Wow, time goes fast.
I hadn't realized until seeing related stories at EW and Newsweek that Seinfeld yada-yada-yadad its last a decade ago this week. In some ways it seems possible; my life is a lot different now than when I cozied up to Jason on the couch in our tiny Falmouth apartment to watch that finale 1o years ago. But then again...10 years! I never wanted to believe my mom when she used to tell me that time goes by faster the older you get, but like most other things, she was right. I am going to turn around one day and be an old woman and have no idea how or when it happened.
Anyway.
Until I started reading these articles about Seinfeld and how it has or has not stayed relevant, I hadn't really thought about how different TV is now. Thursday night is still my big TV-watching night, the only night of the week where I put Ainsley in bed and surrender completely to the entire prime-time block. I don't stay on NBC the whole night anymore; I switch over to Lost at 10. But even on NBC, that former Must-See TV monopoly has changed. Scrubs, The Office, and 30 Rock are three of my favorite shows, but they are worlds different from Friends, Seinfeld, and Frasier. And I am not even going to talk about ER, seeing as how most people agree it should have taken a bow around the same time they killed of Dr. Greene.
My three favorite current "sitcoms", Scrubs, The Office, and 30 Rock, look and sound nothing like the old Thursday night block. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm just saying it's different. These current shows follow Seinfeld's lead in many ways; all three get at least some of their humor from absurd situations that exaggerate, if not defy, reality. All three are smart and require some degree of intelligence and education to fully appreciate (two weeks ago 30 Rock did a spoof of the movie Amadeus in a storyline linking that high-brow Academy-Award nominee and porn.) But I don't know if these three shows are as "escapist" as Seinfeld.
When Seinfeld aired its last episode, I was in what would be my last year as a high-school English teacher. At that time in my life more than any other, Thursday-night TV was the relaxing, couch-coma-inducing goal for the week. If I could make it until 8pm on Thursday night without strangling a kid, or cussing out a parent, or calling my principal a mouth-breathing moron, I would get enough R and R during Must-See TV to make it through Friday and further decompress over the weekend. I even had an assistant principal tell me once, after she and I had had a pow-wow over a student of mine who we were both at the end of our ropes about, "At least it's Thursday. Go home and watch some good TV tonight and we'll feel better about this tomorrow." I didn't really have to think too much, or care about the characters, to appreciate the humor and get a few good belly laughs.
Each of my new favorite comedy TV-shows with the exception of 30 Rock have made me cry at some point or other. (Not to say Tina Fey and Co. won't have a serious moment down the road, though so far it's sticking to the Seinfeld formula of making the central characters self-centered enough that you don't get too emotionally attached to them.) In the middle of all the craziness of any episode of Scrubs or The Office, they sometimes throw a very real moment at you. Like when Dr. Cox had an emotional breakdown following the death of a patient due to an infected transplant organ he had authorized. Or when Jim tearfully told Pam, "Don't do that," after he had opened his heart to her only to have her call him her best friend in The Office. Sitcoms are much different than they were ten years ago when Seinfeld was king. There's a lot more heart, but I'm not sure there's more laughter.
Yes, all three of my new Thursday-night staples make me laugh out loud. But sometimes, on The Office in particular, the source of the humor is awkwardness that makes me laugh a little but then hide my eyes because I just can't watch people embarrass themselves. All three are serialized in the sense that there are storylines that continue for multiple episodes or seasons; if you haven't been with the show from the beginning, you might be lost or sit there wondering what all the fuss is about. The new breed of sitcom is very cathartic; on any given Thursday, I am going to experience a wide range of emotions. It's no longer just about making you laugh.
Time will tell if these new breeds translate well ten years past their runs. My guess is that they will still hold their charm for the same group of people who watch them now, because we will be the ones to run across a previously-aired episode on cable and know, "Oh, this is the one where Jim leaves Karen stranded in New York and finally gets Pam to go out with him--hooray!" We'll have the context to enjoy the re-run. It's probably not going to win new fans, though.
And that's probably the enduring genius of Seinfeld.
I didn't watch Seinfeld with any regularity until its 8th season. I was too busy being a student for most of its run. I caught a show here and a show there during breaks from school, but I didn't get hooked until my first year teaching when I so badly needed that escapism. The episode that really sealed the deal for me? Elaine's dancing. I will never forget watching TV with my mother (I lived at home that first year on the job) and both of us laughing until we cried as Elaine did her "full-body dry heave." You do not need to have seen other episodes to get your funny bone ticked by that one.
Just yesterday as I was flipping through channels up at the gym I caught the opening scene of that same episode. Just like when I first saw it, I got the giggles.
More days than not, either Jason or me will make a reference to some moment from Seinfeld. When Ainsley mumbles, I've told her to stop being a "low talker." When I can't open a jar, I wish out loud to have "man hands." If I smell something foul, I channel Kramer and blame it on "Rusty" and the Beef-a-rino. At least once in the 95-degree temperatures we suffered through on the Disney World trip I cried out, "The heat! My God, the heat!" just like Elaine did when Puddy told her she was going to hell. Just last week, when the Japanese restaurant I had made a reservation at to celebrate Jason's and my mom's birthday told us we would still have to wait for a table to open up, I turned to Jason and said in my best Jerry imitation, "You know how to take the reservation, you just don't know how to hold the reservation. And that's really the most important part of the reservation." And the list goes on.
Ten years later, how do you think the show about nothing holds up? Were you a fan back in the day? If so, chime in below with your favorite moments.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
True Confessions
Yesterday while I was being a hamster on a wheel on my gym's elliptical trainer, I caught some of Oprah's interview of Barbara Walters. Apparently, Babs has just published a memoir and she has not held back on some of the more surprising and less-flattering aspects of her life. She had an affair with a married black man. She chose to give a speech days after her beloved sister had surgery for ovarian cancer and wasn't there when a complication arose and her sister died. Her daughter abused drugs and ran away from home as a teenager. Her father tried to commit suicide and she told everyone (incuding family members) that he was hospitalized for a heart attack. And that was just in the last half hour!
Ms. Walters has done a lot more living than I have, but her candid admissions yesterday got me thinking about what sort of dirty deeds (done dirt cheap) I would have to confess to in my own tell-all.
Someday I do think I will sit down in a non-bloggy forum and write my memoirs. But I'm only 34 now, and I've got a lot more mistakes to make.
In the meantime, here are some true and startling confessions from my own white-bread life. Prepare to be shocked! And appalled!
1. I did not pass my written driver's test the first try.
I was so embarrassed when I came back to school after failing that I told everyone I hadn't been able to take the test because my mom forgot my social security card. Not even DD's in-school confession to having suffered the same fate just a few days before could make me admit this. Until now (bum-bum-BUM!)
2. I was an accomplice in the alleged theft of my high-school Spanish teacher's car.
Not so much theft as "moving and hiding as part of a practical joke." Strangely, she didn't find it funny when she came back from a basketball game unable to find her car. We had hidden it too well. And she drove away in someone else's car before we could catch her to tell her what we had done. In our defense, this woman had stood in front of a classroom of mischievous 16-year-olds and told us she leaves her keys inside her car and dared us to figure out the code to her keyless entry. Deep down, in places she doesn't talk about at dinner parties, she wanted us to steal that car. She needed us to steal that car. She just can't handle the truth.
3. I drank a wine cooler or two while under age.
Oooh, I know. I'm dangerous! Does it make it more scandalous if I tell you the "adult" person who gave me my first illicit beverage was the high-school Spanish teacher mentioned above, and even though she was not my teacher at the time, I was still technically in high school? If memory serves I was first offered one the summer after I graduated, but still. This is the same person who let us write, perform, and videotape Spanish skits for class that can best be described as R-rated. Methinks SHE's the one who needs to write a tell-all memoir.
4. I may or may not have been involved in a college prank on a dorm-mate that involved a lubricated prophylactic and a door knob.
5. I rarely return library books on time and regularly pay overdue fines in the $5 range.
Yes, I am well aware that I am a librarian who enforces fines among my own patrons. Do as I say, kiddies, not as I do.
6. In 7th grade, I forged my mom's signature on a failed Latin quiz.
My mother used to go ballistic over bad grades. Our Latin teacher required our parents to sign all of our weekly quizzes, and I had aced all but this one, which I had totally blown off. He let us drop our lowest grade, though, so I knew I was still going to get an A in the class if I kept my nose clean the rest of the quarter, so rather than freak her out I decided to practice her scrawl for hours and then ink her John Hancock myself. I ended up with an A+ in that class, thank you very much, though this little experiment of my middle school's, to offer Latin to the advanced 7th graders, went so swimmingly that they never tried it again. That teacher was a piece of work. What's the deal with foreign language teachers?
7. I may or may not have participated in a certain college's age-old tradition involving a certain statue called "The Flame." I may or may not have also done a practice run leading up to this event on the soccer field during senior week.
8. While my mom went on vacation, leaving me with the house to myself while still in high school, I took her car up to the convenience store up the road (within walking distance) to buy ingredients to cook fried chicken. I only had my temps at the time (and we all know I must have had great knowledge of the road because I, you know, failed the written test) and came a hair's breadth from hitting a parked car. It was warm outside, and why I didn't just walk I have no idea. You know what's sad? That this was the most forbidden thing I did as a 17-year-old with a house to myself for a week.
9. I occasionally pocketed a piece of Brach's Pick-a-Mix candy from the grocery store without paying for it.
10. I once hit a chipmunk with my car. Exept for spiders, I make it a general rule to not kill things, so even though this was an accident I still feel pretty terrible about it.
Now that your image of me is totally blown by these controverial blips in my character, talk back. Use the glorious option Google gives you of posting anonymously, if you have to. What is your most shocking confession to date?
Ms. Walters has done a lot more living than I have, but her candid admissions yesterday got me thinking about what sort of dirty deeds (done dirt cheap) I would have to confess to in my own tell-all.
Someday I do think I will sit down in a non-bloggy forum and write my memoirs. But I'm only 34 now, and I've got a lot more mistakes to make.
In the meantime, here are some true and startling confessions from my own white-bread life. Prepare to be shocked! And appalled!
1. I did not pass my written driver's test the first try.
I was so embarrassed when I came back to school after failing that I told everyone I hadn't been able to take the test because my mom forgot my social security card. Not even DD's in-school confession to having suffered the same fate just a few days before could make me admit this. Until now (bum-bum-BUM!)
2. I was an accomplice in the alleged theft of my high-school Spanish teacher's car.
Not so much theft as "moving and hiding as part of a practical joke." Strangely, she didn't find it funny when she came back from a basketball game unable to find her car. We had hidden it too well. And she drove away in someone else's car before we could catch her to tell her what we had done. In our defense, this woman had stood in front of a classroom of mischievous 16-year-olds and told us she leaves her keys inside her car and dared us to figure out the code to her keyless entry. Deep down, in places she doesn't talk about at dinner parties, she wanted us to steal that car. She needed us to steal that car. She just can't handle the truth.
3. I drank a wine cooler or two while under age.
Oooh, I know. I'm dangerous! Does it make it more scandalous if I tell you the "adult" person who gave me my first illicit beverage was the high-school Spanish teacher mentioned above, and even though she was not my teacher at the time, I was still technically in high school? If memory serves I was first offered one the summer after I graduated, but still. This is the same person who let us write, perform, and videotape Spanish skits for class that can best be described as R-rated. Methinks SHE's the one who needs to write a tell-all memoir.
4. I may or may not have been involved in a college prank on a dorm-mate that involved a lubricated prophylactic and a door knob.
5. I rarely return library books on time and regularly pay overdue fines in the $5 range.
Yes, I am well aware that I am a librarian who enforces fines among my own patrons. Do as I say, kiddies, not as I do.
6. In 7th grade, I forged my mom's signature on a failed Latin quiz.
My mother used to go ballistic over bad grades. Our Latin teacher required our parents to sign all of our weekly quizzes, and I had aced all but this one, which I had totally blown off. He let us drop our lowest grade, though, so I knew I was still going to get an A in the class if I kept my nose clean the rest of the quarter, so rather than freak her out I decided to practice her scrawl for hours and then ink her John Hancock myself. I ended up with an A+ in that class, thank you very much, though this little experiment of my middle school's, to offer Latin to the advanced 7th graders, went so swimmingly that they never tried it again. That teacher was a piece of work. What's the deal with foreign language teachers?
7. I may or may not have participated in a certain college's age-old tradition involving a certain statue called "The Flame." I may or may not have also done a practice run leading up to this event on the soccer field during senior week.
8. While my mom went on vacation, leaving me with the house to myself while still in high school, I took her car up to the convenience store up the road (within walking distance) to buy ingredients to cook fried chicken. I only had my temps at the time (and we all know I must have had great knowledge of the road because I, you know, failed the written test) and came a hair's breadth from hitting a parked car. It was warm outside, and why I didn't just walk I have no idea. You know what's sad? That this was the most forbidden thing I did as a 17-year-old with a house to myself for a week.
9. I occasionally pocketed a piece of Brach's Pick-a-Mix candy from the grocery store without paying for it.
10. I once hit a chipmunk with my car. Exept for spiders, I make it a general rule to not kill things, so even though this was an accident I still feel pretty terrible about it.
Now that your image of me is totally blown by these controverial blips in my character, talk back. Use the glorious option Google gives you of posting anonymously, if you have to. What is your most shocking confession to date?
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
You Know You Make Me Wanna...SHOUT!
Today's blog post is inspired by the good people at EW, who ask in a PopWatch item today, "What lyrics make you belt every time you hear them?"
I know that even in the most vocal-phobic among you, there is one line in one song that, if it comes on the radio or at a big, crowded wedding reception, will make you sing out as loud as your little lungs allow.
Here are mine (with the shouted lyrics, well, SHOUTED):
TIN ROOF...RUSTED! ("Love Shack")
For the Reverend Martin Luther King...SING! ("Pride")
Then, sweet little lady, I'll head back to the bar...AND YOU CAN KISS MY A..! ("Friends in Low Places", live version)
You're unbelievable...OH! (That one song. You know.)
LEONARD BERNSTEIN! and FIVE O'CLOCK TV HOUR! ("It's The End of the World As We Know It"; could it be we shout those parts because they're the only ones anybody knows?)
I know that's not all. What lyrics make you sing along in ALL CAPS?
I know that even in the most vocal-phobic among you, there is one line in one song that, if it comes on the radio or at a big, crowded wedding reception, will make you sing out as loud as your little lungs allow.
Here are mine (with the shouted lyrics, well, SHOUTED):
TIN ROOF...RUSTED! ("Love Shack")
For the Reverend Martin Luther King...SING! ("Pride")
Then, sweet little lady, I'll head back to the bar...AND YOU CAN KISS MY A..! ("Friends in Low Places", live version)
You're unbelievable...OH! (That one song. You know.)
LEONARD BERNSTEIN! and FIVE O'CLOCK TV HOUR! ("It's The End of the World As We Know It"; could it be we shout those parts because they're the only ones anybody knows?)
I know that's not all. What lyrics make you sing along in ALL CAPS?
Monday, May 5, 2008
A Derby Fan's Lament
I didn't realize I was such a horrible person.
See, I am a Kentucky Derby fan. I've never been to Churchill Downs, never sipped a julep in the grandstands while wearing an obnoxious hat and singing the edited lyrics to "My Old Kentucky Home." But for as long as I can remember, I've stopped what I was doing for 2 minutes every first Saturday of May to watch great athletes thunder to the finish. My parents knew nothing about horse racing, and even though I grew up close enough to Turfway Park to see its lights out my bedroom window as a kid, we never went to the track or placed money on a horse. But we would always watch the race together as a family, each of us cheering on a beautiful animal solely on the basis of its name, with nothing at stake but bragging rights.
I've started my own family tradition the last couple of years. On race day I take Ainsley to Turfway to place a bet on each of the horses the three of us have picked out, and come race time Jason and I sip on a homemade julep with some friends while Ainsley has some sparkling grape juice, and we all cheer for our horse to wear the roses.
And today, after reading various blog posts about Eight Belles and animal cruelty and the racing industry, I feel like a tremendous a-hole for doing so.
If you know me at all, you know I love most animals more than I love some people. If you really want to see me get choked up, take me to an animal shelter and show me an abandoned or abused animal that needs a home. Heck, I can't even watch pet food commercials without getting a lump in my throat. I would never, ever condone something that I felt put an animal in harm's way. In my mind, anyone who mistreats or murders an animal should fall under the same penalty he or she would suffer had the victim been a human.
I've never seen horse racing as abuse. I know there is a dark side to the sport and that some owners and trainers dope and whip and push too hard. I've known since I was a kid that sometimes a horse pays the ultimate price for glory. I just saw the Derby as different; these were the elite, the kings and queens of the stable, the best-kept, best-loved horses of the world. I never thought the few dollars I put down on this one race a year contributed toward any brand of cruelty.
But that is the opinion of so many out there who are outraged by the horrible accident that befell Eight Belles, coming just two years after Derby winner Barbaro suffered a fatal injury at the Preakness. For these people, the euthanizations of these two thoroughbreds from injuries sustained on the track point to a larger problem. For them, it proves that these animals are pushed too hard, too early by owners and trainers who care about nothing but their purses.
Not being an avid race watcher, there have been few times in my life that I've watched a horse suffer such an injury. When the cameras showed Eight Belles being held down on the track, my heart broke for her. I was a little shocked that, when the news coverage focused on the elated winners so soon after we had been told that Eight Belles had to be put down, there hadn't been a moment of silence or some kind of recognition from the winner's handlers that the 2nd-place horse, a filly who literally gave the race everything she had, had died. I wasn't at the track, and I don't know the mood there, but the mood in my house had gotten pretty somber at the news. It seemed like the presentation ceremony should have honored that fact.
Perhaps it was so shocking for me because I thought horse fatalities in racing were more rare and more in line with the statistics for "normal" horses. I come from a rural background; I know that people who own horses or cattle have to euthanize them following "routine" injuries or medical problems that would just land a person in a hospital for a few days or a cast for six weeks. But the news stories about Saturday's tragedy hit on a grim statistic: for every 1000 starts, 2 horses suffer fatal injuries.
When I talked to my mom Saturday after the race, she was almost in tears. Eight Belles had been her horse.
"I don't know why they have to run them like that," she said. "They run them so hard and then when they die no one cares." I disagreed with her; all of us who were watching certainly cared. And the few sounds bytes we had heard after the race indicated that her jockey, her trainer, and the field vets were distraught over her death. Plus, as I reminded her, we've all been watching the Derby for years; they are athletes displaying their amazing capabilities, doing what they were born to do. I've never seen a horse run that didn't look like it was fulfilling its natural destiny.
Now I'm not so sure. Maybe the surprise I felt Saturday when Eight Belles hadn't been honored more during the pomp and circumstance surrounding the winning horse (Big Brown, who earned Ainsley's bet) has turned into a bitter taste in my mouth. I just can't help but feel like I'm part of the problem with my race-watching, bet-placing annual festivities. Reading people's comments o the news sites today has left me feeling a little...well, villainized.
You tell me, readers. I know you represent a fairly wide spectrum of beliefs and not all of you are native Kentuckians who perhaps view the Derby with a little more romanticism than the rest of the world. Is the Derby an example of animal exploitation? Or is it a showcase for some of the finest athletes in the world? And if every horse's story could end like Seabiscuit's (the subject of one of my favorite nonfiction books), wouldn't it be easier to love this sport?
See, I am a Kentucky Derby fan. I've never been to Churchill Downs, never sipped a julep in the grandstands while wearing an obnoxious hat and singing the edited lyrics to "My Old Kentucky Home." But for as long as I can remember, I've stopped what I was doing for 2 minutes every first Saturday of May to watch great athletes thunder to the finish. My parents knew nothing about horse racing, and even though I grew up close enough to Turfway Park to see its lights out my bedroom window as a kid, we never went to the track or placed money on a horse. But we would always watch the race together as a family, each of us cheering on a beautiful animal solely on the basis of its name, with nothing at stake but bragging rights.
I've started my own family tradition the last couple of years. On race day I take Ainsley to Turfway to place a bet on each of the horses the three of us have picked out, and come race time Jason and I sip on a homemade julep with some friends while Ainsley has some sparkling grape juice, and we all cheer for our horse to wear the roses.
And today, after reading various blog posts about Eight Belles and animal cruelty and the racing industry, I feel like a tremendous a-hole for doing so.
If you know me at all, you know I love most animals more than I love some people. If you really want to see me get choked up, take me to an animal shelter and show me an abandoned or abused animal that needs a home. Heck, I can't even watch pet food commercials without getting a lump in my throat. I would never, ever condone something that I felt put an animal in harm's way. In my mind, anyone who mistreats or murders an animal should fall under the same penalty he or she would suffer had the victim been a human.
I've never seen horse racing as abuse. I know there is a dark side to the sport and that some owners and trainers dope and whip and push too hard. I've known since I was a kid that sometimes a horse pays the ultimate price for glory. I just saw the Derby as different; these were the elite, the kings and queens of the stable, the best-kept, best-loved horses of the world. I never thought the few dollars I put down on this one race a year contributed toward any brand of cruelty.
But that is the opinion of so many out there who are outraged by the horrible accident that befell Eight Belles, coming just two years after Derby winner Barbaro suffered a fatal injury at the Preakness. For these people, the euthanizations of these two thoroughbreds from injuries sustained on the track point to a larger problem. For them, it proves that these animals are pushed too hard, too early by owners and trainers who care about nothing but their purses.
Not being an avid race watcher, there have been few times in my life that I've watched a horse suffer such an injury. When the cameras showed Eight Belles being held down on the track, my heart broke for her. I was a little shocked that, when the news coverage focused on the elated winners so soon after we had been told that Eight Belles had to be put down, there hadn't been a moment of silence or some kind of recognition from the winner's handlers that the 2nd-place horse, a filly who literally gave the race everything she had, had died. I wasn't at the track, and I don't know the mood there, but the mood in my house had gotten pretty somber at the news. It seemed like the presentation ceremony should have honored that fact.
Perhaps it was so shocking for me because I thought horse fatalities in racing were more rare and more in line with the statistics for "normal" horses. I come from a rural background; I know that people who own horses or cattle have to euthanize them following "routine" injuries or medical problems that would just land a person in a hospital for a few days or a cast for six weeks. But the news stories about Saturday's tragedy hit on a grim statistic: for every 1000 starts, 2 horses suffer fatal injuries.
When I talked to my mom Saturday after the race, she was almost in tears. Eight Belles had been her horse.
"I don't know why they have to run them like that," she said. "They run them so hard and then when they die no one cares." I disagreed with her; all of us who were watching certainly cared. And the few sounds bytes we had heard after the race indicated that her jockey, her trainer, and the field vets were distraught over her death. Plus, as I reminded her, we've all been watching the Derby for years; they are athletes displaying their amazing capabilities, doing what they were born to do. I've never seen a horse run that didn't look like it was fulfilling its natural destiny.
Now I'm not so sure. Maybe the surprise I felt Saturday when Eight Belles hadn't been honored more during the pomp and circumstance surrounding the winning horse (Big Brown, who earned Ainsley's bet) has turned into a bitter taste in my mouth. I just can't help but feel like I'm part of the problem with my race-watching, bet-placing annual festivities. Reading people's comments o the news sites today has left me feeling a little...well, villainized.
You tell me, readers. I know you represent a fairly wide spectrum of beliefs and not all of you are native Kentuckians who perhaps view the Derby with a little more romanticism than the rest of the world. Is the Derby an example of animal exploitation? Or is it a showcase for some of the finest athletes in the world? And if every horse's story could end like Seabiscuit's (the subject of one of my favorite nonfiction books), wouldn't it be easier to love this sport?
Riding Off Into The Sunset
Friday was family day at the kid's school, which meant we spent the day at her school participating in a wide array of fun activities designed to increase our awareness of the good things happening at the school. I might have had fun, but I was in the peak stage of a terrible cold, and it was hard to see through my watering eyes. Plus, I sneezed a lot, so all I can really remember is being stared at as I interrupted key points in the mass and the drama club program with tremendous nasal eruptions.
The day ended with a picnic on the lawn with all the other kiddos and parents. As everything wound down, one middle school girl dramatically left the premises on the back of her father's motorcycle. A pretty cool way to leave, and I am sure it won her some awesomeness points with the other middle-schoolers.
A few minutes after this, Teddy's mom walked over to us. (For infrequent readers, Teddy is the object of Ainsley's kindergarten affections.)
"Teddy just said that when he grows up, he's going to buy a 'Hurley' and he and Ainsley are going to ride on it."
Cute. He's thinking ahead to their future.
And as Teddy's mom walked away, I could just see future Ainsley on her wedding day, wearing a gorgeous princess-y gown, but with a pair of knee-high black leather boots hidden under the satin. As Jason and I wave goodbye and all the guests blow bubbles, she slips on a black leather jacket and a black helmet and rides away with Teddy on the back of his hog, sticking her tongue out and bobbing her head from side to side as she is wont to do when she thinks she's cool. Sigh.
I know, I know. I'm getting way ahead of myself. She's only five. And if a potential suitor ever shows up at our house with a real "Hurley" and proposes taking my little girl for a ride...yeah, I don't know if I'll think that's too cute. But for now, I apppreciate that the 6-year-old with the keys to my kid's heart is including her in his daydreams of future fuel-efficient and thrilling modes of transportation.
The day ended with a picnic on the lawn with all the other kiddos and parents. As everything wound down, one middle school girl dramatically left the premises on the back of her father's motorcycle. A pretty cool way to leave, and I am sure it won her some awesomeness points with the other middle-schoolers.
A few minutes after this, Teddy's mom walked over to us. (For infrequent readers, Teddy is the object of Ainsley's kindergarten affections.)
"Teddy just said that when he grows up, he's going to buy a 'Hurley' and he and Ainsley are going to ride on it."
Cute. He's thinking ahead to their future.
And as Teddy's mom walked away, I could just see future Ainsley on her wedding day, wearing a gorgeous princess-y gown, but with a pair of knee-high black leather boots hidden under the satin. As Jason and I wave goodbye and all the guests blow bubbles, she slips on a black leather jacket and a black helmet and rides away with Teddy on the back of his hog, sticking her tongue out and bobbing her head from side to side as she is wont to do when she thinks she's cool. Sigh.
I know, I know. I'm getting way ahead of myself. She's only five. And if a potential suitor ever shows up at our house with a real "Hurley" and proposes taking my little girl for a ride...yeah, I don't know if I'll think that's too cute. But for now, I apppreciate that the 6-year-old with the keys to my kid's heart is including her in his daydreams of future fuel-efficient and thrilling modes of transportation.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Out of The Mouth of Ains: Candygram Edition
Why must local news networks use sweeps months to scare the bejeezus out of us?
I guess since May sweeps begin this week, our local broadcasts have started heavily advertising their "special features". I like to have at least one half-hour of local news on in the background each evening as I get dinner on the table, and this week I've heard taglines like, "See the news story that no parent should miss! Tonight at 11!" and "What hidden danger lurks inside your local grocery store? Tonight at 11!" and "Why you should beware of the very air you breathe and water you drink and should immediately crawl into your closet and assume the fetal position! Tonight at 11!"
If it's so vital to my and my family's very lives and well-being that I watch your informative, terror-mongering story, why can't you just tell me now or run it as a ticker on the bottom while you handle the more important stories like Brit-Brit's custody battle?
Tuesday afternoon while I was rushing from dining room to kitchen, I caught Ainsley taking a break from her Ariel puzzle to stare at the news. This being unlike her, I stopped to watch. On the screen was a preview my favorite syndicate was running for an 11 o'clock feature story.
You tell your kids not to talk to strangers. (Cut to a black-and-white image of a scary-looking pedophile-if-I've-ever-seen-one guy ogling a group of giggling girls on the street.) Schools teach the concept of "stranger danger." But what happens when your child is approached by a stranger in the park, or at the front door? (Cut to grainy hidden-camera footage of a man knocking at a front door, asking to check out an appliance, and being let in by a child.) Watch as our hidden cameras show how easy it for predators to get to YOUR child. (Freeze frame on the "predator" in the hidden camera footage crossing the threshold while the color fades to black and white and scary music is cued.) Tonight at 11.
Ainsley turned around to give me a look that said, What I've just seen is confusing and scary. Could you please give me further comfort and clarification, oh wise mother? Blurg.
We've already talked to Ainsley about not talking to strangers, and not walking off with anyone if she gets lost, not getting in the car with a stranger no matter what excuse they might give or what kind of treat they might be offering, etc. At five, I know we're going to have to reinforce this for her. A lot.
So I sat next to her and went over some fine points and addressed the specific things that the heeby-jeeby preview had brought up. Like how if for some strange reason she's ever alone in the house or if mommy is here but back in the shower, she should never even answer the door. Or how she should look out and see if it's someone she knows, like her mamaw, before opening the door. And why she should never, ever, let a stranger in the house.
She thought for a minute.
"But mommy, what about if it's a strange animal?"
"An animal? You mean if a stray dog is hanging around by the door?"
"No, I mean, what if it's a strange animal from the zoo?"
Sigh.
I closed my eyes for a second; how do you answer that? And behind my lids I had an image of a child predator dressed in a convincing grizzly-bear suit knocking on our front door, holding a bouquet of flowers, asking to speak to the lady of the house.
So I had to tell her not to let strange animals in the house, either. Especially land sharks with candygrams.
I guess since May sweeps begin this week, our local broadcasts have started heavily advertising their "special features". I like to have at least one half-hour of local news on in the background each evening as I get dinner on the table, and this week I've heard taglines like, "See the news story that no parent should miss! Tonight at 11!" and "What hidden danger lurks inside your local grocery store? Tonight at 11!" and "Why you should beware of the very air you breathe and water you drink and should immediately crawl into your closet and assume the fetal position! Tonight at 11!"
If it's so vital to my and my family's very lives and well-being that I watch your informative, terror-mongering story, why can't you just tell me now or run it as a ticker on the bottom while you handle the more important stories like Brit-Brit's custody battle?
Tuesday afternoon while I was rushing from dining room to kitchen, I caught Ainsley taking a break from her Ariel puzzle to stare at the news. This being unlike her, I stopped to watch. On the screen was a preview my favorite syndicate was running for an 11 o'clock feature story.
You tell your kids not to talk to strangers. (Cut to a black-and-white image of a scary-looking pedophile-if-I've-ever-seen-one guy ogling a group of giggling girls on the street.) Schools teach the concept of "stranger danger." But what happens when your child is approached by a stranger in the park, or at the front door? (Cut to grainy hidden-camera footage of a man knocking at a front door, asking to check out an appliance, and being let in by a child.) Watch as our hidden cameras show how easy it for predators to get to YOUR child. (Freeze frame on the "predator" in the hidden camera footage crossing the threshold while the color fades to black and white and scary music is cued.) Tonight at 11.
Ainsley turned around to give me a look that said, What I've just seen is confusing and scary. Could you please give me further comfort and clarification, oh wise mother? Blurg.
We've already talked to Ainsley about not talking to strangers, and not walking off with anyone if she gets lost, not getting in the car with a stranger no matter what excuse they might give or what kind of treat they might be offering, etc. At five, I know we're going to have to reinforce this for her. A lot.
So I sat next to her and went over some fine points and addressed the specific things that the heeby-jeeby preview had brought up. Like how if for some strange reason she's ever alone in the house or if mommy is here but back in the shower, she should never even answer the door. Or how she should look out and see if it's someone she knows, like her mamaw, before opening the door. And why she should never, ever, let a stranger in the house.
She thought for a minute.
"But mommy, what about if it's a strange animal?"
"An animal? You mean if a stray dog is hanging around by the door?"
"No, I mean, what if it's a strange animal from the zoo?"
Sigh.
I closed my eyes for a second; how do you answer that? And behind my lids I had an image of a child predator dressed in a convincing grizzly-bear suit knocking on our front door, holding a bouquet of flowers, asking to speak to the lady of the house.
So I had to tell her not to let strange animals in the house, either. Especially land sharks with candygrams.
And This Just In...
I didn't stay up to watch all of the results show last night (once I saw that David Cook was safe, I was satisfied and went to bed), and just saw from frequent flyer Robert K. that America has voted and sent Brooke home.
It probably was her time, though I had honestly been hoping for Jason or "Never Met A Camera I Didn't Like" Syesha. It occurred to me as I saw the recap of Miss Baby Cry's performance that I didn't comment on her in yesterday's post. I never have much to say about her. I don't get her, really. Sure, she has formidable pipes, but she neither really gets on my nerves nor knocks my socks off. I have zero emotional connection to her. In fact, the only comment I had about her Tuesday night while watching was, "When Fantasia sang 'Summertime' while sitting barefoot at the edge of the stage it worked because it fit her and the song. You, my friend, singing your Neil Diamond song, are no Fantasia." And then I think I got up and grabbed a handful of Cookie Crisp, because her performances always seem like a good time to get up and get a snack because I really won't be missing anything.
Even though Brooke had some flaws, I, like Robert, am a little bummed she's gone. When she was on target, she had that kind of Carly Simon thing going. Though I do hope she takes this opportunity to de-stress a little; girlfriend seemed as uncomfortable on stage the last two weeks as Jamie Lynn Spears at a teen abstinence convention.
That is all for now. Obviously, I have little going on in my life right now other than getting fired up over a reality show. Though I do have an all new "Out of the Mouth of Ains" coming soon; she's been rather insightful this week.
Stay classy, America.
It probably was her time, though I had honestly been hoping for Jason or "Never Met A Camera I Didn't Like" Syesha. It occurred to me as I saw the recap of Miss Baby Cry's performance that I didn't comment on her in yesterday's post. I never have much to say about her. I don't get her, really. Sure, she has formidable pipes, but she neither really gets on my nerves nor knocks my socks off. I have zero emotional connection to her. In fact, the only comment I had about her Tuesday night while watching was, "When Fantasia sang 'Summertime' while sitting barefoot at the edge of the stage it worked because it fit her and the song. You, my friend, singing your Neil Diamond song, are no Fantasia." And then I think I got up and grabbed a handful of Cookie Crisp, because her performances always seem like a good time to get up and get a snack because I really won't be missing anything.
Even though Brooke had some flaws, I, like Robert, am a little bummed she's gone. When she was on target, she had that kind of Carly Simon thing going. Though I do hope she takes this opportunity to de-stress a little; girlfriend seemed as uncomfortable on stage the last two weeks as Jamie Lynn Spears at a teen abstinence convention.
That is all for now. Obviously, I have little going on in my life right now other than getting fired up over a reality show. Though I do have an all new "Out of the Mouth of Ains" coming soon; she's been rather insightful this week.
Stay classy, America.
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