Thursday, June 29, 2006
American Cereal!, Part Vier
Don't ask me why I've decided to use a different foreign number to note each successive installment of American Cereal! Let's just say that I think we could all stand to learn some new words now and then. Vier, for example, is German for four, which I had to look up, because I took French in school, and Sesame Street only taught me how to count in Spanish. (In case you're wondering, fünf is five in German, which I really wanted to use next week, because come on, how much fun is fünf? When I tried to pick a different language for this week, though, all the ones I could come up with just seemed too left-field this early in the game, so vier it is. But if you're ever in Germany and need to count four or five of something, now you know how.)
Where were we? Oh yeah, cereal. My apologies to the Germans, because this week's cereal is a big loser. I think they're probably too busy with all that World Cup stuff to notice, anyway.
Competitor #4: Kellogg's Fruit Harvest Peach & Strawberry
Before we start with the ratings, let me just clarify that this was a substitute cereal. Some of you may recall that this week's cereal was supposed to be Peach Honey Bunches of Oats, but apparently this is a concoction only found in Duluth. However, once I had peaches on the brain, it was difficult to settle on anything else. (So great was my peach craving, in fact, that I also bought both peach yogurt and actual peaches at the store this week. I think I'm all peached out.)
Taste: 2. Yeah, the peaches were nice, but they were few and far between. Basically, this cereal is just Special K Red Berries in a different box with slightly different fruit. And while I was once a big proponent of Special K Red Berries (in fact, I sometimes even credit myself with getting it introduced to the U.S., since I mentioned it to my uncle who works at Kellogg's after I returned from England), I got sick of it after a couple of years. It seems that time has not healed that wound.
Crunchiness: 3. I guess it holds up moderately well, but really I was too distracted with thoughts of, "This is just Special K Red Berries. Why am I eating Special K Red Berries? I'm sick of Special K Red Berries!" to notice.
Wake-upability: -1. The thought of having to eat this cereal every morning made me not want to wake up. In fact, I blame it for everything that has gone wrong in my life this week. It may even be responsible for everything that is wrong in the universe.
Total score: 4. In case you haven't figured it out yet, I did not like this cereal. Maybe I should move to Duluth, where at least I could get the real Peach Honey Bunches of Oats and wouldn't have to settle for a sub-par substitute.
Don't ask me why I've decided to use a different foreign number to note each successive installment of American Cereal! Let's just say that I think we could all stand to learn some new words now and then. Vier, for example, is German for four, which I had to look up, because I took French in school, and Sesame Street only taught me how to count in Spanish. (In case you're wondering, fünf is five in German, which I really wanted to use next week, because come on, how much fun is fünf? When I tried to pick a different language for this week, though, all the ones I could come up with just seemed too left-field this early in the game, so vier it is. But if you're ever in Germany and need to count four or five of something, now you know how.)
Where were we? Oh yeah, cereal. My apologies to the Germans, because this week's cereal is a big loser. I think they're probably too busy with all that World Cup stuff to notice, anyway.
Competitor #4: Kellogg's Fruit Harvest Peach & Strawberry
Before we start with the ratings, let me just clarify that this was a substitute cereal. Some of you may recall that this week's cereal was supposed to be Peach Honey Bunches of Oats, but apparently this is a concoction only found in Duluth. However, once I had peaches on the brain, it was difficult to settle on anything else. (So great was my peach craving, in fact, that I also bought both peach yogurt and actual peaches at the store this week. I think I'm all peached out.)
Taste: 2. Yeah, the peaches were nice, but they were few and far between. Basically, this cereal is just Special K Red Berries in a different box with slightly different fruit. And while I was once a big proponent of Special K Red Berries (in fact, I sometimes even credit myself with getting it introduced to the U.S., since I mentioned it to my uncle who works at Kellogg's after I returned from England), I got sick of it after a couple of years. It seems that time has not healed that wound.
Crunchiness: 3. I guess it holds up moderately well, but really I was too distracted with thoughts of, "This is just Special K Red Berries. Why am I eating Special K Red Berries? I'm sick of Special K Red Berries!" to notice.
Wake-upability: -1. The thought of having to eat this cereal every morning made me not want to wake up. In fact, I blame it for everything that has gone wrong in my life this week. It may even be responsible for everything that is wrong in the universe.
Total score: 4. In case you haven't figured it out yet, I did not like this cereal. Maybe I should move to Duluth, where at least I could get the real Peach Honey Bunches of Oats and wouldn't have to settle for a sub-par substitute.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Now that's multi-tasking
Have you ever tried to proofread and make pancakes at the same time? As of last night, I can say that I have, although I would advise such an activity to be undertaken only if you are as skilled at both components as I am. Even with this tooting of my own horn, I have to admit that the pancakes were not up to the standard of perfection to which I usually hold myself. I can only hope the same doesn't hold true for the proofreading, as this was my first and only chance to proof the book I kinda sorta (not really, as it turns out, after my editor made her revisions) ghost-wrote.
As part of the proofing process, I was taking a look yesterday at the copyright pages in a couple of the random books sitting around my office, and I came across what might be the most awesome dedication ever:
This book is dedicated to me, Dr. Ralph R. Kylloe Jr. What the heck? I've worked hard all my life, been nice to people most of the time and done some pretty good things in my time. I hope someone remembers me when I'm dead and gone. And besides, we average folks need someone on our side. If we don't speak up for ourselves, no one else will! And when will I ever have another chance to do this? So always try to add just a bit of humor in your day--it'll help you get through all the goofy stuff in the world.
Dr. Ralph R. Kylloe Jr., I have no idea who you are, nor do I have any idea how your book, Adirondack Home, happened to be in my office (as is the case with most of the books on my bookshelf), but I am pretty sure I love you.
Have you ever tried to proofread and make pancakes at the same time? As of last night, I can say that I have, although I would advise such an activity to be undertaken only if you are as skilled at both components as I am. Even with this tooting of my own horn, I have to admit that the pancakes were not up to the standard of perfection to which I usually hold myself. I can only hope the same doesn't hold true for the proofreading, as this was my first and only chance to proof the book I kinda sorta (not really, as it turns out, after my editor made her revisions) ghost-wrote.
As part of the proofing process, I was taking a look yesterday at the copyright pages in a couple of the random books sitting around my office, and I came across what might be the most awesome dedication ever:
This book is dedicated to me, Dr. Ralph R. Kylloe Jr. What the heck? I've worked hard all my life, been nice to people most of the time and done some pretty good things in my time. I hope someone remembers me when I'm dead and gone. And besides, we average folks need someone on our side. If we don't speak up for ourselves, no one else will! And when will I ever have another chance to do this? So always try to add just a bit of humor in your day--it'll help you get through all the goofy stuff in the world.
Dr. Ralph R. Kylloe Jr., I have no idea who you are, nor do I have any idea how your book, Adirondack Home, happened to be in my office (as is the case with most of the books on my bookshelf), but I am pretty sure I love you.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Money, money, money, money. MONEY!
In case you couldn't guess, I've been thinking about money today. Well, money and rain. I'm thinking about rain because it's been raining pretty much non-stop for the past 36 hours. And I'm thinking about money because I'm right in the middle of the odious process of trying to register my vehicle in Virginia.
My Alabama tags expire at the end of this month. I briefly thought about just renewing them so I could put off this process for another year, but I decided instead to be a responsible citizen. And let me be the first to tell you that being a responsible citizen? Sucks.
Registering a vehicle in Virginia is nothing like registering a vehicle in Alabama, where they'll give any yahoo a driver's license and some tags. No, here it is a very detailed eight-step process, which must be accompanied by every piece of identification I've ever owned and possibly a signed contract willing my firstborn child to the Commonwealth of Virginia.
First, I had to switch over my insurance, which turned out to be rather painless and actually a cause for celebration, as my rates went down significantly. (Probably because Virginia won't just give any yahoo a driver's license and some tags.) Then I had to have my vehicle inspected for safety and emissions standards, which, except for a small snag and a pretty vivid nightmare in which every service station I went to had a week-long wait for inspection, was fairly painless, too. Next I must get up at some insanely early hour to try to beat the lines at the DMV so I can get a new license, re-title my car in Virginia, and get my new tags, all without missing a full day of work.
After that, all that's left is registering my car with the county so it can be assessed for personal property tax. And this is where I start to cry.
Diana had mentioned something to me about the extreme suckitude of Virginia's whole car-as-personal-property tax law a few years ago, but I'd kind of brushed it aside since I didn't live in Virginia at the time. But now I do, and so I've spent the past hour or so confronting the ugly reality. Funny how fast time flies when you're reading about taxes, huh? At first I was nearly in tears, thinking I would have to sign away my firstborn to pay the tax, then I learned about a tax relief act that meant I only had to pay 30 percent, but then I discovered that act had been revised in the past year, so now I have to pay some unknown percent of the tax that is probably more than I would've had to pay last year, but also probably less than I would've had to pay before the whole tax-relief thing.
So now I'm just confused. And I've spent an hour reading about taxes. Gross.
In case you couldn't guess, I've been thinking about money today. Well, money and rain. I'm thinking about rain because it's been raining pretty much non-stop for the past 36 hours. And I'm thinking about money because I'm right in the middle of the odious process of trying to register my vehicle in Virginia.
My Alabama tags expire at the end of this month. I briefly thought about just renewing them so I could put off this process for another year, but I decided instead to be a responsible citizen. And let me be the first to tell you that being a responsible citizen? Sucks.
Registering a vehicle in Virginia is nothing like registering a vehicle in Alabama, where they'll give any yahoo a driver's license and some tags. No, here it is a very detailed eight-step process, which must be accompanied by every piece of identification I've ever owned and possibly a signed contract willing my firstborn child to the Commonwealth of Virginia.
First, I had to switch over my insurance, which turned out to be rather painless and actually a cause for celebration, as my rates went down significantly. (Probably because Virginia won't just give any yahoo a driver's license and some tags.) Then I had to have my vehicle inspected for safety and emissions standards, which, except for a small snag and a pretty vivid nightmare in which every service station I went to had a week-long wait for inspection, was fairly painless, too. Next I must get up at some insanely early hour to try to beat the lines at the DMV so I can get a new license, re-title my car in Virginia, and get my new tags, all without missing a full day of work.
After that, all that's left is registering my car with the county so it can be assessed for personal property tax. And this is where I start to cry.
Diana had mentioned something to me about the extreme suckitude of Virginia's whole car-as-personal-property tax law a few years ago, but I'd kind of brushed it aside since I didn't live in Virginia at the time. But now I do, and so I've spent the past hour or so confronting the ugly reality. Funny how fast time flies when you're reading about taxes, huh? At first I was nearly in tears, thinking I would have to sign away my firstborn to pay the tax, then I learned about a tax relief act that meant I only had to pay 30 percent, but then I discovered that act had been revised in the past year, so now I have to pay some unknown percent of the tax that is probably more than I would've had to pay last year, but also probably less than I would've had to pay before the whole tax-relief thing.
So now I'm just confused. And I've spent an hour reading about taxes. Gross.
Friday, June 23, 2006
American Cereal!, Part Tres
We're on a roll now, baby! And with some recent inspiration from Christa, the American Cereal! train shows no signs of slowing...
Contender #3: Heartland Original Granola
Taste: 4. Yummy and brown sugar-y. I'm not sure what it is about granola. I'm not a huge fan of the granola bar, although I'll always eat one if it's around, but put some granola in milk, and all of a sudden you've got yourself several kinds of awesomeness. In fact, I was on a huge granola kick back in '04 when unemployment forced me to seek out cheaper cereals and I ended up falling in love with Crispy Corn & Rice. My only problem with the Original Granola is the "original" part--it's kind of the same principle as plain potato chips. They're good, sure, but why would you eat them when there are so many other options? I love granola with dried fruit in it, mostly because gives me a notch in the daunting "fruits and vegetables" portion of the food pyramid without too much thought or effort. But unfortunately, the only fruit variety of granola that Heartland offers is raisin, and I'm not sold on that.
Crunchiness: 5. This cereal is the baby bear of crunchiness, if you will: just right. The milk makes it just soggy enough not to give me a 7 a.m. jaw workout, and it remains the same consistency of crunchiness throughout the whole bowl. Nice.
Wake-upability: 4. I actually started thinking about this cereal before I went to bed, which is a big step, even though we haven't reached the pining stage just yet.
Total score: 13. A pretty solid score, and I'd almost be tempted to declare granola the winner right here and now, but there are a few concerns. First, it's not exactly a low-fat cereal. Will a few extra grams of fat in the morning really have a long-term impact on my diet? Maybe not (especially since it's probably the good kind of fat, or at least that's what I'm telling myself), but I'm not sure I want to chance it. Also, the box is smaller than average, which is a good thing when it comes to fitting into my cupboard, but not so great when it comes to making one box last an entire week. The verdict's still out on this one.
We're on a roll now, baby! And with some recent inspiration from Christa, the American Cereal! train shows no signs of slowing...
Contender #3: Heartland Original Granola
Taste: 4. Yummy and brown sugar-y. I'm not sure what it is about granola. I'm not a huge fan of the granola bar, although I'll always eat one if it's around, but put some granola in milk, and all of a sudden you've got yourself several kinds of awesomeness. In fact, I was on a huge granola kick back in '04 when unemployment forced me to seek out cheaper cereals and I ended up falling in love with Crispy Corn & Rice. My only problem with the Original Granola is the "original" part--it's kind of the same principle as plain potato chips. They're good, sure, but why would you eat them when there are so many other options? I love granola with dried fruit in it, mostly because gives me a notch in the daunting "fruits and vegetables" portion of the food pyramid without too much thought or effort. But unfortunately, the only fruit variety of granola that Heartland offers is raisin, and I'm not sold on that.
Crunchiness: 5. This cereal is the baby bear of crunchiness, if you will: just right. The milk makes it just soggy enough not to give me a 7 a.m. jaw workout, and it remains the same consistency of crunchiness throughout the whole bowl. Nice.
Wake-upability: 4. I actually started thinking about this cereal before I went to bed, which is a big step, even though we haven't reached the pining stage just yet.
Total score: 13. A pretty solid score, and I'd almost be tempted to declare granola the winner right here and now, but there are a few concerns. First, it's not exactly a low-fat cereal. Will a few extra grams of fat in the morning really have a long-term impact on my diet? Maybe not (especially since it's probably the good kind of fat, or at least that's what I'm telling myself), but I'm not sure I want to chance it. Also, the box is smaller than average, which is a good thing when it comes to fitting into my cupboard, but not so great when it comes to making one box last an entire week. The verdict's still out on this one.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
The Gilmore Effect
Another side effect of my newfound fascination with Gilmore Girls, in addition to making me want to rail against quaintness, is that I have a sudden desire to want to replicate the dialogue style in my daily life. This isn't all that surprising--when you immerse yourself in a piece of fiction that has such a distinctive style about it, you tend to start replicating it on an almost subconscious level. Witness the somewhat uncontrollable use of the abbreviation "v." by anyone who has recently read Bridget Jones's Diary. You know what I'm talking about here. For example, this snippet of a conversation I had last night with Adrian:
Adrian: So I've been playing guitar on Monday nights with this gypsy jazz group.
Me: Oh, so you're a gypsy now.
Adrian: I'm not a gypsy.
Me: Yup, you're a gypsy.
Adrian: Anyway, that's been taking up a lot of my time.
Me: I'd imagine being a gypsy would.
Next thing you know, I'm going to be making corny jokes that are met with stony silence. I feel this new habit may become annoying to my friends, and yet I also feel that I'm powerless to stop it. So fasten your seatbelts, folks. It's going to be a long summer of attempts at snappy repartee.
Another side effect of my newfound fascination with Gilmore Girls, in addition to making me want to rail against quaintness, is that I have a sudden desire to want to replicate the dialogue style in my daily life. This isn't all that surprising--when you immerse yourself in a piece of fiction that has such a distinctive style about it, you tend to start replicating it on an almost subconscious level. Witness the somewhat uncontrollable use of the abbreviation "v." by anyone who has recently read Bridget Jones's Diary. You know what I'm talking about here. For example, this snippet of a conversation I had last night with Adrian:
Adrian: So I've been playing guitar on Monday nights with this gypsy jazz group.
Me: Oh, so you're a gypsy now.
Adrian: I'm not a gypsy.
Me: Yup, you're a gypsy.
Adrian: Anyway, that's been taking up a lot of my time.
Me: I'd imagine being a gypsy would.
Next thing you know, I'm going to be making corny jokes that are met with stony silence. I feel this new habit may become annoying to my friends, and yet I also feel that I'm powerless to stop it. So fasten your seatbelts, folks. It's going to be a long summer of attempts at snappy repartee.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
The small-town myth
So I've been getting into Gilmore Girls lately, despite some very vocal objections I have made in the past in regard to Alexis Bledel and her general acting ability. (Although watching Season 1 has led me to believe that Alexis has in fact gotten worse as an actress as the show has progressed, and that the show itself may be to blame for this. But I'm sure we'll get into that theory another time.)
Watching shows set in small towns is always a little uncomfortable for me, either because the small-town atmosphere is portrayed either completely unrealistically or a little too realistically for my taste. Most of the time, it's the former. With Gilmore Girls, it's a little of both.
I think the show does an excellent job of demonstrating how everyone in a small town is constantly up in each other's business, and how annoying/frustrating that can be, especially when you're a teenager. Where it breaks down, though, is where most small towns on TV do: They overload on the quaintness.
If television is to be believed, all small towns are tightly knit, loving communities just brimming with cool, hip things to do. Why, just the number of restaurants in Stars Hollow alone, to say nothing of their apparent quality, is astounding to me. Following Rory and Lorelai through one of their strolls about town reveals that they've also plenty of cute, quirky stores--that funky bookstore where they're always showing old movies, for instance. They only seem to have the one supermarket, which is accurate, but not so accurate is the fact that the supermarket appears to carry everything they need.
Now for the reality: When I was growing up, there were three restaurants in town, only one of which was marginally worth eating at. Sure, as the town grew, new restaurants came in, but the quality never seemed to increase. (Example: There's now one downtown called "The House of Jerky." Actually, I'm not sure if that's a restaurant so much as it is a store, but still, you can bet your ass you'd never find a place called "The House of Jerky" in Stars Hollow.) And the hip bookstore/movie theater combo? As if. What passed for entertainment among my peers during my high school years was a combination of cruising up and down Main Street, having unprotected sex (there being nowhere to buy condoms, and getting them for free at the Health Department being out of the question because the nurses knew your parents), then getting pregnant at 16. After I left, someone tried to open a dance club downtown, but they were pretty much laughed out of town, and I suspect it's not just because they spelled "club" with a "k."
Now, I'm sure that somewhere, outside the realm of TV-land, there is a perfectly quaint, hip small town just like Stars Hollow. If you find it, could you let me know? Because I'm betting most of the small towns out there bear a closer resemblance to the one I grew up in. House of Jerky and all.
So I've been getting into Gilmore Girls lately, despite some very vocal objections I have made in the past in regard to Alexis Bledel and her general acting ability. (Although watching Season 1 has led me to believe that Alexis has in fact gotten worse as an actress as the show has progressed, and that the show itself may be to blame for this. But I'm sure we'll get into that theory another time.)
Watching shows set in small towns is always a little uncomfortable for me, either because the small-town atmosphere is portrayed either completely unrealistically or a little too realistically for my taste. Most of the time, it's the former. With Gilmore Girls, it's a little of both.
I think the show does an excellent job of demonstrating how everyone in a small town is constantly up in each other's business, and how annoying/frustrating that can be, especially when you're a teenager. Where it breaks down, though, is where most small towns on TV do: They overload on the quaintness.
If television is to be believed, all small towns are tightly knit, loving communities just brimming with cool, hip things to do. Why, just the number of restaurants in Stars Hollow alone, to say nothing of their apparent quality, is astounding to me. Following Rory and Lorelai through one of their strolls about town reveals that they've also plenty of cute, quirky stores--that funky bookstore where they're always showing old movies, for instance. They only seem to have the one supermarket, which is accurate, but not so accurate is the fact that the supermarket appears to carry everything they need.
Now for the reality: When I was growing up, there were three restaurants in town, only one of which was marginally worth eating at. Sure, as the town grew, new restaurants came in, but the quality never seemed to increase. (Example: There's now one downtown called "The House of Jerky." Actually, I'm not sure if that's a restaurant so much as it is a store, but still, you can bet your ass you'd never find a place called "The House of Jerky" in Stars Hollow.) And the hip bookstore/movie theater combo? As if. What passed for entertainment among my peers during my high school years was a combination of cruising up and down Main Street, having unprotected sex (there being nowhere to buy condoms, and getting them for free at the Health Department being out of the question because the nurses knew your parents), then getting pregnant at 16. After I left, someone tried to open a dance club downtown, but they were pretty much laughed out of town, and I suspect it's not just because they spelled "club" with a "k."
Now, I'm sure that somewhere, outside the realm of TV-land, there is a perfectly quaint, hip small town just like Stars Hollow. If you find it, could you let me know? Because I'm betting most of the small towns out there bear a closer resemblance to the one I grew up in. House of Jerky and all.
Friday, June 16, 2006
American Cereal!, Part Deux
You didn't think I'd abandoned my brand-spanking-new little franchise after just one installment, did you? All right, I almost did. We'll see if I make it to a third round or not--it's possible that I won't, because this week's contender (recommended by Chase) was pretty darn tasty.
Competitor #2: Kashi GoLean Crunch!
Taste: 4.5. Pretty close to perfect--it has that sweetness-to-wholesomeness ratio I was looking for.
Crunchiness: 4. Well, it definitely lives up to its name. In fact, it might live up to it just a bit too much. My first morning with Crunch!, I kind of felt like I had to work hard to chew--and working is not exactly what I want to be doing minutes after I stumble out of bed. However, it seemed to get easier as the week went on, so maybe my jaw has gotten used to it.
Wake-upability: 3. I definitely don't think about it longingly before I go to bed, but it's not bad as an incentive to get me up in the mornings. In fact, I could go for a bowl right about now.
Total score: 12. I'm adding an extra half a point for the use of an exclamation point in the cereal's title, as I clearly am a fan of the cereal/peppy punctuation combo. And although this does not figure into the scoring process, it's worth noting that Kashi Crunch! is actually cheaper than almost all of the other cereals at my grocery store. No, it will probably never live up to Crispy Corn & Rice, but this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
You didn't think I'd abandoned my brand-spanking-new little franchise after just one installment, did you? All right, I almost did. We'll see if I make it to a third round or not--it's possible that I won't, because this week's contender (recommended by Chase) was pretty darn tasty.
Competitor #2: Kashi GoLean Crunch!
Taste: 4.5. Pretty close to perfect--it has that sweetness-to-wholesomeness ratio I was looking for.
Crunchiness: 4. Well, it definitely lives up to its name. In fact, it might live up to it just a bit too much. My first morning with Crunch!, I kind of felt like I had to work hard to chew--and working is not exactly what I want to be doing minutes after I stumble out of bed. However, it seemed to get easier as the week went on, so maybe my jaw has gotten used to it.
Wake-upability: 3. I definitely don't think about it longingly before I go to bed, but it's not bad as an incentive to get me up in the mornings. In fact, I could go for a bowl right about now.
Total score: 12. I'm adding an extra half a point for the use of an exclamation point in the cereal's title, as I clearly am a fan of the cereal/peppy punctuation combo. And although this does not figure into the scoring process, it's worth noting that Kashi Crunch! is actually cheaper than almost all of the other cereals at my grocery store. No, it will probably never live up to Crispy Corn & Rice, but this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
D.C.: It's like L.A. for dorks
This thought occurred to me the other night as I was eating dinner with my parents in a restaurant near Dupont Circle, and my dad tried to contain his excitement over the fact that Chris Matthews, host of MSNBC's Hardball, was seated a few tables away from us. My dad kept threatening to approach his table, but he never followed through, mostly because he couldn't decide for sure whether the guy was Chris Matthews. And therein lies the paradox of the D.C. celebrity sighting: Unless you are a dork of the most extreme nature, you can never be sure that the celebrity you're sighting is the real deal until you go home and Google them, due to the fact that their faces haven't been burned into your brain thanks to relentless tabloid coverage.
Now, before you think me harsh for calling my dad a dork, keep in mind that I once got inordinately excited to learn that my friend Jeff was seated behind Al Gore on a flight from New York to Nashville. And yes, it's true that my mom and I did once take a sort-of long detour through Al Gore's neighborhood in Nashville in the hopes that he might happen to be washing his car in his driveway. Wow, I sound like some sort of Al Gore stalker. Which I'm not. But I am a dork. So I'll fit in pretty well here, I think.
This thought occurred to me the other night as I was eating dinner with my parents in a restaurant near Dupont Circle, and my dad tried to contain his excitement over the fact that Chris Matthews, host of MSNBC's Hardball, was seated a few tables away from us. My dad kept threatening to approach his table, but he never followed through, mostly because he couldn't decide for sure whether the guy was Chris Matthews. And therein lies the paradox of the D.C. celebrity sighting: Unless you are a dork of the most extreme nature, you can never be sure that the celebrity you're sighting is the real deal until you go home and Google them, due to the fact that their faces haven't been burned into your brain thanks to relentless tabloid coverage.
Now, before you think me harsh for calling my dad a dork, keep in mind that I once got inordinately excited to learn that my friend Jeff was seated behind Al Gore on a flight from New York to Nashville. And yes, it's true that my mom and I did once take a sort-of long detour through Al Gore's neighborhood in Nashville in the hopes that he might happen to be washing his car in his driveway. Wow, I sound like some sort of Al Gore stalker. Which I'm not. But I am a dork. So I'll fit in pretty well here, I think.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Who knew there were redneck Iraqis?
This morning on my way to work, I was listening to an NPR story about Iraqis who work as translators for the U.S. military, and how that choice of occupation has caused them to be reviled by other Iraqi citizens. In order to protect their privacy, NPR gave the translators it interviewed fake names. Unfortunately, the aliases it chose to use were Dennis and Ronny. At that point I could no longer pay attention to the story, because I was using all my energy to marvel at the stupidity of these name choices.
First of all, it's beyond me why they didn't at least attempt to pick Arabic names. Perhaps they thought choosing aliases like "Ali" and "Muhammed" would be considered stereotyping. Fine, whatever. But how about digging out your Big Book of Arabic Baby Names and picking out something a little more obscure? Or hell, even ask Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie for some suggestions--I'm sure they've got some Arabic names in the hopper, since they're sure to either adopt or give birth to a child in the Middle East at some point in the future.
Because seriously, Dennis and Ronny? Are they native Iraqis by way of Talledega? Or are we supposed to believe that the influence of icons like Larry the Cable Guy and the continued white-trash sprial of Britney Spears has extended so far around the globe that people in other countries are starting to give their children hick names? God, let's hope not.
This morning on my way to work, I was listening to an NPR story about Iraqis who work as translators for the U.S. military, and how that choice of occupation has caused them to be reviled by other Iraqi citizens. In order to protect their privacy, NPR gave the translators it interviewed fake names. Unfortunately, the aliases it chose to use were Dennis and Ronny. At that point I could no longer pay attention to the story, because I was using all my energy to marvel at the stupidity of these name choices.
First of all, it's beyond me why they didn't at least attempt to pick Arabic names. Perhaps they thought choosing aliases like "Ali" and "Muhammed" would be considered stereotyping. Fine, whatever. But how about digging out your Big Book of Arabic Baby Names and picking out something a little more obscure? Or hell, even ask Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie for some suggestions--I'm sure they've got some Arabic names in the hopper, since they're sure to either adopt or give birth to a child in the Middle East at some point in the future.
Because seriously, Dennis and Ronny? Are they native Iraqis by way of Talledega? Or are we supposed to believe that the influence of icons like Larry the Cable Guy and the continued white-trash sprial of Britney Spears has extended so far around the globe that people in other countries are starting to give their children hick names? God, let's hope not.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Scenes from a parking lot, 1989 and 2006
I was nine years old and just finishing up dance class. I went out to the parking lot to meet my mom and sat in the front seat of our blue van as she told me that our dog, Barkley, had died. He had wandered up to the gas station at the end of our street to be alone, and when the owner found his body in the grass, he called my dad to let him know. My dad buried him in our backyard under a tree--a place that was a little bit removed, a little bit more special, from where we had deposited countless goldfish and a hamster or two over the years.
I think I must have cried a little bit, but I don't remember crying much. Barkley never really felt like my dog. My parents got him right after they moved to Kentucky, years before I was born, so I never knew him as a puppy. And he was an outside dog, only allowed to peek his head into the house on Saturday mornings to eat our leftover pancakes, so he kind of did his own thing most of the time. By all accounts, he probably shouldn't have lived as long as he did. But somehow, he survived countless fights with the neighborhood dogs, collisions with the cars he loved to chase, and even some sort of poisoning, to live to the ripe old age of 14.
Barkley was my dad's first dog as an adult, and it took him a while to move on from his death. For three years, my and my sister's pleas for a new puppy fell on deaf ears. Then, on Christmas morning in 1992, after we'd opened all of our presents and marveled at the snow falling outside my grandparents' house in Tennessee, someone opened a crack between the living room's sliding doors, and a tiny black puppy with a huge red bow around his neck came wriggling through. It was love at first sight. ("It's snowing, and we got a puppy?! This is the best Christmas ever!" was my sister's oft-quoted expression of glee.)
With Boone, things were different. No longer wanting to find deer heads dragged from the woods into their yard or to have to call Poison Control in the middle of the night, my parents decided Boone would be an inside dog, and would be kept on a leash when he was outdoors. Of course, he soon figured out how to slide out of his collar, necessitating many frantic chases around the neighborhood.
There was part of him that never stopped being a puppy. Even when he was nearing the triple digits in dog years, he still might try to run amok if you let him off the leash. Even though he couldn't spring up to greet us quite as quickly as he used to, he'd still come to the door as soon as he heard the crunch of tires on our gravel driveway. And he never stopped wanting to be the center of attention--if one person got tired of petting him, he'd move on to the next person, working his way in a circle around the room. If you tried to give anybody a hug, he'd try to worm his way in between, or he'd bark until all eyes were on him again.
Yesterday afternoon, in the parking lot of a Hampton Inn, my dad told me that they put Boone to sleep on June 2. He had a growth on his lung that was making it increasingly hard for him to breathe. It was inoperable, and we knew that eventually this day would come. The vet didn't think he'd make it through last summer. I thought that when I saw him last Easter, it would be the last time, but he was still there when I came home for Christmas. This Easter, I knew it really was the last time. I had time to prepare--I even had time to get my crying out, both when Doc was put down on Grey's Anatomy, and when Nikki and Jon had to put Griffin to sleep last week. But that didn't ease the flood of tears that came when I actually heard the news.
The vet made a special trip to Windy Hill, my dad's hunting cabin and Boone's favorite place (not that he had many places to choose from). He got to eat a piece of toast (Windy Hill was the only place where he was ever allowed to eat "people food"), and then they did it on the porch. My dad buried him in a spot where he always loved to play.
There will be more dogs that will come and go from my life, I know, but he was my first puppy love. I'll miss him.
I was nine years old and just finishing up dance class. I went out to the parking lot to meet my mom and sat in the front seat of our blue van as she told me that our dog, Barkley, had died. He had wandered up to the gas station at the end of our street to be alone, and when the owner found his body in the grass, he called my dad to let him know. My dad buried him in our backyard under a tree--a place that was a little bit removed, a little bit more special, from where we had deposited countless goldfish and a hamster or two over the years.
I think I must have cried a little bit, but I don't remember crying much. Barkley never really felt like my dog. My parents got him right after they moved to Kentucky, years before I was born, so I never knew him as a puppy. And he was an outside dog, only allowed to peek his head into the house on Saturday mornings to eat our leftover pancakes, so he kind of did his own thing most of the time. By all accounts, he probably shouldn't have lived as long as he did. But somehow, he survived countless fights with the neighborhood dogs, collisions with the cars he loved to chase, and even some sort of poisoning, to live to the ripe old age of 14.
Barkley was my dad's first dog as an adult, and it took him a while to move on from his death. For three years, my and my sister's pleas for a new puppy fell on deaf ears. Then, on Christmas morning in 1992, after we'd opened all of our presents and marveled at the snow falling outside my grandparents' house in Tennessee, someone opened a crack between the living room's sliding doors, and a tiny black puppy with a huge red bow around his neck came wriggling through. It was love at first sight. ("It's snowing, and we got a puppy?! This is the best Christmas ever!" was my sister's oft-quoted expression of glee.)
With Boone, things were different. No longer wanting to find deer heads dragged from the woods into their yard or to have to call Poison Control in the middle of the night, my parents decided Boone would be an inside dog, and would be kept on a leash when he was outdoors. Of course, he soon figured out how to slide out of his collar, necessitating many frantic chases around the neighborhood.
There was part of him that never stopped being a puppy. Even when he was nearing the triple digits in dog years, he still might try to run amok if you let him off the leash. Even though he couldn't spring up to greet us quite as quickly as he used to, he'd still come to the door as soon as he heard the crunch of tires on our gravel driveway. And he never stopped wanting to be the center of attention--if one person got tired of petting him, he'd move on to the next person, working his way in a circle around the room. If you tried to give anybody a hug, he'd try to worm his way in between, or he'd bark until all eyes were on him again.
Yesterday afternoon, in the parking lot of a Hampton Inn, my dad told me that they put Boone to sleep on June 2. He had a growth on his lung that was making it increasingly hard for him to breathe. It was inoperable, and we knew that eventually this day would come. The vet didn't think he'd make it through last summer. I thought that when I saw him last Easter, it would be the last time, but he was still there when I came home for Christmas. This Easter, I knew it really was the last time. I had time to prepare--I even had time to get my crying out, both when Doc was put down on Grey's Anatomy, and when Nikki and Jon had to put Griffin to sleep last week. But that didn't ease the flood of tears that came when I actually heard the news.
The vet made a special trip to Windy Hill, my dad's hunting cabin and Boone's favorite place (not that he had many places to choose from). He got to eat a piece of toast (Windy Hill was the only place where he was ever allowed to eat "people food"), and then they did it on the porch. My dad buried him in a spot where he always loved to play.
There will be more dogs that will come and go from my life, I know, but he was my first puppy love. I'll miss him.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
My new baby
Relax, I didn't give birth. I'm referring to Estelle, my new bike. See:
I bought her earlier this week from a girl I found through Craigslist. (Which begs the question: Now that I have a job, an apartment, and a bike, how am I going to feed my Craigslist addiction? Hmm. This could get ugly.) Anyway, she's a little old and rusty, and she's also pretty girly--white with pink and purple squiggles. And what better name to connote both oldness and girliness than Estelle?
After I purchased her on Tuesday evening, I rode her home, an experience that was far more enjoyable than my previous D.C. bike-riding excursion, due to the fact that it was a) cooler, b) flatter, and c) shorter. Even in such a short distance, though, Estelle did threaten to give my butt another good bruisin'. I'm thinking the old girl might be due for a makeover soon, in the form of a cushy gel seat.
Relax, I didn't give birth. I'm referring to Estelle, my new bike. See:
I bought her earlier this week from a girl I found through Craigslist. (Which begs the question: Now that I have a job, an apartment, and a bike, how am I going to feed my Craigslist addiction? Hmm. This could get ugly.) Anyway, she's a little old and rusty, and she's also pretty girly--white with pink and purple squiggles. And what better name to connote both oldness and girliness than Estelle?
After I purchased her on Tuesday evening, I rode her home, an experience that was far more enjoyable than my previous D.C. bike-riding excursion, due to the fact that it was a) cooler, b) flatter, and c) shorter. Even in such a short distance, though, Estelle did threaten to give my butt another good bruisin'. I'm thinking the old girl might be due for a makeover soon, in the form of a cushy gel seat.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
American Cereal!
Last week, I bid a tearful farewell to my one true love, my Publix Crispy Corn & Rice cereal. Ever wonderful to the end, it even left me a parting missive in the box that read, "Every end is a new beginning. Love, Your Cereal." (I suspect it may have had some help from a ghostwriter, but still. Does your cereal leave you love notes?)
In the spirit of new beginnings, then, I am now on a quest for a new cereal, not entirely different, except in substance, from the Tyrant's Great Deodorant Search of '06. If we have learned anything from the popularity of American Idol, it is that decisions about people's futures are best left to those who have no stake whatsoever in said futures. Therefore, I am leaving the fate of my breakfast in the hands of you, my capable readers, in a new feature I like to call American Cereal!
The format is similar to American Idol, only it is blessedly Seacrest-free. And instead of a redundant judge, a drunk judge, and an obnoxiously villainized judge weighing in with their opinions, you'll just have me discussing cereal, which I hope will be more interesting than it sounds, but I'm not making any promises. Oh, and instead of a bunch of cereals competing and then being eliminated one by one, we'll have a different cereal each week to vote on. All right, so other than the name, it's nothing like American Idol. But you get to vote, and that's the important thing.
As the sole judge, I will give each cereal a rating from 1 (low) to 5 (high), based on criteria such as taste, crunchiness, and whether the thought of it helps propel me out of bed in the morning. This is where you come in. If you see your favorite cereal make an appearance, vote for it by leaving a comment, which can say anything from, "I love this cereal!" to "Ryan Seacrest sucks!" Each comment will receive one point, and those points will be added to the score given by me (I'm the one who has to eat this stuff every day, after all) to determine the winner, which will be announced at some as-yet-undetermined date in the future. If you're just really passionate about a particular type of cereal, I guess you can flood my comments with votes, but be warned that doing so may cause me to not want to be your friend anymore.
All right. Let's get started with Round 1 of American Cereal!
Competitor #1: Kashi Organic Promise Autumn Wheat
Taste: 4. Not bad. It has that wholesome vibe I was looking for, although I find the purported "kiss of sweetness" to be more of a full-on make-out session, which is a little much for me first thing in the morning.
Crunchiness: 1. This is where this cereal really falls down. It's not super-crunchy to begin with, and the longer it sits in milk, the more it goes downhill.
Wake-upability: 2. I do think about this cereal when I get up in the morning, but it's mostly in the context of pining for the loss of my other cereal, so I'm not sure that counts.
Total score: 7. If I may paraphrase Gwen Stefani, I kinda always knew this would end up a transition cereal. For one thing, it's expensive. I only bought it partly because it happened to be on sale, and partly because my dear, organic-obsessed friend Chris buys it, and I used to eat it at his house when I would sleep over. I figured a cereal that at least reminded me of home might help me ease into a new breakfast regimen. But I think I'm ready to move on now.
Last week, I bid a tearful farewell to my one true love, my Publix Crispy Corn & Rice cereal. Ever wonderful to the end, it even left me a parting missive in the box that read, "Every end is a new beginning. Love, Your Cereal." (I suspect it may have had some help from a ghostwriter, but still. Does your cereal leave you love notes?)
In the spirit of new beginnings, then, I am now on a quest for a new cereal, not entirely different, except in substance, from the Tyrant's Great Deodorant Search of '06. If we have learned anything from the popularity of American Idol, it is that decisions about people's futures are best left to those who have no stake whatsoever in said futures. Therefore, I am leaving the fate of my breakfast in the hands of you, my capable readers, in a new feature I like to call American Cereal!
The format is similar to American Idol, only it is blessedly Seacrest-free. And instead of a redundant judge, a drunk judge, and an obnoxiously villainized judge weighing in with their opinions, you'll just have me discussing cereal, which I hope will be more interesting than it sounds, but I'm not making any promises. Oh, and instead of a bunch of cereals competing and then being eliminated one by one, we'll have a different cereal each week to vote on. All right, so other than the name, it's nothing like American Idol. But you get to vote, and that's the important thing.
As the sole judge, I will give each cereal a rating from 1 (low) to 5 (high), based on criteria such as taste, crunchiness, and whether the thought of it helps propel me out of bed in the morning. This is where you come in. If you see your favorite cereal make an appearance, vote for it by leaving a comment, which can say anything from, "I love this cereal!" to "Ryan Seacrest sucks!" Each comment will receive one point, and those points will be added to the score given by me (I'm the one who has to eat this stuff every day, after all) to determine the winner, which will be announced at some as-yet-undetermined date in the future. If you're just really passionate about a particular type of cereal, I guess you can flood my comments with votes, but be warned that doing so may cause me to not want to be your friend anymore.
All right. Let's get started with Round 1 of American Cereal!
Competitor #1: Kashi Organic Promise Autumn Wheat
Taste: 4. Not bad. It has that wholesome vibe I was looking for, although I find the purported "kiss of sweetness" to be more of a full-on make-out session, which is a little much for me first thing in the morning.
Crunchiness: 1. This is where this cereal really falls down. It's not super-crunchy to begin with, and the longer it sits in milk, the more it goes downhill.
Wake-upability: 2. I do think about this cereal when I get up in the morning, but it's mostly in the context of pining for the loss of my other cereal, so I'm not sure that counts.
Total score: 7. If I may paraphrase Gwen Stefani, I kinda always knew this would end up a transition cereal. For one thing, it's expensive. I only bought it partly because it happened to be on sale, and partly because my dear, organic-obsessed friend Chris buys it, and I used to eat it at his house when I would sleep over. I figured a cereal that at least reminded me of home might help me ease into a new breakfast regimen. But I think I'm ready to move on now.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Why is it that...
...When I've overslept and am already running 30 minutes late to work, traffic just happens to be at an apocalyptic, REM-video-esque standstill, making my drive take twice as long as it normally would? Come on, traffic! Would it kill you to be on my side just once?
And we won't even mention the goth hippie dude who decided last night that it would be a good idea to crowd the entire escalator in the Metro, thereby sidelining my desperate run for the train and making me 15 minutes late to dinner when I hit the platform just as it was pulling away. I'm still mad at him.
...When I've overslept and am already running 30 minutes late to work, traffic just happens to be at an apocalyptic, REM-video-esque standstill, making my drive take twice as long as it normally would? Come on, traffic! Would it kill you to be on my side just once?
And we won't even mention the goth hippie dude who decided last night that it would be a good idea to crowd the entire escalator in the Metro, thereby sidelining my desperate run for the train and making me 15 minutes late to dinner when I hit the platform just as it was pulling away. I'm still mad at him.
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