Every night before he goes to bed he asks, "Tomorrow a play day?" meaning he's wondering if he'll get to sleep in (a "play day") or if I'll rouse him out of bed to take him to day care. His attention span is expanding and he has been known to settle in with some cars or a book for twenty minutes at a time. Last night he grabbed my hand and led me into his room, asking me to "Play a game with me, Mama." He also gets excited about taking his vitamins, and his latest favorite book is Olivia ("Read Livia to me, Daddy!"). I can't wait to see what goofy new thing he does to make me laugh as I lift him out of bed after his nap - lately when I stick out my hand, he says, "I'm DeeDee," to which I'm supposed to respond, "Nice to meet you, I'm DahDah." Don't ask me how that is supposed to make sense.

Every stage in his life is interesting to me, but now that the physical growth has slowed down a bit and his intellectual progress is faster, I am more fascinated by him than ever. He's started making jokes, and remembering directions ("We going left?"), and trying to figure out what day it is ("Today Tuesday?"). Of course he's also bossier than I ever imagined he could be, and he has a real problem remembering that everyone deserves a turn on the slide and that blocking it with his body and just hanging out at the top really isn't acceptable playground behavior.

So isn't it just my luck that, just when he's at his most charming, I've up and got myself a full-time job? It's true. I start next week. I'm excited about it. I've really missed the intellectual stimulation of working. I always liked my work and now that I've had a four year break, I know for sure that it really was the right field for me. So I'm going back.

Before I had a child I suspected I was not stay-at-home-mom material, and although I am beyond grateful that I could hang out with Theo for as long as I have, I still believe I'm happier when I'm working. I do not do well with unstructured days and hours alone with my toddler. I do not enjoy housework, and I just feel guilty that it's not getting done while I'm trying to re-assemble a broken dump truck. I am terrible at arts and crafts. My patience for whining is severely limited.

Of course this new plan is kind of breaking my heart too. I am savoring our sleepy mornings this week, eating breakfast in our PJs and wandering over to the library and the park. I don't like thinking about the post-nap cuddles I will miss, or the quiet weekday visits to the zoo.

But it still feels like the right thing. I'm happy with our child care situation. Jeff and I are both looking forward to caring for Theo in a more balanced partnership. And it's a financially responsible decision for all of us.

But I'm not looking forward to giving up our play days either.

Dreaming with the Stars

2009-08-18T22:01:00.000-07:00

I hate to follow up a post about a dance-themed reality TV show with another post about a dance-themed reality tv show, but...I don't really hate to do it. I love it.

Did you see the new cast of Dancing with the Stars has been announced? And, according to the headlines, its most exciting member is Tom DeLay. Wha? I can't wait to see what John Stewart has to say about this development (don't tell me, we don't get to watch him until a day later).

My predictions:
-Final three = Mya, Marc Dacascos, Donny Osmond.
Mya and Donny both have dance/performance backgrounds. She was in the move musical Chicago, he was in Joseph & The Amazingly White Teeth (or something). Somehow it doesn't seem fair to pit a professional dancer against, say a snowboarder or a rodeo cowboy but then again, Lil Kim didn't get voted off because she was a bad dancer. I'm most excited about Marc Dacascos who plays the Chairman on Iron Chef America. He is a martial artist and I really hope they pair him with someone besides Karina because she scares me.

-Possible spoiler = Aaron Carter
Also has a performance background. But, based on his bizarre family reality TV show, might be kind of a jerk. Which could hurt him. He's no Cody Linley in the wide-eyed ingenue department, is all I'm saying.

-First to go = Macy Gray or Chuck Liddell
Have you seen Macy Gray move? Yikes. And I just don't have much hope for the Ultimate Fighting Champion. I'd say DeLay might get kicked off early but the Republicans are fired up and like to get out the vote.

-Other possible nightmares: Joanna Krupa and Kathy Ireland
Models seem to have a hard time with rhythm and movement on this show. Except for Brooke Burke, of course. Because she was BORN TO BE A DANCER!!! according to the judges.

Now I'm on pins and needles, wondering which professional dancers will be cast with the celebs. Any predictions? Hopes? Dreams?

So You Think You Can Come Up With A Better Name For This Show

2009-08-11T22:00:00.000-07:00

I try not to be embarrassed about the number of hours I spend watching reality television, but sometimes it's hard. I have sworn that I will not get caught up in The Biggest Loser this fall, not because it's emotionally manipulative (even though it is) but because it consumes four full hours per week of my precious post-bedtime evenings. I'm just not that committed to America's weight loss trials and triumphs. I'd all but sworn off American Idol until Paula Abdul went down in a blaze of glory and now, well, I might have to watch. But NOT during the audition rounds. At least not all of them. I wish I could quit Dancing with the Stars but I'm not sure I can resist. I'm not proud of my weakness for the Paso Doble.

I am proud, however, to announce that I am a huge fan of So You Think You Can Dance. When I saw it for the first time I couldn't quite believe that real dance - not fake ballroom, not Michael Jackson video ripoffs, not the Nutcracker on PBS - was on network prime time. I loved it but I was sure it wouldn't last. Was the country that made The Swan a hit really going to support choreography starring electronica and a crash test dummy narrative? Would anyone tune in to a show with such a cumbersome title? Would we get it?

But, apparently, we do. The gorgeous host, Cat Deeley, manages to seem geniunely sweet and goofy and like the anti-Seacrest. The judges are nerdy and over-Botoxed but do seem to know what they're talking about and generally don't sound like they are on drugs. Well, except Lil C. The contestants are jaw-droppingly talented, and instead of being sold mainly on their back stories (The Widowed Church Guy! The Country Girl Whose Daddy Is In Prison!), they are featured for their talent. The prize, though nothing to sneeze at, matters less than the performances and the exposure the dancers receive. And, most thrillingly to me, the choreography is sometimes strange and inaccessible but always interesting.

Don't tell anyone, but I think we, as a television-viewing public, are appreciating Art. And it's on Fox. Please make every effort to keep this development from Rupert Murdoch, because this is a slippery slope. What's next? Opera?

P.S.
I wanted Janette to win. I think Kayla was thwarted by her own weak choreography in her solos, but she absolutely rocked the stage whenever someone else gave her something to do. I believe it's unfair that they split the competition along gender lines until the end, because at least three of the women should have made it to the final four. I loved the Butt Dance. Mia Michaels needs a new makeup artist. I've downloaded half the music from this season. I can't wait until the new season starts.

Tonight's Gonna be a Good Night

2009-08-03T21:59:00.000-07:00

I went to the dentist last week and smugly came home and announced that the hygienist told me I had pretty teeth, therefore validating my devoted flossing. And then I mentioned that I had to go back again to have a cavity filled and it didn't even occur to me that the whole thing sounded sort of stupid. I mean, a tooth with a big ugly hole in it isn't very pretty, is it? Especially to a dental hygienist. I think she was just trying to make conversation.

So today I had my cavity filled and the dentist had to dose me three times with the anesthesia and by the third try I just stopped reacting when the drill hit a nerve (sorry!) and dug my fingernails into my palms a bit further. Obviously I must have been somewhat medicated or I would have involuntarily shrieked at high volume but still. You're not supposed to feel the drill, are you?

Anyway, the medication kicked in about an hour later and suddenly my whole head felt numb and everything on my right side, including my eyebrow, was rendered immobile. So my plan to go to the mall and hit up the MAC counter for some new blush was foiled and I just went home instead and tried to eat ramen. You can imagine how that went, with my droopy lip and half-numb tongue. I'm going to have to do extra laundry tomorrow. And then I baked my favorite chocolate chip cookies. Mainly to celebrate the temperature finally remaining below ninety degrees after a ten-day heatwave. But not inside my house because when you turn the oven on, it heats up the house.

Not my best day. But hey! I have a new bionic tooth and chocolate chip cookies and this week is the season finale of So You Think You Can Dance and after six hours or so I can finally feel my face again. Life is good.

The Twenty

2009-07-28T21:57:00.000-07:00

Though I sometimes like to pretend high school was miserable for me, it wasn't. It was, in almost every area, a good time. I had close friends. I liked my teachers and they liked me. I went to a small school where I was involved in everything from drill team to drama to student government. I got good grades. I went to a nice college. I had a date for the prom. But high school memories live in the portion of my brain that still is in high school. It's the portion that can recite all the lyrics to "Right Here Waiting for You" by Richard Marx, and that is embarrassed that my best friends were always the ones with the boyfriends and I was always sitting in the back seat by myself on the way to the dance, and that flips the personality switch into Tracy Flick mode when I'm not looking. It's the part that spent too much time feeling awkward and a little ugly even when I probably wasn't.

So I can understand why people balk at attending their high school class reunions. When the invitation came for mine, I had a second of doubt. Did I really want to see people on whom the last impression I made was a yawn-inducing graduation speech about Following Your Own Personal Star? Or, worse yet, they might remember me as the girl who didn't even know where the senior kegger was held, probably because there was a suspicion that she might call the cops. It's hard not to focus on regretful behavior, but someone wise reminded me that it's a very self-centered thing to do; most of my classmates probably don't remember the idiotic things I did, or if they do, they've got their own litany of idiocy to worry about.

I didn't let my thoughts linger for too long at the failed pep rally in my head, although it wasn't because I made a difficult personal decision to overcome my fears and grow stronger in this difficult time. No, mostly I went to 20-year class reunion because I wanted to know the rest of the story. I wanted to see where people were living and how many kids they had and if they had become even more handsome than they were in the eighties (odds were good, considering the perms and Cosby Show sweaters everyone was sporting in our graduation photos). And maybe I wanted the opportunity to shock them all by drinking a beer in public.

Damn, I'm glad I went.

I saw my child racing gleefully through a sprinkler with the kids of one of my dearest friends. She and I were just a year or two older than they are now when we met. It made me a little tearful, until Theo threw a matchbox car at her son's head.

I hung out with the wives of my junior high school crushes and it reminded me that small town boys have good taste (and so did I).

I heard a story about wrestling a mountain lion, masterfully told by a guy I could never persuade to be the prince in my four-year-old princess pretend games.

I recognized people by their voices and their walks which hadn't changed in two decades, and I could tell whose kids belonged to whom because they looked exactly like their parents at age ten.

I was reminded once again that I married well as I watched my normally shy husband spend day after day conversing with strangers and politely laughing at reminiscences that made no sense to him.

I saw a lot less bad hair than when we were in high school, but that might just be because there was less hair in general.

I heard stories about children and partners and how great it was to be back in Montana, if only for just a little while. I heard no bragging about jobs or houses or status symbols.

I ate too many cheeseburgers. I drank a beer in public, but no one seemed too shocked.

If you have a reunion coming up, you should go. Ignore the part of your brain that's embarrassed because you made out with that guy who never talked to you again, or worse because you dated that guy for ages and he might actually be there. Ignore the reminder that you never made varsity. Forget the suspicion that everyone might be skinnier/taller/richer than you. Instead, remember laughing together at your ridiculous World History teacher. Think about the time your car ran out of gas and the intriguing girl you'd never even talked to from homeroom offered you a ride. Expect to hear about the good stuff, the families and friends, because those are the stories that will get told. Don't skip it because you "don't want to re-live high school." There's no way it's going to be the same as high school because twenty years have passed and everyone likes a happy ending.

Just go.

Full set of photos here.

Theo-isms

2009-07-23T21:56:00.000-07:00

Daddy, are you my friend?

To his dinner: Hello, food. I am going to eat you.

To me, when I tell him it's time to leave Nana's house: I need a second.

Let's watch Jeopardy! Or the dancing show! (The dancing show = So You Think You Can Dance)

Blame it on the juice! Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-a! (Nice one, no? Taught to him by his father.)

All I Ever Wanted

2009-07-09T21:56:00.000-07:00

I'm leaving tomorrow on a trip to Montana, where I will eat some steak and Theo will run amok due to grandparental spoilage, and then we will hang out with a bunch of my high school classmates who I haven't seen in twenty years. I'm pretty sure none of us has changed a bit.

While I'm away, you should watch this trailer for the new Ricky Gervais film. He is a genius.

Olden Days

2009-07-07T21:54:00.000-07:00

I'm not much for nostalgia. You'd never guess it, based on my musical taste and my pop culture knowledge, which are both firmly planted in the late 1980's, but it's true. I rarely sit around wishing things were like they used to be, or wondering why we can't just slow down a little bit. I like to think about the future. I'm an early adopter. I like to see what's next. Yeah, it was great when we could ride our bikes around the neighborhood until dusk and our parents didn't have to worry about us, but I kind of like the idea of a helmet on my speeding child's head. Yeah, it was great when traveling by air was a big deal and people used to get dressed up to do it, but I kind of like that it's become part of everyday life and that we're all more mobile and aware of the world. Yeah, I used to enjoy writing letters, but I love e-mail. Yeah, Twitter is weird, but it's fun and really useful.

I've been a blog reader longer than I've been a blog writer. I've seen blogs morph from ugly journal pages that I swore weren't really meant to be read by the public (but I'm not above a bit of voyeurism and I was reading them anyway) to somewhat more organized and entertaining collections of daily musings, to well-designed and well-written collections of personal essays. I cheered their progress. I saw ads pop up on many sites and that didn't bother me at all, as long as they weren't singing or screwing up my browser. Eventually I even added some to my own blog (See Exhibit A ----> ). And when the corporate sponsorships and giveaways appeared I thought, hell yeah, finally companies are marketing to me and not just to my grandmother. And then some of my favorite bloggers started writing columns at magazine sites and actually earning a living with their talent and I thought, this is how it's supposed to be. Great writers earning a living with their writing.

These great writers have, of course, gained large enough readership that they've started to guard their privacy. I certainly can't blame them. Those who began writing about their screaming babies now have older kids who aren't as keen on having their poop stories broadcast to the world. More regular people, not just geeks, are reading blogs, which means that the risk of having one's blog discovered by the next door neighbor is increasing. And that means fewer stories about the crazy neighbor who yells at his lawn mower, or the cute daughter who innocently likes to dance to "Pass the Dutchie," or the book they absolutely hated because now the author is likely to find the blog and leave a cranky comment. And, well, I miss that stuff.

These successful bloggers are making an effort, I know. They try to make time to update their personal blogs, but it's hard when paid deadlines loom. They honor the readers who love them by weaving personal anecdotes into their magazine columns, or giving away treats and prizes that relate to the stories they've told. They're trying to balance the transition from hobbyist personal bloggers to career freelance writers. I get it and I applaud it and I understand that's what the future holds. And I read way too many blogs so I realize that there are still zillions of fantastic personal stories being posted each day. I'm grateful for that.

I'm not naming names here because, really, this isn't about individual writers. It's about a trend. It's an exciting trend that, at its core, financially supports art and quality. But like most changes, it means we're going to lose something to gain something. So before I get excited about what's ahead, please indulge my nostalgia for a moment. Do you feel it too?

Shuffle-Ball-Change

2009-06-30T21:54:00.000-07:00

I've been hanging out at the community center lately, near lunchtime when the local meals-on-wheels organization serves a meal to seniors in the dining room. They do food delivery too, but those clients who are able-bodied and socially inclined show up to eat and chat and pick up a sack of day-old bagels or a newspaper.

Before lunch, the center hosts exercise classes of the kind you imagine at senior centers - they sit on chairs and stretch their arms; they stand behind the chairs and stretch their legs; they bend from the waist to one side and then another. I like to watch them because they remind me of my grandparents, most of whom are gone. I lived within a half hour of all four of them when I was growing up, but when I moved away twenty years ago this summer, I saw them only a couple of times a year. I find myself imagining Grandma doing the slow-motion version of the hokey pokey at the senior center.

This week I was there a little earlier in the day, and instead of the swayers I was surprised by a whole different group. The ladies' tap dance class was taking place on the stage at one end of the dining room and I swear I could have watched those women all day long. They were dancing to Rockin' Robin (A Michael Jackson homage? Perhaps.) and man, could they tap. I took my share of tap-dance lessons and I never really mastered it; it's all about ankle and knee control and I was better suited to stiff-legged ballet. The class of seven was led by a woman who must have learned tap dancing during World War II. She was serious, stopping the group when someone was clearly out of step and making them all start over again, and they were all way better than I had ever been, even at age ten with my young joints and brand new shoes.

I wonder what kind of class I'll take at the senior center when I am seventy-five. Hip-hop? Maybe Macarena?

What's Going On

2009-06-24T21:53:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted about what's going on with me in a while. And that's mainly because, on a day-to-day basis, it seems like nothing much is going on. I eat Cheerios. I post boring things to Twitter. I take Theo to the park, where he spends most of his time begging to climb on the concrete skatepark and I spend most of my time pointing out that the kids with the low-rider pants and long hair would mow him down with their boards in 1.3 seconds if he toddled into their paths. I watch So You Think You Can Dance.

Aaaand I just killed a spider that was walking across the arm of my chair. Just then. I meant just to brush him off, onto the floor, but he was squashed in the melee. (This is real-time blogging, right here. Riveting, isn't it?)

Fortunately there are a few other places on the internet where things are a bit more exciting. How about these?

Let's Panic About Babies!
You might not want to click on that while you're drinking your coffee because you'll snort it out your nose. The 1-800-DINGOES ad did it for me.

Heavy Cross by The Gossip
Best band name I've heard in a while. They do a kickass Careless Whisper cover too. Also, from Portland!

John Cusack is on Twitter, another example of why it's sometimes more fun to worship celebrities from afar than to actually know what they're thinking. (Side note: It's unfortunate that the more boring and misspelled the twitter feed, the more convinced I become that the celebrity is actually writing it himself.)

It Don't Get Better Than This

2009-06-16T21:52:00.000-07:00

During the Tony awards, Bret Michaels wraps up a rollicking performance of "Nothing but a Good Time" with his Poison bandmates. Bret gets a little carried away taking his bow. The Tony show producers are hyper-aware of their schedule, considering this is the lowest-rated of the low-rated awards shows, and they need to get on with things to keep their advertisers happy. So they cue the scene change, assuming that Bret will notice there's a giant piece of scenery barreling down from the ceiling at him and get out of the way. Bret, suddenly realizing he's supposed to be exiting upstage along with his bandmates, turns around and makes a leap for the drum platform. C.C. DeVille tries to give him a hand. Bret almost makes it, but he's on a collision course, and the audience cringes as he is clotheslined by a huge mural of the Manhattan skyline. Stockard Channing, gripping a fur stole, belts out "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered" stage left.

That whole scenario sounds like a SNL sketch from the 1980's, and I'm quite sure that until a couple of weeks ago neither Poison nor Stockard Channing could ever have imagined they'd be sharing a stage. But that's showbiz, right?

Following the mishap, Tonys host Neil Patrick Harris takes the stage, makes a joke, and says, "Oh, he's fine!" and gets on with the show. Because that's what you do in the theatre. If Bret had been knocked unconscious during a swordfight in Romeo and Juliet ("Starcrossed Lovers' Bus?"), they'd have dragged him offstage and his understudy would have appeared seconds later. He probably would have worn a little SuperGlue on his bruised nose during the next day's matinee. That's it.

Back in 1986, while promoting Look What the Cat Dragged In, Bret probably got beaned in the head by C.C.'s high kicks once or twice. Considering the way liquor hinders one's reaction time, it's inevitable. But I"m sure he just went right on singing "Talk Dirty to Me" while wiping the blood out of his eyes, no harm done.

But now that Bret's a reality TV star and a blogger, he posts pathetic photos of his injuries. He blogs about how it's not his fault, mentioning that Liza Minnelli rushed to his dressing room after the accident. He whines.

And though my fifteen-year-old self who thought hair bands were all badass would be sorely disappointed, I have to admit I'm not completely shocked by this turn of events. Just take a look at that album cover and tell me those guys weren't ultimately headed for musical theatre. Or, possibly, the circus.

Bret, it don't get better than this.