No Way To Treat A Lady

I like to think of myself as a fully independent woman, capable of making my own way in this world. I guess I'm somewhat of a feminist in that I support equal educational, career and social opportunities for women. However, I DO shave my legs and pits, I DO wear makeup when I'm not too lazy, and I DO like to buy pretty lotions at the Body Shop. I do NOT, however, listen to Andrea Dwarkin male-bashing speeches, I do NOT attend feminist rallies, and I do NOT believe that any female over the age of 18 months has any business wearing denim overalls-- particularly if combat boots factor into the outfit equation.

Where do I stand on the whole chivarly thing? What obligations to men have toward women? Tough questions.

What has made me ponder such issues? This question is easy to answer. As you all know, I don't have a car, so I cannot get myself from point A to point B in a nice little cocoon on wheels. My outings involve walking or taking public transportation, which puts me in much closer proximity with far more people on a daily basis. It gives me occasion to observe many facets of human behavior. The topic of interest for me today is that of how m men and women interact. Here are some things I noted today.

8:00 AM: I was walking down my street and a driver pulled up alongside me, looking for directions. (Those of you who know my sense of direction can resume reading once you have finished your laughing fit). His introductory line was, "Hey, Sweetheart, do you know the area?" Now, the man was very nice and appreciative of my help, but if I had been a man, would he have called out, "Hey Sweetheart?" Doubtful. It would likely have been, "Hey, Chief!" (This man just didn't seem like the, "Excuse me, Sir" type.) Or, if the driver had been a woman, would she have called, "Hey Sweetheart?" Most likely not.

8:15 AM: I boarded the bus to the gym and discovered that I had only a $20 bill in my wallet. I had not change. I was not about to pay 20 dollars for the bus, nor was I prepared to get off the bus, go make change, an then wait for the next bus. I explained my quandary to the bus driver, who said, "Don't worry, Honey. Just get on in!" With that, he even gave me a transfer pass, good for a free ride later in the day. I'm pretty sure this guy would have allowed a male passenger to get on for free just as easily, but I don't think he would have called a guy passenger, "Honey."

I'm not complaining about either of these two situations, mind you. I'm just pointing out that sometimes women are treated or spoken to ever-so-slightly differently because we have boobs.

9:00 AM: I arrived at the gym (all-female) for my step class. There are several male personal trainers and fitness instructors at my gym. Today, as they always do when one of these men reports for work, they made an announcement, "Attention Healthhworks Members. A male fitness instructor is now approaching the fitness floor. He will be on the fitness floor from 9 to noon today. We apologize for any inconvenience." They make the same announcement when any man enters the gym, be he a personal trainer, electrician or the guy who fills the water bottle vending machine. Totally asinine in my opinion. Imagine being the electrician or the Coca Cola guy and having to deal with that crap every time you go to that place? You're treated like a common criminal because you were born with a Y chromosome.

11:00: I left the gym and headed down Highland Avenue. Some guy driving a massive Mercury Grand Marquis beater that looks like a retired crash test vehicle literally lifted his entire upper body out of his car to serenade me with a chorus of smooching sounds. Jeez---what a shocker that he's in that car alone. With seduction tactics like that, he's a real romantic tour de force. How do the ladies ever resist? How is this toothless Casanova still on the market?

11:50 AM: I walked by the Dunkin Donuts on Broadway where, through their enthusiastic whistles and "grrrrrr" sounds, the local unemployed male Hispanic contingency convey their approval of my appearance. Could it be the Tevas that so flatteringly cut my leg off at the ankle, adding 10 pounds and stealing 3 inches of height? Could it be my post-gym unwashed hair? Could it be my iced-coffee stained t-shirt? Maybe it is the month-overdue-for-a-pedicure feet? Either way, I'm extremely flattered. It kind of annoys me, to be honest. Why do these jerks believe they have a right, nay- an obligation, to make lude remarks to women? Do they understand that the Earth would continue to spin and that the laws of gravity would remain in effect even if they did not comment on every woman's appearance?

1:00 PM: A man was entering a store just several feet ahead of me. He saw me. We made eye contact. I came within an arm's reach of the man. He entered the store, but not before closing the door in my face. Nevermind male to female politeness. Shouldn't holding the door be covered by a universal human being to human being politeness policy?

1:30 PM: As I exited the same store, I held the door open for a group of 4 men who were right behind me. Not ONE of them uttered even a monosyllabic "thanks." As I always do in these situations, I loudly barked, "You're welcome!" As per usual, this solicited several dirty looks from the offenders. Jesus, my 3 year-old niece employs the words, "please," "thanks" and "sorry" more frequently and with more accuracy that many adults, both male and female.




2: 30 PM: As I made my way on foot to the Cambridgeside Galleria, some guy honked to get my attention. And boy, what a vision! The first thing I noticed were the 2 gold teeth set amid the decaying remnants of the surrounding real choppers. My eye wandered next to the hairnet-covered slicked back wig. I thought I had seen the end of that look when Lou Diamond Phillips sported it in the inspirational early 90s film, "Stand and Deliver" in which an inner city Hispanic teen (Phillips), triumphs over his personal demons and an impossible calculus curriculum with the unwavering support of his dedicated teacher, Mr. Escalante. But alas, the 'do is still alive and well in East Cambridge. Anyway, another attractive element of the getup was the sweat stained wife beater. And I could never forget to mention the hairy chest adorned with the Mr. T. Starter kit medallion collection. The reason I even bother to report on this incident is because this jackass had his wife and kid in the car with him. Utterly despicable. Talk about having NO respect for women. I mean it is bad enough that he feels completely within his rights to harass some random woman on the street, but to do so in the presence of his wife and child just takes the act to an all-time low. Gee, what a lucky little lady his wife is! She sure landed herself a winner!

5:00 PM: I take the bus over to Stephen's place, using the aforementioned free transfer pass. It had long-since expired, but I presented it to the driver strategically folded so as to cover the expire time. Jeez, I'm sure he's never seen this trick before. I'm so clever. I sat near the rear of the bus. It was already pretty crowded. When the bus arrived at Harvard Square, it filled up even more. An elderly woman boarded and all the young able-bodied men who were seated in the front seats under the signs that say, "Please allow aged and disabled passengers to sit here" just ignored the woman. Not a one stirred. Eventually, a teenage girl offered her seat to the woman. In order to reach the seat, the elderly woman had to climb over all the men's backpacks, laptop cases, umbrellas and outstretched limbs. Oh, and of course the bus was moving.

I know this seems hard on men. Even as I write I understand that men have it rough in this day and age. If they hold a door open or offer their seat, will they incur the wrath of an angry woman who will blast them for treating her as though she were weak and helpless? If they don't help out, will a woman think they are impolite and jerky? I do not envy men in that respect.

I also acknowledge that in the cases of holding doors and helping out elderly folks, we should ALL do our part. These are cases of it being right for one person to help another, regardless of gender.

But still, there are times, whether they illicit laughter or annoyance, where I KNOW this would NOT be happening if I were a guy!

Our Little Quirks

*This comes from a blog notebook missive I wrote yesterday.

Rituals. Quirks. Peculiarities. Routines. Idiosynchrasies. Habits. Call 'em what you want. We all have 'em.

One of my little hang-ups is that I really HATE to write with a pen that does not have its cap placed on the top end. I don't know why, and it isn't terribly interesting, but writing with a "naked" pen is very unpleasant for me. But, here's the really strange thing...I love to have not one, but two caps on top of my pen. This, I assure you, helps me enjoy the actual act of writing to much more. I can also note the difference in the neatness of my penmanship based upon how many caps my pen has on it. No cap = hideous, messy handwriting. One cap = acceptable writing, legible to most. Two caps = handwriting that earns me kudos and accolades. And my admirers are often further impressed upon learning that I'm lefthanded. I can understand this shock and awe as most of my lefty brethren are cursed with tragic penmanship.

One advantage of this double pen cap thing, aside from the fact that it provides me with some strange writing gratification, is that I always know when the kids have stolen my pens in school. They have not copped on to the fact that if they have the double-capped pen, I am going to bust them for theft!



While I'm on the topic of lefthandedness, I might as well expose another little personal oddity. Though I do write with the lefthanded hook, I hold my paper not with the lines horizontal, but rather vertical. In effect, I have th paper sideways while I write top to bottom as opposed to left to right. I have had many people express amazement at this over the years, but I was never really able to truely grasp the utter bizarreness of this until I had a student in Germany a few years ago who wrote the same way. I was finally able to see what other people are looking at when they see me writing. Dude, that's just messed up, Yo!



Another oddity I can lay claim to is being the only person I know who does not like airconditioning at home. I don't own an AC and I am quite sure I never will. Sure, I like to seek refuge from the heat and humidity in an airconditionied mall or movie theatre from time to time, but the way I see it, I wait ALL YEAR for the all-too-short New England summer. I love the heat. Love it! I embrace it. I refuse to turn my apartment into a meat locker in the summer. I also cannot stand the fact that even on 90 degree days, I'm forced to leave the house with a fleece or sweater in order to be prepared for the subarctic temperatures in coffee shops, busses, whatever. I guess I am unable to grasp the concept of cursing the cold during our 11 and a half month winter, and then, as the mercury AT LAST starts to rise, embarking on a quest to recrerate the climatic elements of Shackletons epic South Pole expedition.



Lately, another idiosynchracy I can ascribe to myself is the uncanny ability to break my neck at the drop of a hat. It doesn't take much. Lifting weights. Sleeping funny. Turning my head. Breathing. Existing. all of the aforementioned activities are potiential catalysts for days upon days of intolerable neck pain. You know, the kind that makes its rounds of the physiological neighborhood. It schmoozes with the head, partys with the shoulder blade and courts the upper arm. This is a very generous neck pain, mind you. It is a free spirit that sees no need to confine itself quiety to one place. In the past 6 months, I have had quite a few such episodes. I'm having one now, in fact.

I saw my doctor yesterday. I had a coffee in a Starbucks which boasted sub-zero temperatures before boarding the meat-freezer bus on the way to the igloo hospital. Thank god I had that fleece with me. Although it sucked having to carry it along in the heat. But whatever...



I'd like to discuss my doctor's quirks here. Why not, since we're on the topic. Let me explain the splendor of the Boston Hospitals for my out-of-region readers. Boston is renowned worldwide for its superior hospitals. The hospital I go to, the New England Baptist Hospital, is known for its groundbreaking work in bone and joint care. In particular, they are "the back guys." If you have back issues, you go to NEBH. Simple as that. And although my back is still a thorn in my side from time to time, these people have improved my quality of life 100,000,000 percent through thier physical therapy treatments. I mean, I have never had surgery or anything, but if I did have to, I would be very fortunate to go under the knife with these people. These people are the official orthopedic treating hospital to the Boston Celtics, and when Nomar G. had his wrist operated on, it was done at the UMASS Medical Center in Worcester, but NEBH is their teaching hospital. Golf great Jack Nicklaus had his hip replacement done here. These people are also pioneering disc replacement surgery. All I'm saying is that if a person is working as a physiatrist (back doctor) at this place, they are obviously one of the best in their field. My doctor, although she is good and she obviously knows what she's talking about and although I trust her completely, is, well, totally lacking in the whole "bedside manner" thing. She is rather cold, actually. And while I can deal with that, the thing that drives me nuts about her is that whenever I have a flare up and I go to see her, she asks me, "So, what do you think is the problem?" This is not her way of asking what my symptoms are. Usually, we have already covered that. I have told her where the radiating pain is, etc. I have explained how long it has been going on and how severe it is, etc. Normally, upon the conclusion of such a conversation, the doctor (the one with the medical degree), would introduce some kind of diagnostic theroy to the patient (the one without the medical degree.) But, my doctor always wants to know what my assessment of the situation is. When I tell her I'm not sure what's going on or why the flare up has occured, she asks me, "Ok, so, how should we treat it? Do you want me to give you a steroid treatment? Do you want to continue taking Aleve until it clears up? What should we do?" It is usually at this point that I gently remind her that I am there to seek her advice on the issue because, once again, SHE HAS THE MEDICAL DEGREE AND I DO NOT. I mean, christ, I can't even imagine having a parent come in and telling them that their kid is doing poorly and then asking the parent what they think I should do to help the kid. The parent would say, and rightfully so, "Ahhh...isn't that your job?" Well, yes, in fact it is. Another annoying quirk that she has is outright refusal to perscribe painkillers or muscle relaxers. I mean, I do understand that you don't want to get people with chronic pain issues addicted to painkillers, but Jesus, a few muscle relaxers from time to time would be helpful.

Hmmm.....

A few guilty pleasures quirks...

Every once in a while, I indulge in a Starbucks iced coffee with (and here's the naughty part) a few pumps of chocolate syrup. I had one today, in fact. But, I don't do the whipped cream, and I doctor it up with skim milk. Hell, I don't even have to add Splenda because the chocolate makes it sweet enough.

I am addicted to gummi candies. I love those little things. It takes all the will power in the world to walk by them.

I don't even need to tell you about my love of beer.

I have been watching episodes of the Gillmore Girls almost non-stop.

I am utterly fascinated by the whole Star Jones and Babs Walters feud. And I have literally NEVER seen "the View." I don't even know what the hell they babble about. I only just learned about this Babs and Star Wars (ha ha) yesterday and I can't get enough coveragae of it on the news. I think it has something to do with seeing Walters lose her cool.

In the morning, when I get up, before I even shower, I turn on my computer and quickly check all my favorite blogs!

Anyway, what are your little quirks?

WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT??

I think this is my 3rd blog post with the same title, but every once in a while, I do find myself wondering, WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT??

I am now free for a couple of weeks until summer school starts. This gives me time to relax, move more slowly, and most importantly, to really take notice of my environs. I wish I could report that I'm refreshed by what I see taking place around me, but more often than not, the happenings unfolding beg the question, WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT?

I am actually writing in my blog notebook at the Laundromat. This writing will later be transcribed, unchanged, onto my home computer for blog purposes. Anyway, given the fact that I'm here in the Laundromat, this armpit of humanity, and given my history in this dump, you know this post will be ripe with shocking observations of the human race.

I walked in here to find a mother allowing her 3 young, butt-ugly and totally OBNOXIOUS offspring to jump up and down on the laundry-folding table. I guess I'll be doing my folding at home today. If it isn't a family enjoying a blood sausage meal at this table, it has to be the kids jumping on it with filthy shoes. Anyway, I digress.... The table is this rickety, collapsible thing that appears to be on its last legs. I hope these little bastards wind up in a splintery pile of kindling. It would serve them right. And mom is just sitting there serenely smiling. SMILING. WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT??????

Two Hispanic women are "chatting" at eardrum-splitting volume. I know enough Spanish to figure out that they are discussing a wedding they both attended this weekend. The consensus seems to be that the bride was gorgeous. The meal, which was described as "delightful" obviously met, if not surpassed, their expectations. The music was wonderful and Julio and Maria were just glowing. A great time was had by all! And yet, as is so frequently the case with Spanish language conversation, the sheer volume, the shrill voices and the manic animation might suggest to the un-Spanish-trained ear that one of these women was confronting the other for sleeping with her husband, mudering her child, or worse still, failing to TiVo the Spanish soap in which Erick Estrada plays the male leading heartthrob. WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT????



Some Middle Eastern guy has been smiling and leering at me since I walked in. Needless to say, as today is the first time I've done laundry in over two weeks, I'm in an outfit that would disgrace my family for generations if anybody saw me. And yet neither that fact, nor the spectacle of watching me sort out my dirty laundry has served as a deterrent for this moron. And, Jesus, the teeth.....his dental status alone could be cause enough to make him stand trial for crimes against humanity. WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT???



Ok, enough about the Laundromat. I have got another baffling experience to report. Two days ago, I returned a 120 dollar item to a reputable clothing retailer. I had folded the item and tied a plastic bag around it to protect it from the relentless rain that has become so typical of Boston in the past couple of months. Before I returned it, I went to the gym, where I stuck it in my locker and where it inevitably landed under 100 other things, thus wrinkling it even further. When I got to the store and the saleswoman took it out of the bag, she was entirely unphased by the horrific state of it. (Granted, it still had the tags and I did have the receipt, but still, if she had wanted to complain about it, she would have been well within her right.) Clearly, the thing would need to be ironed thoroughly before being placed back on the salesfloor. But, with a smile on her face and no questions asked, the saleswoman issued me a full refund. She only expressed concern that I might have been dissatisfied with my item or my shopping experience. When I assured her that neither was the case, she wished me a nice day and I was on my way. The entire transaction took 9 seconds. Immediately thereafter, I went to Target, where I had to return a gym shirt that was not the right size. Again, the item had the tags and I had a receipt. I figured it would be a cake walk. Lauren had often told me of horrendous Target return stories, but I had never had a negative experience. This day would change all of that. The manager at Target conducted an intense interrogation of me, forcing me to explain, in detail, why I wanted to return the shirt. When I replied, "It didn't fit," she demanded to know how. Was it too big? Too small? Too short? Too long. I eventually was forced to go into detail about how it was too big through the boobs, (pretty amazing as I'm not a small girl), and a bit pouchy through the back. When she completed her interrogation, she focused her energies on performing an intense scrutiny of the sales receipt. I felt like one of those Russian counterfeitters of American currency getting caught out at the Federal Reserve bank or something. At one point, the manager even asked if I had worn the shirt. I thought maybe she was trying to add a little levity to the situation, but before long, I realized that she was, indeed, completely straightfaced. I explained that if I had worn the shirt to the gym, there would, in fact, be some unmistakable telltale signs---like removed tags, sweat marks and an extremely unpleasant aroma. After lengthy conversation with another Target manager (were the Yalta conferences this drawn out? Did NATO take this long?), I was allowed to exchange the shirt for something from the SAME department. So, to sum this up, Target basically called in the FBI to assist with the return of a $10 athletic shirt, while the other retailer accepts the return of a piece of merchandise worth 12 times that value without so much as a batted eyelash. WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT???

OK, so, another Laundromat item...I'm sorry, but I can't avoid reporting on this one. When I went over to begin removing my clothes from the washers, the middle eastern dude with the criminal teeth got up from his temporary perch in order to reposition himself in front of the machines I was using. it was a thrill to remove all my bras and other unmentionables right in front of this A-hole. My favorite moment came when I dropped a pair of panties. In a flash, the guy was out of his seat, no doubt with the goal of rendering "assistance" by picking up my panties. But, I beat him to it. I bent over so quickly I almost gave myself whiplash. I could have been accused of pirating Allie's signature dance recital bow. WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT??




I got my crap into the dryer and now I'm at the coffee shop around the corner. Some woman is here with her two hideously behaved children. The older kid is repeatedly kicking the bench that wraps around the entire wall and is, therefore, my seat, too. He is also screaming the same unintelligible word over and over ad nauseum. Mom has so much baby equipment that at first I thought she was holding a garage sale right here in the middle of the coffee shop. Her stuff is strewn out over three tables, forcing other people to eat standing up. I swear, I was watching Dateline NBC last night and there was some segment on climbing Everest. As always, I was amazed at how much CRAP the Sherpas heft up that 29,000 foot face for the western climbers. Christ, they have oxygen tanks, tents, stoves, food, etc....enough for the 6 week assault on the mountain. Unreal! But, I'm not even joking when I say that I think that if even the most seasoned Sherpa were confronted with the challenge of hauling this woman's diaper bag up there, he'd just fall to his knees, weep heartily and concede defeat before even beginning to undertake the expedition. Meanwhile, with the screaming kids, the bench-stomper, the double stroller parked square in front of the ordering counter, equipment enough to clutter 3 tables, Mom gives ME a filthy look when my cell phone rings and I pick it up. Disgusted, she packs up Abraham and Gus (REAL names), and takes off. WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT?

Anyway, enough with this. I'm out of here. My laundry should be ready. I now have to go pick it up and haul it up the hill atop which I reside. Of course, it weighed 6 tons when I took it down the hill. Now, because some of it is wet still (you know those items that conveniently can't be dried), it weighs 12,000 pounds. WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH THAT??

Maybe I should hire a Sherpa to help me carry my laundry home!!

The Sun? What the hell is that? Never heard of it.

As my last post indicates, my official last day of school was Wednesday, 21 June. Coincidentally, that was also the last time I saw the sun. The weather here has been, in a word, DREADFUL. The sun has not appeared in days and days and days. It has been pissing down with rain almost non-stop. At least it is warm out.

I have been successful at getting my ass to the gym and taking care of my general errands, but I have not felt any great motivation to spend more time than necessary outdoors. For to do so would be to unnecessarily and willingly expose myself to becoming soaking wet within seconds of my venturing out. And to what end?

So, because Stephen had Friday off, we spent most of the weekend hanging out. And most of that weekend time was spent catching up on some long neglected television, movie and reading entertainment.



Reesie lent me her Gilmore Girls (seasons 1 and 2) DVDs and I have been enjoying them immensely. I'm annoyed by many of the characters (more shortly) and yet I find myself oddly compelled to keep watching. I am annoyed by the fact that, as with many shows, the characters are all the same exact person! Sure, there are tall ones, short ones, thin ones, heavy ones, male ones and female ones, but they are all possessed of the exact same sarcastic, cyincal and dry humor. They all speak far too quickly. They are all completely neurotic. They are all gifted in the enviable art of quick-witted verbal repartee and nobody is ever short of a piercing comeback.

Rory's barracuda teeth and closed-mouth mumbling bother me as does Loralei's complete inability to simply ask a question or make a statement without lapsing into a grandiose solliloquy, riddled with pop-culture references, clever puns and obtuse analogies.

And yet, I keep watching. I actually like the show. I can't explain how exactly that works, but there you have it. I'm psyched that I still have another whole disc of season one and the entire second season to watch! Reesie, keep 'em coming.

Great...another show to become addicted to in the Fall. Or is it over now? Either way, no danger in becoming chained to my boob tube each week; Reesie's blog was often filled with references to her disappointment at yet another week without a new episode of GG.



We rented the movie, "Vera Drake." The first time I had heard of the movie was during the most recent Academy Awards. I don't get to the movies very frequently, so it is often the case that the movies which procured the most prestigious nominations are completely unknown to me. Anyway, I hate to admit this because I'm sure it will come across as completely dispicable, but when I saw the lead actress in the movie sitting there at the Academy Awards show, I was completely put off. She is this older, rather dowdy looking woman. I likened her immediately to that Judi Dench bitch. Anyway, shortly after the broadcast, the film was on the shelves of the movie stores. It took me a while to even pick up the box for a look at the movie description. But finally, during one visit to the video store, I did read the thing, only to discover that it looked rather interesting. I finally rented it this weekend, and we both really enjoyed it. It is a film about a British woman who, in 1950, goes around helping women who get pregnant and wish to terminate their pregnancies, but have nowhere to turn. She actually performs the procedure for them. Eventually, of course, she gets found out and has to face the courts. It is a very good movie. You should check it out. There were a few times when I wanted to scream, "JUST SPEAK ALREADY!" when Vera was, due to uncontrollable crying jags, unable to speak. These scenes were interminable. But the movie is worth it. Check it out if you have time. And feel free to fast forward through the crying jag scenes. Don't you just love DVD players??



We also rented Syriana, which I had been wanting to see for a while. I just couldn't get through it, though. Stephen loved it...enough to watch it twice. Actually, he watched it twice because he needed the second viewing to cement everything together. Actually, to be completely honest, he watched the movie once, then read an explanation of the movie on the internet, and then watched it a second time. This movie is very good, and very interesting, but it is jam packed with action, information and characters. And it is very wordy. If you miss one thing, you're lost for the rest of the film.

I wanted to be into it. I watched an hour of it the first time before drifting off into a book (more soon). Then, the next day, I read the internet article on it and attempted to watch it again. I made it to the exact same point as the night before, and then drifted into another book.



This is the first book I drifted into. Marian Keyes is an Irish "chick-lit" author whose work I first encountered while I was living in Germany. I read about 5 books by her and then kind of burned out. She has come out with a few more over the years, including the one pictured here, "Cracks in my Foundation." I had looked at and indeed looked OVER many of her books in the past few years, but I bought this one because it was on the discount table at Brookline Booksmith. It was actually very good and I'm glad I read it. I would recommend anything by her to any of you girs. Perfect beach reading!



This is the second book I attacked this weekend. I bought it for Stephen for his birthday. What can I say, we're both liberals and we got a kick out of the attacks on our least favorite Republican leaders. But, that said, I love this country for the fact that people are allowed to write, publish and sell books that are critical of whatever governmental administration happens to sit in power. Gotta love the USA for that if for nothing else!

I have to go watch this Dateline NBC show about the guy who gets rescued from a harrowing experience on Mt. Everest. The climber's name is Lincoln Hall. Why do people who climb mountains and/or ride mountainbikes have names like Lincoln?

Free at Last. Free at Last. Thank God Almighty, I am Free at Last!

Today is my official last day of school. The kids left yesterday, but we have one more day of professional development to get through today. I can assure you, I would much rather have a full day with the kids than a pointless professional development pow-wow.

But, before I get into a full blown bitching and griping session about today's meeting, let me talk about my last day with the kids.

As per usual, with our graduating 8th graders, the last day was bittersweet. Our school district does not have the traditional "middle school model." Instead, our schools go from k-8 and high school, of course, is grades 9-12.

Back to my point about the bittersweet departure. The last day of school obviously signals the end of homework, early mornings, tests, projects and other such obligations. This traditionall gives rise to a very understandable sense of relief coupled with overwhelming merriment and glee on behalf of hte students.

However, as our 8th graders prepare to leave, the reality of being ripped from their comfy, cozy little k-8 womb hits and the high school angst begins to set in. While their younger peers burst out of the school, a-hootin' and a-hollarin', wasting no time in commencing their summer vacations, the 8th graders linger and hug and cry and pledge to be "best friendz 4-EVA."

My colleagues and I, the 7th and 8th grade team, line the hallway to the exit, hugging all the departing students, issuing parting words and encouragement and wisdom and some well wishes, too.

It can be bittersweet for us, too. We area always sad to see our good kids go and relieved as hell to bid good riddance, at long last, to the pains in the ass.

The last day is always hectic. I'm sure you can imagine. So much movement. So much noise. Signing yearbooks. Emptying out lockers. Cleaning out desks. Just general chaos. You get the picture. Dismissal itself is nuts.





Then, suddenly, the busses pull up. The kids pile on and are carted off. Within seconds of the busses leaving, the crying, shouting, screaming, screeching, pushing, shoving, arguing, whooping, cheering and ruckus are replaced with total silence. The four of us stand there, smiling and waving until the busses turn the corner and then, for a few moments after, we stand there, not talking, just reveling in the newfound peace and quiet. Eventually, we turn and head back into our classrooms, where we are struck by the immense emptiness.

In a way, there is a kind of empty nest syndrome that sets in. This room that has brimmed with young, energetic life for the past 9 months, now stands lifeless and still.

And then, inevitably, my eyes begin to sweep the vast expanse (the room seems so crowded with all the kids, but now seems quite empty), landing on lost and forgotten objects.

Oh, look..over there. Tyler's winter jacket. The same that I've been telling him to bring home ever since it first appeared in my room back in November.

And look...over there...on the floor. There's Kendra's lip gloss. Oh man. Its her favorite one. How will she get through the summer without her frosted cherry cola shine?

Oh, and ahhhh...poor Chelsea. She left her writing notebook. And she worked so hard on it all year! I'll keep it and give it to her next year.

Just as I begin to allow myself to wax nostalgic for the kids who've just left, one of my colleagues pokes his head in the room and reminds me that we are free as birds and that the kids who just finished terrorizing us for the past year are now setting off into the sunset to terrorize ther families, friends or society at large....anybody but us!

And with that, I shake off my insane nostalgia, turn off the lights in my room, and go to my one and only truly official "duty free" lunch of the year. (During the school year we have 30 minute lunch breaks which, in accordance with our union contract, are "duty free." Funny how what's on paper so often contradicts what goes down in reality. I usually spend about 22 of my 30 "duty free" minutes quelling cafeteria riots, calling parents, and dealing with kids who've lost lunch tickets.)

Anyway, then I get to the lunchroom and sit with my colleagues, take a big deep sigh of relief and tuck into my lunch. There are no phone calls from parents. No photocopies to run. No kids to keep from recess. No tests to grade. No last minute lesson planning. Just me, my colleagues and something very rare to your average teacher...adult conversation...and NOT about kids.

Anyway, onto my meeting today. In years past, under the old superintendnet, we used to leave school promptly at 9:30 AM, just after arrival of the payroll checks. However, the new super insists that we stay until 2:45 and that we not be released a minute before.

Oh well. 6 more hours and counting.

Now excuse me while I go and throw away Chelsea's notebook. Who needs that crap cluttering up my room.

Ole..Ole..Ole..Ole..BRASIL....BRASIL

I have been named an "honorary Brazilian" by my many, many Brazilian students. They collectively decided to bestow this title upon me because of my unflappable devotion to the Brazilian football* team in the 2006 World Cup.

*In most countries, the word "soccer" does not exist. The sport we call soccer here is called "football" in most of the world. What, then, do non-Americans call the sport we call "football"? They simply call it "American Football." So, from this point further in this post, I will use the word "football" instead of "soccer."

Anyway, back to my unflappable devotion to Brazil.

My Brazilian kids asked, "Ms. B., who will you support in the World Cup?

I replied, "Why, Brazil, of course!"

This surprised them, as they all jumped to the conclusion that I would support the USA team.

Let me just say that I have absolutely nothing against the American team. I would be very happy if they won. In the games they have played so far, I have rooted for them all the way. However, I just feel that football is something that might be important to some people here in the USA, but the Brazilians are freakin' fanatical football fans! It is always such a hoot to see the most invested fans claim victory. I love seeing the pure joy of an entire nation, as would be the case if Brazil won. If the USA won, me and some other guy in like Arkansas might be aware of the victory, but really, would we revel in the victory as much as our friends in Brazil would? Clearly not.

Last week, when Brazil faced Croatia in a match, my students were very concerned that I might be conflicted, seeing as where I love Croatia. I reassured them that, yes, I love Croatia, but that I feel no real allegiance to the Croat football team. On the other hand, I feel much more invested in Brazil because I know so many Brazilian people personally and I ADORE them, so I'd love to see their team win. (I have to tell you, if you don't know any Brazilians, they are the absolute NICEST people you can ever meet! I love 'em.) This seemed to allay their fears as they knew that I would push on with my cheering for Brazil.

Then the kids got a little nervous that I might be all up in the German team, seeing as where I lived in Germany, and clearly love German people. Once again, I reassured them that my love of Germany and all things German will not impede my active backing of the Brazilian side.

The kids must have decided that I passed the test because, as I said, today they decreed that I would, from here on out, be an honorary Brazilian. They gave me a little card with the Brazilian flag on it and a bunch of stuff written in Portuguese. Of course, I can't understand any of the Portuguese, but I have a feeling the little greetings they wrote are warm and effusive. Why do I assume these things? Well, because Brazilians themselves are warm and effusive by nature.




The picture contained a picture of Renaldo (pictured above.) Renaldo is Brazil's national hero. He is the best footballer on the team today, and one of the best in Brazil's history. In a country where football is the lifeblood, being one of the best ever is no small feat. They were delighted that I recognized Renaldo at once and didn't require any explanation.

Anyway, I'm thrilled to be an honorary Brazilian, but I must say that I kind of wish I were the real thing. Brazilian women are always gorgeous and thin and have the most bubbly personalities. I guess I'll have to settle for the honorary status. I was kind of hoping the kids would give me one of the cool Brazil t-shirts they are all wearing. Or maybe a pair of the great sparkley Brazil flag earrings. Or even one of the necklaces. Or the bracelets. Or the hats. Or the flip-flops. You get my point. There is no shortage of Brazil football clothing. Many of the kids wear some, if not all, of the items listed above at any one time.

it is really awesome to see people so devoted to their country and culture in such a fun way.

I have to get to Brazil some day.



Anyway, as for the World Cup. I love it. I never really follow football at any other time. I watch the World Cup with very little investment in any particular team (except Brazil, of course), or any particular player. I don't even know any of the individual players. I enjoy watching the game and it is that simple.

If you haven't been sold on the World Cup yet, let me try to sell you on a couple of points...

1. The World Cup is just that...the WORLD Cup. Whereas the Superbowl and the World Series generally involve American teams (unless a Canadian team makes the world series) playing sports that are mainly played in the USA, the World Cup brings teams from every continent and many, many countries together. The fans come from all over the world to see their teams play. The winner of this event is truly the WORLD champ.

2. The World Cup is always played in a great country and the games are spread out over many cities. This year, for example, the World Cup is taking place in Germany. Games are being held all over the country. (Stephen and I saw the Munich Stadium in its final stages of construction last year. It was the one that looks like a huge bouncy castle on the outside). During commercial breaks, historical points about the country are incorporated and aerial views of the relevant cities are shown. It is a neat thing to see.

3. There are always some great commercials on the boob tube during the thing.

4. And it never hurts that there are totally hot men to stare at the entire time. I mean, look at the guy below. He's some Croatian hottie. I mean, Christ. What's wrong with looking at this for 90 straight minutes.

All the News That's (Un)fit to Print

I have to start off by sending a massive shout-out to my mother, more affectionately known as "E" to her adoring family. E bailed me out of a real laundry debacle earlier this week. The jeans pictured above are from the Gap. (No, that's not me in the picture...that is the size 00 model on the website). They were originally 68 dollars, but I got them marked down for $19.99 a couple of weeks ago. I tried them on and instantly fell in love. Pants are tricky. White pants are even trickier still. So, when the fit was perfect and the price was phenomenal, how could I resist? I had to buy them.

I wore them once and miraculously enough, I didn't have any major stain situations. Even more incredible is the fact that I wore them through an ENTIRE school day without incident. I took them to the laundry mat early this week and upon removing them from the washing machine, I remarked that they were still in their pristine white condition. However, when I took them out of the dryer (tumble dry low, thanks very much), I was horrified to find them covered in small orange stains. I had no clue as to what the source of the stains was, but I pretty much mentally preparing to add them to my clothing-come-dustrag collection.

I complained about this strange stain to E, who stated, with a bold and unfaltering confidence, that she could remove the stain. She hadn't even seen it. I gave her the jeans because, after all, I reasoned that she couldn't do anything worse to them. She called me an hour later, after having attacked the stain with some miracle pre-laundry gel, a cup of bleach and some sexy new Power Tide detergent. She claimed the pants were as pure as the driven snow. I almost could not believe her because when she took them into possession, they were COVERED in this mystery orange crap.

(Lauren concluded that the stains must be rust from the metal divets that hold the jeans together in the pocket area. Because I cannot deal with what unidentified source may have been responsible for the stains in the laundromat, I chose to buy wholeheartedly into her theory and question it no further.)

Anyway, E returned the jeans to me last night and, as promised, they were perfect.

I was planning on having a huge Indian feast tonight with my friends, Peter and Michael. I was fully prepared to order Chicken Tikki Masala, with all the red, thick, creamy sauce. And I was prepared to do so in the WHITE pants. I figured, what the hell, if I spill stuff on them (or should I say WHEN I spill stuff on them), I will give them to the E, the Laundry Swami, to work her magic.

Anyway, that brings me to my next topic. This is a more serious item, so allow me to shift gears.

Peter called me to tell me that his brother's little girl, the fabulously gorgeous Sophia, had fallen and had to go to the hospital. Naturally we put off meeting, but I am asking you all to send good vibes and thoughts toward little Sophie. Peter said that she should be fine, but still...if she's in the hospital, it must have been somewhat serious. Poor little babes.

But, I was craving Indian food, and so I did pick up some Veggie Samosas on the way home. I know, I know...the worst, most fattening thing on the menu. Actually, though, they are pretty small, and I haven't had much all day in preparation for the Indian feed that never really came to fruition. Oh well, I'm sure I'll have no shortage of opportunity to get my ass down to the Indian dump one of these days. It is, after all, conveniently located right across the street from the gym!



So, anyway...

There is an ice cream store located right down the street from my school. We are in a new building this year (well, an old building, actually, but a new location for us) as we await construction of the new school. The owner of the ice cream store called our principal and invited EVERY SINGLE KID in the entire school down for a free ice cream. She accepted without hesitation. The guy probably figures he'll get his product out there and the kids will pester their parents to take them there. Of course, given the fact that most of my 7th graders are about 22 years old, they can just drive themselves down there.

The guy, when we showed up, told the kids they could have anything they wanted. Of course, anticipating that they would unleash their ability to look a gift horse in the mouth, I had threatened them with severe bodily injury (just joking, but I did make myself very clear on the point) they they had better order an ice cream cone and NOTHING more. I know these fools. They would have been down there ordering banana splits and shit.

All I have to say is that the guy could never be accused of skimping. These kids had ice cream cones the size of their heads. They could hardly even finish them. I took it upon myself to order a frozen pudding ice cream for the secretary. I HATE frozen pudding ice cream, so I knew there would be no temptation to eat it. Once again, I was thinking of my Indian feast and refrained from the ice cream bonanza.

But the kids had a great time!



My colleague and I are taking the 7th graders on a field trip tomorrow to the Museum of Science. They are running a show in the Omni Theatre about ancient Greece. We figured it would be good to get the kids out on a trip. Of course, we'll mainly go for the movie. We'll go through the motions of taking the kids through the science exhibit halls, but seeing as where they have not changed any of the exhibits over since I was a kid, I don't think there will be anything riveting to keep us there for hours upon hours.

There is a huge T-Rex statue in the main vestibule of the museum. I think what most people don't realize is that the T-Rex was actually alive and in the museum walking around the exhibit halls at one point...and the exhibit halls have not been updated since.

My colleague and I decided that we are overdue to have our freakin' heads checked. Last year, we did the same thing in taking the kids on a field trip on the last Friday of the school year. They are bound to be completely and utterly crazy. But, whatever. We can at least say that we did our part in taking these kids somewhere.



I can't wait to see the lunches the kids pack for tomorrow. For some reason, when kids go on field trips, they think they have to pack provisions that would feed the entire armed forces of a small nation. I don't know what that is all about and I don't think I will ever figure it out.

Whereas they might pack a baggie full of Pringles for a regular school day, on a field trip, they bring the entire tube of Pringles. Whereas they might bring a sandwich for lunch on a regular day, they will have a 6 foot submarine sandwich on the field trip.

I always advise the kids to order "dry" subs, without oil and pickles and any other ingredients that will proceed to leak all day long, creating the soggy bread mass we all fondly associate with our field trip memories. However, my advice usually falls on deaf ears. They all come in with huge Italian subs with extra hot peppers, pickles, oil, tomato...anything that will make the sandwich essentially turn into goulash. And they eat every last bite of it with a huge smile on their faces.

Gross.

Oh, and let's not forget the fact that they will each have an entire two-litre bottle of Pepsi to wash everything down.




Anyway, one last morsel....

I was at the gym today, warming up on the treadmill, when my nostrils came under vicious attack. I smelled the most offensive, cheap ass mens deodorant/cologne (that shit they sell by the gallon in CVS for .99) eminating from one of the male personal trainers. Healthworks is an all womens gym, but there are some male trainers and instructors. I think most of them try to get all studded up for work because they figure the ratio is in their favor moreso there than anywhere else.

However, the cologne was just completely unnecessary. Thank god I was only doing a ten minute warmup before my muscle class. Because I'm not joking when I say that if I were doing a more lengthy stint on the treadmill, I would have had to change machines.

Yuck!!

Allie's Stage Debut

Allie had her big stage debut this weekend and she proved herself to be a shining star!

Reesie and Peggy came down from Maine for the big event and I'm sure they will report that the dance spectacle turned out to be well worth the trip.

Allie danced to two songs. Well, actually, since I always strive for accuracy in my blog, I should say that she was scheduled to dance in two songs. What really happened is that she stood there as still as a statue for the first song, and dominated the stage with her summersaults and hamstring stretches during the second song.

These are the pictures of the first number, the one in which she didn't dance.



For those of you who don't know Allie, she is the last child on the right hand side of the picture. As you can see, she was perfectly posed with her hands propped behind her head at the start of the routine. Note the fact that all the other children are striking the exact pose.

However, once the music started, Allie maintained that pose and never moved a muscle throughout the entire routine. This is evidenced by the following picture, in which the other children can be seen doing a little dance step that involved turning to the side and doing a little footwork. Not our Allie. She was never crazy about the song and I think this was her way of communicating that point to the audience. Mind you, she stood there as sweet as anything, not crying or carrying on or misbehaving in any way, shape or form. She simply chose to stand there not moving a muscle.



Several songs later, she took the stage againg for the "Lion King, Just Can't Wait to be King." True hilarity ensued.

I was laughing so hard that I could not even begin to think about propping the camera up to take a photo. Lauren and John filmed the whole thing, and that video footage is absolutely priceless. Actually, Allie was so animated in that number that I don't think I could have gotten a clear shot if I had tried.

She was totally unphased by the huge crowd or the dimmed lights. She was working that stage a la Tom Jones, shaking her little caboose all around. The little kid sitting behind me in the audience, upon spotting Allie, said to her dad, "Hey look. There's that little girl. At least this time she's finally doing something!" Reesie and I died laughing.

Anyway, at one point, the kids were supposed to run individually across the stage, stopping midway to do a summersault. When it was Allie's turn, she was having so much fun running across the stage, and she only remembered to do her tumble at the last possible second, when she was practically already behind the curtain on the opposite side of the stage.

My favorite part was at the end of the number, when the kids were bowing and Allie repeatedly snapped herself forward in such an enthusiastic bow that she almost gave herself a severe case of whiplash.

It was hilarious.

At the end of the first act, all of the kids who performed in the first series of songs came out to do a little finale dance and take a few more bows. Toward the end of that little number, Allie just took it completely upon herself to waltz in front of the entire group of kids and do a summersault right on the mat. It was priceless.

I guess this was the litmus test for determining whether or not we have a shy child on our hands. Apparently not.

All I have to say is that if our demure little Allie has this much stage presence....the world won't know what the hell hit it when Caroline decides to take her act on the road!!

Blog-servations of Life in General

I know, I know. I have taken an unacceptably long hiatus from the blogging scene. I've been busy, I guess. Although, that said, I'm not quite sure just what I've been busy doing. All I know is that I've hardly been home lately, my apartment is a total dump, I have mountainous piles of laundry and I have not blogged in days. In my life, these are all the trappings of a chaotic schedule.

As an aside, why is it that my apartment is messiest when I'm not around? Would logic not dictate that if I am not in my dwelling I can't mess it up? Oh well, most of my life runs counter to logic, so why should this be an exception?

Anyway, as I meander around the town these days, I often think about and observe things that would make perfect fodder for my blog. But of course, seeing as where my memory is a sieve, I often forget these things before I sit myself down in front of my computer.

Since I am neither cool enough, hip enough nor rich enough to own a sexy MacBookPro laptop computer complete with wireless internet capabilities, I don't have the luxury of whipping out my computer to blog whenever and wherever the fancy strikes. To that end, I've adopted Allie's fondness for "tiny, tiny notebooks" so as to facilitate keeping track of my blog-worthy experiences.

*Note: Allie does not use her notebooks for blogging; she uses them to maintain her massive princess sticker collection, but still....

Anyway, a brief update of blog-worthy moments...




Last night, after the gym, I went to Harvard Square, having completely forgotten that yesterday was Harvard commencement day. I needed to visit my good friends at Aveda to replenish my rapidly dwindling makeup supply. Anyhow, upon emerging from the train, I saw that the usual swarms of humanity had a slightly different appearance. Oh yes....they were all decked out in their graduation caps and gowns. The commencement exercises had ended hours before, mind you, but there's this ofdd persistance among Harvard grads to walk around in their caps and gowns for DAYS after the commencement. I'm not kidding. And they do not confine their movement to Harvard Square, either. Or to Cambridge, for that matter. Oh no. They will be scene in full graduation gear for up to 72 hours in Somerville, Cambridge and other far reaches of the greater Boston area.

Sure, you could argue that they have the right to be proud of graduating from Harvard, but something about wearing a graduation cap and gown to buy toilet paper in bulk at Costco in Everett 3 days after graduation just smacks of severe attention starvation to me.

Get over it. When I graduated from Bates, the whole ceremony took one hour and when it was over, we had to hand in our robes. No hope of walking around Lewiston/Auburn (Maine) for days on end in the outfit.

Anyway, I almost forgot to mention that when I went to board the T at Porter Square, it was around 6 o'clock, peak rush hour. Tokens are 1.25 each. I needed only one. I presented myself at the token window and gave the cashier a 20 dollar bill. When she saw the 20 spot, she reacted as if I'd just shoved a venemous snake down her pants. She went into frantic plantive cries about only having 2 single dollar bills in the way of change. I told her I still planned to board the next train. I reasoned that since I had been perfectly willing to pay, and she was the one out of change, AND the T is way overpriced anyway, I'd just get on. As I walked through, the token lady screamed, "I'm going to take this up with my supervisor." To that I replied, "Why don't you also take up the issue with him that he left you in a T hub during rush hour at a token booth without even enough change to break a 5." I then turned on my heel, waltzed right through the gates, and boarded the then waiting train.

The rain is driving me mad. If I didn't drink already, I would be driven to do so.

My colleague and I showed the kids the film Apollo 13. What an incredible movie. I'd seen it 100 times and it never fails to move me to tears. History and the 100 previous viewings have enlightened me to the fact that the astronauts survive, but I remain on the edge of my seat every time...especially during the harrowing 4-minute reentry scene. If you have not seen this film, do yourself a favor and see it immediately.

I also feel I owe it to Ron Howard to give him a shout out for this masterpiece, as I was knocking the DaVinci Code recently.

In other movie news, I aws all stoked up to see The Omen, but then realized it was just a total remake of the original. What's with the remake crap?

I have to mention that I had all 8th graders in my room for over 2 hours today. There are almost 40 of them. I then left the room for a second and came back in, only to realize that it stunk to high heavens in there. I guess I had not noticed the BO buildup occuring over the two hours. The kids in my homeroom came back in an almost got knocked out. One of them asked, "What's that smell?"

I said, "My friend, I think what you're smelling is the distinctive aroma of teen spirit."

Have a great weekend!

Quick...Danza's in Jeopardy

I had a chance to watch Jeopardy tonight for the first time in a LONG time. I'm ever so glad I tuned in because if I had not, I would have missed the hommage to our hero, Tony Danza. An entire category, cleverly entitled, "Hold Me Close Now, Tony Danza," honored the illustrious career of our beloved actor.

400 Dollars..



Quick....What's was Danza's character's first name in the TV series "Taxi"?

800 dollars...



In which made-for-TV remake of a big screen film starred Danza in the serious dramatic role of "Juror #7."

1200 dollars....

Who wrote "The Ice Man Cometh", a play in which Danza starred as Rocky the (whore-running) bartender? (I found the "whore-running" comment online. That phrase did not cross Trebek's sacred lips on Jeopardy.)

1600 dollars....



Danza was so successfully paired with an ape co-star in the film, "Going Ape" that he was paired up with yet another one in a later racing flick. What was the racing film?

2000 dollars....

Danza had heavenly help as a pitcher named "Mel Clark" in which film?




Think you know the answers? Submit them and I shall score ye! This is the true test as to whom has the right to proclaim him or herself a true Danza fan.

Answer to California Mo's Burning Question

I was just reading the comment that California Mo placed on my last blog entry about the Donald Trump Show. She basically asked what the hell we're going to do now that "The Donald Trump Show" and "The Amazing Phil" are off the air for the summer.

I felt a little wave of panic when I read the question because what WILL I do all summer with out Trump and Phil?

Then I had the revelation. The answer just came to me in a rare moment of clarity.

I have been jealous all year of Reesie's ability to Tivo and DVR everything (are those the same thing? Is is like saying "cease and decist"? Am I so obviously modern-gadget illiterate?) because she has the ability to relax and watch one show all the way through while recording another for later viewing. Again, might I add, at her own leisure.

I mean, really. I was having a panic attack, racing over to the boob tube during the season finale of "Grey's Anatomy" and an intense episode of "The Donald Trump Show" trying to switch the channels at commerical breaks and get as much of both shows in as possible. I tell you, it was no joke. I didn't know a minute's peace that night. But our beloved Reesie had no such worries. She was able to sit back and watch Grey's Anatomy with ease and comfort, knowing that her sacred DVR/TIVO/VCR (whatever the hell it is) was capturing every last moment of the Trump Show for her to see later.

Have I been jealous of her? Hell yes! Would I go out and get myself one of these recording gadgets? Hell no! (Not because I don't think they're freakin' awesome, but because I would never even figure out how to use it!)

Anyway, back to my moment of clarity. My answer to the "What to do without Trump and the Amazing Phil all summer?"

I will simply use this time to go out and rent the previous seasons of shows that I have either missed or was not able to see because I was watching Trump or the Amazing Phil. I might even go back and rent previous seasons of The Donald Trump Show, just for the laughs and for the scenes not previously shown on TV.

I can't take all the credit for this idea, of course. It was actually planted in my head last week, and it seemed like a good idea then, too. But I think now, with the Trump Show finale looming ominously on the horizon, the school year coming to a close, and the commercials I'm seeing for the absolutely crap shows scheduled for the summer months, I'm more ready than ever to hit the video store.

Actually, let me give credit to the genius who gave me the catch-up-on-previous-seasons-of-hit-shows idea...

It was Julie. At the parade last weekend she suggested "Lost" among other titles. I am primed to get out there and rent that and I'm open to any other suggestions.

Join me in catching up with the rest of your tv viewing friends this summer, especially if you only have ghetto cable and a ghetto remote-controll-less TV like me!

Thanks Julie.

And as for poor Reesie....

Now that you've seen all these shows and the suspense is not there for you...what are you going to do?

And for you, California Mo, I hope this gives you some ideas as to how to deal with a Trump and Amazing Phil Free summer