on the subject of michael jackson and cognitive dissonance

On the subject of the under reported, hardly talked about coverage of Michael Jackson's death, I will add one sentiment I haven't heard expressed: Relief.

Not for his children, of course. For them I am sad.

I'm sad that Michael Jackson named each of his three children Michael Jackson, including his daughter.

I'm sad that he dangled one of them, dubbed "Blanket," from a 4th story hotel balcony for the shock and pleasure of the paparazzi below.

I'm sad that his children will grow up never truly knowing their father, but rather trying to piece together and comprehend this supremely talented superstar turned bizarre victim of a fame obsessed culture.

No, the relief I feel relates to the laying to rest of the cognitive dissonance, the ambivalence that I, and millions of others, have felt over the years watching this premiere performer morph from a cute and irresistable little boy into a disaster of a middle-aged adult.

Cognitive dissonance because his singing was perfectly nuanced, his dancing was dazzling, and his looks (skin color, even) were ever changing but his psychosocial development was stunted.

Cognitive dissonance because his worldwide fame grew at the same rapid rate as his disturbing behavior.

Because the more mesmerized we were by his complex and stylized entertainment, the more embarrassed we were for him and his off camera persona.

Because we felt the sizzling allure of his onscreen sexuality while reading about his seemingly asexual lifestyle.

Because he told us in his child-like voice that it was perfectly innocent and reasonable for an unattached adult man to hold sleepovers for pre-pubescent boys. He couldn't have been that naive. Could he?

Because the more we admired him, the more we were repelled by him. And if you're like me, perplexed and maybe even disgusted by your own admiration given his potential danger to children. Maybe even his own.

Because you couldn't help love him and you couldn't help loathe him. And you simply had to watch him.

Who could turn the channel, afterall, when the news showed yet another clip of Michael doing his signature moon dance? Or the one where his fancy footwork mixed with fancy fingerwork aimed at keeping what remained of his surgically mutillated nose in place? (How do these surgeons keep their licenses?) How about Bubbles, his pet chimp? His secret marriage and divorce to Lisa Marie Presley? (He reportedly harbored an Elvis obsession). To his dermatologist's nurse? His court testimony? His hair on fire?

A fellow psychologist at Couch Trip (wish I had thought of that blog name) put his ambivalent feelings into words this way:

"I was fascinated....And there was also a sense that his troubles are over, which allows the genius and the music and the dancing to come to the surface again."

So yes, I'm relieved that as time goes by and as the media obsession dies down, so will the discomfort of our collective cognitive dissonance.

In it's place will be left the memories and music videos of a man who, though tragically flawed, was amazingly fun to watch.

We will no longer have to worry about his sex life, his substance abuse, his nose falling off his face.

We'll just be able to listen to his music, smile, and try to remember where we were when we first danced along to Billie Jean.

some like it hawt

We're getting zapped with unusually hot June temperatures. Yesterday, according to the metiorologist meterologist weatherman, the temps reached 108 in some not too distant corner of the Austin area. Now, I like it hot, but not this hot.

I don't like staying camped in the air conditioning, either. I'm grateful that I have AC, and will use it, but I really dislike retreating inside the house, sucking up what feels like stale air.

So I did what any reasonable Austinite would do for therrapy on an extremely hot June day:


Submerged myself in Barton Spring's year round 68 degree water, alternating with sunning on a raft. It could only have been more perfect if I was slurrping on a PPP margarita.


Now my husband, SAM, on the other hand? He chose a completely different path:

He prefers to sun himself from a rooftop, armed with a tool belt and nail gun. He's decking the roof of our neighbor's addition. Which he framed. In this heat. Now that is hawt. And I do likes me some of this kinda hawt.

You can't see me, but I'm down below, rendering myself a nuisance assistance with my camera and a first aid kit: fresh brewed iced tea and a tall stack of ice.

What about you, readers? How do you cope with the summer heat?

it's about that time again

The summer is off to a running start between a busier than usual work schedule and kids with busier than usual comings and goings. No time to catch my breath much less catch up on all of the blogs I've been sorely neglecting. I expect more downtime in July but I'm not making any promises.

So far we've had afternoons of swimming at West Enfield, Deep Eddy (below) and Barton Springs Pools. Swimming is not an option, but a necessity, in these June "we've already hit 100 degrees" temps.

The oldest pool in Texas, Deep Eddy Pool is located close to downtown. Like Barton Springs and Enfield Pools, Deep Eddy is spring fed, making for an ultra-refreshing dip. It's also a great place to people watch and catch the latest trends in men's fashionable summertime headwear:

This weekend? We're beating the heat with our annual girls-plus-kids weekend trip for the second best kind of poolside relaxing, here.

And this year I'll be packing the prickly. Normally reserved for martyr syndrome intervention, I'm feeling the need for a little self-administered liquid therrapy.

Find out how you, too, can beat the heat with a pink prickly pear margarita, here.

I will add a major, energy saving modification. The pears can be frozen in the freezer, taken out the morning of your therrapy appointment, placed in a plastic container and left to thaw in your fridge. Retrieve a few hours later to find the dark purple juice oozing from the pears, ready to be strained and poured into the drink of your desire. Much easier.

exercise in futility

Weight Loss Fact #1

During a routine workout on the eliptical machine I can burn 300 calories in 30 minutes. That's comes to about 10 calories burned per minute.

Weight Loss Fact #2

During a routine sitting in front of my laptop, I can eat four Ghirardelli Truffles in 30 seconds. That comes out to about 600 calories scarfed per minute.

Weight Loss Fact #3

If I want to lose any weight, I'd better stay on the elliptical machine, like, forever.

image source, here

hot tub etiquette at a large downtown gym

Old man with the rotund physique, I don't know where you came from or how you were raised, but proper jacuzzi etiquette does not include:

1. ignoring the stair step entrance;

2. lollying your full body onto the ledge, laying your head nearly directly behind mine so that you appear to intend to roll on top of me, swinging your legs down into the water, missing me only because I have lightning quick reflexes;

3. continuing to sit on the ledge about six inches from my spot, despite an otherwise empty jacuzzi, arms crossed and resting on your buddha belly, head tilted down, eyes closed, as if in deep slumber, remaining thusly situated for the next twenty minutes.

WTF, old man?!? I came here to relax too, ya know.

give a book, get a book

I joined PaperbackSwap a few months ago and it's great. It's an online book swap networking site. You list the books you are willing to swap. You mail it out to an interested reader. You get a point when your book is received. And then you can cash in that point to request a book from some other member. It costs about $2.30 to mail each book.

I'm at a point where I've accumulated several points and want to order some sure-bet summer reading. There are a LOT of books to choose from.

Which brings me to the reason for this post. I would love to hear your suggestions, some of your favorite novels read over the past few years. Books that stand out as having been "one of the best books I've read in a long time." Or "books that I couldn't put down." As I said in my previous post, I'm not into pain or violence or scary. So no murder mysteries or Stephen King, please.

Oh and I did see The Wrestler. As promised, I kept my laptop open through quite a few scenes, all of them, I think, took place inside the ring or in the locker room. I was glad I saw it. There were several emotionally wrenching themes presented in an intelligent, sensitive manner, having to do with substance abuse, parenting, and aging out of careers. It clearly was not about the wrestling so much as the man who is wrestling with his personal demons.

But back to the books. Here are a few of the books that fit this description for me. I prefer women authors but there is one favorite male author who has never disappointed.

For Love by Sue Miller. One of my favorite authors. The story of a woman whose mother enters a nursing home. She returns to help get the family home in sellable condition. She explores her long crumbling relationship with her mother and brother. She evaluates her teetering marriage. She revisits a key childhood friendship. I felt like I was listening to a client or a friend try to reconcile her past with her present. Oh, and if you don't know what a porte cochere is, like I didn't, you can see one here.

Fall on Your Knees by Anne-Marie MacDonald. I read this one years ago. I love novels that delve into childhood associations of Catholic teachings and how they interplay with other religions. I don't wonder why. I grew up a Catholic school girl whose next door neighbors were holy roller Presbyterian on the one side (we choreographed dances to gospel quartet music - her father played stand up bass) , and a liberal, somewhat eccentric (compared to my family's conservative conventions) Jewish family on the other. This novel is set in Nova Scotia. It spans the early 20th century and beyond WWI.

Three Junes by Julia Glass. This one I consider a found treasure. You know how you're walking along and out of the corner of your eye you see something that sparkles? You pick it up thinking it will be an old bottle cap but instead it turns out to be a gemstone? Three Junes was like that. The title caught my eye on the library shelf. I hadn't heard a thing about it. I brought it home to give it a try and I loved it. It's a story of a Scottish family with a matriarch who breeds dogs, her husband, their son who is gay, the family's struggle with acceptance, and the son's life in NYC.

Atonement by Ian McKewan. Although Amsterdam was the McKewan novel that drew me in first and probably is still my favorite. The movie, Atonement, was very well done. The mystery of the logistics of the library sex scene was answered, thanks to the visual aid that is film.

A Round Heeled Woman by Jane Juska. One of the bravest contemporary memoirs I have ever read. Real life "edge of your seat," interpersonal and emotionally moving tale of a woman, late in life, looking for love and connection.

The Weight of Water by Anita Shreve. Another of my favorite writers. This book of hers is my most loved. And I still have not seen the screen adaptation, starring Sean Penn. What is my problem? Adding to my "movies-to-rent" list now.

So how about it, reader? Have any suggestions for me?

wrestling with the wrestler

Because I am such a generous and thoughtful spouse, I rented "The Wrestler" about an hour ago. SAM wants to see it. Me? Not so much. Not after hearing Fresh Air's Terry Gross interview director Darren Aronofsky. Several times she tried to pin him down on the issue of his seeming obsession with "pain." So right now SAM is sawing logs on the sofa and I am thinking I might not wake him up.

Because me? I am definately not into pain.

A love story between an aging wrestler and an aging stripper? Oh my, yes.

But I do not want to see men throwing themselves at each other in a ring, inflicting all kinds of unnecessary pain. I don't like seeing wrestling period, if you want to know the truth. Or boxing. Or fight clubs. No thanks.

So maybe I'll just keep my blog screen open and hit a few links whenever the pain begins.

waking up from bad dream, mad at partner

Those of you who got to this post first and saw nothing but a title probably thought I was posting a reminder note to myself to write about this topic and then hit the publish button by mistake. Well, you would be right wrong. This empty blog post was intended as a little known psychological method referred to as a projective sentence completion device. Or, in this case, "projective title provided, reader supplies blog post." Psychologists are the only specialists who can use projective testing methods, doncha know. I have to keep my skills sharp.

But I was glad to see that virtually everyone who commented indicated I am not alone in this. Well, that's not accurate. I actually know I'm not alone because I hear it from my female friends and female clients. I have not heard of this phenomenon among any many men, unless it is to complain that the woman in his life blamed him for cheating in her dream. He usually is shrugging his shoulders in helpless exasperation, "How can I be responsible for something I didn't do?"

To which I always reply, "You must have done something. Now fess up."

I mean it isn't called women's intuition for nothing, right?

It doesn't earn me many brownie points as a friend or many return visits to my office. But I am just justifying my own f*cked up behavior keeping it real.

I am certain there is some scientific data somewhere to help explain this embarrassing fascinating curiosity of the female psyche but I have not personally read any. Maybe it's part of the emotional wave that Mars Venus author John Grey, PhD writes about. The dream brings on the tsunami. The poor guy doesn't see it coming. He doesn't get out of the way. Cold, harsh anger crashes all over him. He flounders.

The solution? Well, let's see. What does a partner do in real life when he actually has done something wrong? He apologizes. He grovels. He does an extra share of household chores. Or hundred. He promises to take the kids for the day while she gets an all day spa treatment. And then when all of that hasn't worked? He buys her flowers. Preferably roses. Red roses that signify passionate love. Because really? That's all she needs. Reassurance. Reassurance that he still loves her even when she wakes up with the emotional equivalent of an ice pick in her hand.

Is that so much to ask?

the mind's playground

I woke one morning recently in the middle of a horrible dream. It was the mother f*cker of bad dreams. It hung over me the rest of the day even though I realized I was the lucky mom who got to wake up and say, "oh thank god, it was only a dream."

After waking, I pushed back the tears, calmed my wildly beating heart, and waved my kids off to school after hugging them extra close and extra long (hoping they wouldn't notice). I crawled back in bed. I couldn't move, or think, or function.

It was the kind of dream that I will not be talking about. It's the kind of dream I would not want to walk into just any shrink office and share, waiting for understanding or absolution. No way. Not with the kind of dream analysis I've heard, was trained in, rejected years ago as wasteful, misleading, sometimes harmful, often a form of the therapist's projection rather than meaningful to the owner of the dream.

I was not responsible for the dream, even though in the dream I was responsible for the terrifying elements.

My husband came home to find me nearly catatonic, mentally at least. I tried to tell him about the dream, feeling silly to have been found so affected by "just a dream." The attempt at retelling unleashed a well of tears so deep that I couldn't finish. No, I told him, in whom I confide just about everything. I couldn't even tell him.

But the part I did manage to get out, in the retelling, put me right back into the terrifying feelings of the dream, felt again, and sent me into another crying jag.

But sh*t. I had to shower. I had work to do, clients to meet. The shower, I hoped, would clear my head and let me get past the tears. But no, more tears during and after the shower. My towel dried more tears than bathwater.

The drive into the office did help, finally. And focusing on other people's real life problems helped too.

In the evening my husband and I took a walk. He asked about the dream. I was able to tell it all. And then I felt relief. Someone else knows the script that ran undirected through my head.
"Oh god!" He said. Yeah. It was like that.

I met with friends later but couldn't tell them about the dream. Wouldn't. I don't want to be judged, or figured out, or any other dimestore interpretation thrown my way. I don't want my terrifying, imagined ordeal to be retold.

Dreams do not represent us. They do not tell a story of what we want most deeply but cannot admit. Or not always. Sometimes they tell a story of what we most deeply fear, what we worry about for ourselves and our loved ones. And as any mother knows, we worry a lot.

And I have been worried much, lately. Life has thrown a curve ball that millions before us have faced, many have triumphed brilliantly, but too many have fallen under the staggering burden.

And while this dream only touched briefly and indirectly on the actual theme of my worry, the finality represented the loss that I fear.

Dreams, I believe, are the playground of the mind. The cat is away so the mice can play. The CEO is sleeping so the mind can take it's memories, experiences, and feelings and turn them into a story of it's own creation. Make crazy stories. Scary stories. Fretful stories. Hopeful stories. Sometimes the story holds value and meaning. Sometimes it's just a kalaidoscope of randomness.

Some dreams motivate us to take action. This one did. First I looked at the most dominant feelings in my dream: Uncertainty, fear, resignation, regret, grief. I looked hard at the uncertainty. How do I face this particular problem? What can I do? I decided I need to do something, to take action. To move past the passivity and into proactivity.

I reached out farther than I have in the past and have taken steps in a direction contemplated for some time.

Those steps? So far so good. My fears have settled down. Hope has taken up a larger space. Maybe some future dream will guide me toward the next step.

How about you, reader? Have you had a dream that motivated you into action?

Image, The Sleeping Gypsy by Henri Rousseau, found here

poodie baby

Here's another post about a dive-bar-in-Austin. With a "most beautiful baby" twist.

Poodie's Hilltop Bar & Grill is located about 20 miles west of Austin, in a little fork-in-the-road town called Spicewood.

The owner and namesake, Randall "Poodie" Locke, was Willie Nelson's longtime best friend and head roadie. AKA, the man-who-makes-it-all-happen for Willie's shows.

I went to Poodie's once, I think, with my best friend to see her drummer boyfriend's band performing. On this night, Willie's son, Lucas, was behind the bar. It looked like he was the bar back, fetching beer, as needed, to put in the coolers. Nothing fancy about the place. Just a down home, friendly atmosphere with a cold beer at the ready.

I always wondered where Poodie got the nick name and why it stuck. This morning, two local radio jocks (KVET) answered my question.

The story goes that when Poodie was a baby, he won "Most Beautiful Baby" contest in Waco, Texas. His big sister, then two years old, was apparently trying to tell others how "purty" her baby brother was. "Poodie baby." Aww. That brings a tear to my eye.

Poodie died last night. He was 56 years young. He had a long braid down his back, loved to play golf, and had "had a hug for everyone."

Poodie put a sign across the front of his Roadhouse, "There are no bad days."

I bet Willie would disagree today.

Willie was out in San Diego to accept some award when he heard the news. He's flying back to attend his best friend's funeral. That brings a tear to my eye, too.

Rest in peace, Poodie.

one part religion, one part evolution

I want this candle:









And I want this made into a t-shirt:

update from the cold country

Displaced Yankee that I am, I don't get to say "from the cold country" anymore and I sometimes miss it. So I should be thankful for this swine flu mexican flu H1N1 Influenza A virus subtype H1N1 simple cold I have had the bad luck to come down with during a pandemic uproar.

But I'm not. I'm mostly semi-miserable in my non-H1N1 status.

I am posting from the same couch I always post from my sick bed to update readers and say thank you, bloggy friends, for your comments and emails asking after my health. I'm sputtering along. No flu diagnosis. I have stuck to my "just say no" to doctor visits promise. Our newspaper warned, afterall, that people showing any of these symptoms:

fever

cough

sore throat

body aches

headache

chills

fatigue

should call their doctor but to not simply show up without an appointment. WTF?! The article says doctors may not want flu sufferers sitting in their waiting rooms breathing on the other patients. And since I don't know how to not breathe, I decided it was wisest to just stay home where I can, you know, continue to breathe without contaminating anyone.

Meanwhile, I vascillate between feeling incredibly irresponsible and incredibly superior to those numbskulls who would follow the advice of the CDC and visit their doctor, get tested, wait three days for confirmation and in the meantime be instructed to do exactly what I am doing already.

So my update is as follows: I'm alive and breathing. I am also coughing, sniffling, clearing my throat of ever thickening phlegm because I've never learned how to efficiently hock a loogie (I am not alone, I see). I am blowing my nose into Puffs with Lotion (a luxury: I normally buy the cheapo brand) and generally lazing around while taking advantage of appreciating my husband's efforts to appease the Queen of All Ills. This includes but is not limited to ordering in pizza and serving me Weight Watchers GIANT Cookies & Cream Ice Cream Bars at my whim.

It's a swine's dog's life but I'm suffering through it.

I am also drinking a LOT of water, as advised, about 16 ounces everytime I pass by the kitchen sink. Which means, when I am not drinking the water, I am sitting in the john powder room necessarium, catching up on my Newsweek subscription.
Which isn't such a bad thing. Just an annoying thing.

All this to say, I think I'll live. And thanks for asking.

H1N1, Anyone?

Sunday night. Started feeling bad, like a fever was coming on. Took my temperature. Not because I thought I had Swine Flu Mexican Flu H1N1, but because I had a tennis match in the morning and wanted to call my teammates, if need be, and find a sub. But no temperature.

Monday morning. Wake with a sore throat. Lymph nodes feel swollen. Still no fever. Play tennis, only to get rained out, silently cursing the powers that be who ignored the meteriorologist's 60% chance of thunderstorm and tornado warnings.

On the way home, get the heroic idea of stopping by the grocery. Full throttle rain now. Get nearly soaked as I make my way across the giant parking lot. In my tennis skirt I shop, crocs and soggy socks, wet head, chilled by the air conditioning. (In cenral Texas, no matter what the weather, the air conditioning is on to near freezing. It was no different on this rainy Monday.) Load my rain soaked groceries into trunk. Proceed home to feel still worse. Take an allergy pill.

Tuesday morning. Still feeling bad. Take temperature again.

Brief aside: Getting ones hands on a thermometer, in my house, is no small feat. Not unlike wrestling The Ring from the hands of Gollum. My husband being Gollum, tired of tracking down the thermometer because "Nobody puts it back where it belongs!" "Nobody" meaning me. Gollum keeps it hidden in the high cliffs of his cave-closet. Each time I must climb those cliffs and snatch Gollum's preciousssssss.

But again, no temperature. Now assume a sinus infection is brewing and am not contagious. Fortunately, and uncharacteristically, a light day is scheduled at the office.

Wednesday morning. Still feeling bad. Full day scheduled, including evening appointments. Take a decongestant, an ibuprofen, and an allergy pill. By the time my 3rd-from-last client arrives, full symptom onset: head hurts, stuffy nose, watery eyes, coughing, and sucking down one throat lozenge after another.

Call to husband Gollum. Tells me the local news said mold spores are super high. Am allergic to mold spores. So here is my answer.

Wednesday night. Make mistake of opening email written by a Texas physician, forwarded to me by a friend who is a school administrator. The M.D. warns that he is hearing "privately" from the "CDC" and "Health Department" that this strain of flu is worse than "the media" is letting on. I won't go into the email's dire details, of which Gollum is ultra-cynical because of the homeopathic remedies suggested at the end of the email.

My eyes lock on the line which says this flu produces "a distinctive 'hoarseness'" in its "victims."

Attempt to clear throat and speak. Believe my voice has gotten distinctively "hoarse."

Mind races. Think back on relatively quiet weekend. Was I exposed to anyone who might have been carrying the flu?

Remember that Gollum and I went to a small Mexican restaurant for dinner on Saturday night. The wait staff were speaking Spanish.

Gollum now insists they were "Mexican Nationals" because of the familliar way they "pull their hair back in a tight pony tail" and "wear their shirts really, really tight across their stomaches." (WTF? Where does he get this?) I argue that they looked quite Americanized to me.

Uncertainty festering, I head to bed. Take an allergy pill, an ibuprofen, a decongestant, and two benadryls (to combat the decongestant's incomnia side effects).

Thursday morning. Wake from long night of stuffy nose, scratchy throat. Had strange and frustrating dreams that involved deciphering between deviated septums and non-deviated septums (I am confused, too. This is all I remember.) Get up and decide to cancel appointments for the day. The "hoarseness" in my voice is obvious to my clients. Am grateful for this validation of my need for a sick day.

Thursday afternoon. Here I lie on my sick-sofa, as our country waits on the verge of a flu-pandemic, wondering if I am the first and unknown case of an Anglo-American woman with H1N1 Influenza.

The link provided on the CDC website "Is it a Cold of the Flu" is not working (argh!) so no help there. I won't go to the doctor. I refuse to subject myself to "the look" from the receptionist and "the nod" between LPN and nurse practitioner which says, "another paranoid fool with too much time on her hands who thinks she has the swine flu."

So for now, cool heads will prevail. I am convinced, despite my hoarseness, and every flu symptom listed by the CDC except a fever, that I have a monster sized simple cold.

I will not send Gollum to the drugstore to buy a stash of face masks as recommended by the CDC. I did send him for Ricola throat lozenges, however, hoping he would remember that I like cherry flavor. But no, he brings lemon. I open one and feel as though I am sucking on lemon flavored amonia tablet. I will, however, wash my hands frequently, throw away my used tissues, drink a lot of water, and follow common sense guidelines.

And I will enjoy an unexpected afternoon of blogging.

UPDATE: If anyone wants to check the number of H1N1 flu cases verified by state, check at the CDC website, here.

Bikini Pig Tissue Box can be found, here.

formerly despised, a modern trend wins over, if only for one night

One weekend recently, on impulse, SAM and I stopped at a low rent dive bar. Not to be confused with our favoritest-ever dive, The Horseshoe Lounge, located just south of downtown. Yes, the one that inspired Austin songwriter, Slaid Cleves, to write this song.

On this particular night, it was the first evening since giving birth in a very long time where all three kids were out for the night. Ahh.

The seriously cheesy dive we visited shall remain unnamed. It's former name, I learned, was "The Stumble In" but let's call it Bubba's, because that's closer to it's actual name. Bubba's is a slight downgrade from Giddy Ups, in case you ever have the pleasure of visiting deep south Austin.

We've lived in our house for almost ten years. Though Bubba's is within walking distance, we have only visited a couple of times. Stayed for one round each, as I recall. Largely due to sour smell eminating from run down industrial grade carpeting. That cheesy.

So on this night, as soon as we walked in, I remembered exactly why this has been a one-beer stop. Giant screen TV's. Loud 70's heavy metal rock screaming playing in the background. Ozzy Osborne, no less. The music? Forgiveable. It is a bar. The seven giant screen TV's? Not so much.

Bubba's is merely one in a string of establishments we've patronized lately that features TV everywhere you look. The electronic equivalent of torture waterboarding. For instance, a year ago we tried out a new wing bar. I lubs me some hot Buffalo wings if they're done just right. The wings? Edible. Barely. The twenty five plasma TVs thundering down from every direction? Obnoxious.

Last summer? Similar tale. Family trip to Washington, DC. Time to kill before flight out of National. Find a large Irish themed eatery in a cheery neighborhood. Hostess leads us upstairs. Immediately we are assaulted by no less than 50 flat screens showing sporting events from every corner of the globe. Only now do I see the posted signs bragging their record number of flat screens. Time is critical. We take our seats. Thankfully the monitors are silent. Still, my family doesn't converse so much as recoil from furtive glances at each other's exposed nostrils.

Has it come to this? Can we not eat a meal or drink a beer without a television lunging down at us from their high perch like vultures awaiting road kill?

Back at Bubba's, we stay for another round because a band comes onstage that is surprisingly good. Southern rock with the right dose of slide guitar.

During the band's intermission, we turn and see that the giant screens start playing a round of trivia. The game where participants pay for the little blue consoles and vie for the highest score.

Every now and again I get a pleasant whiff of something. Is there an air freshner squirting up above? Cover for sour carpet smell? A quiet guy in a blue collar work shirt sits next to me, alone. A blue console sits before him. I start a conversation and lean in. Nope, not air freshner. It was his deoderant I was smelling. I wonder if he would be offended or flattered if I asked what brand because I liked the powdery scent. Instead I ask him about bar stool trivia protocol. Can non-paying neighbors participate or should tightwads keep our mouths shut? He says he welcomes any help he can get.

The game begins.

Country originally founded by prisoners?

D. Australia!

Author of "The Warden?"

C. Anthony Trollope!

Istanbul was originally known as?

B. Constantinople!

Which city is located below the equator?

A. Sydney!

Our newfound gaming partner is thrilled and blown away. He had never heard of Trollope. (I had recently started my first ever Trollope novel). Or Constantinople (asks us how it's pronounced). His score skyrockets to the top. Wins the round. Now I know how Jamal felt in Slumdog Millionaire. We high five and decide we are best buds for life.

But, sadly, it was all downhill from there. Our moment of glory was over. We're of little help in the next round. It's time to cut out. We say our goodbyes. He thanks us, and then yells, "Hey! Give me your phone number? Next time I play, can I call you?"

Ok, so jumbo screens have their place. But only on trivia night.

never forget a face?

Maybe you are a "super recognizer."

Dave Munger of Cognitive Daily asks if you recognize these four faces? They belong to "extremely famous individuals." If you can recognize all four, he says, "you just might be a super recognizer."

Munger writes, "a team of researchers led by Richard Russell" believe they have found a select group of people who have "an amazing ability to recognize faces." Might you belong to this group?

I happen to think I might be one. Not the least because, while watching rented movies at home, I'm the annoying viewer who must ruin everyone's good time find the controls, stop and rewind, while asking, "Who IS that woman? I know that face! What have I seen her in before?" I usually guess by the end of the film and I'm usually always right.

Write your answers on a piece of paper, then post in my comment section. Or you can post your comment on Munger's site, here. Compare your answers to the correct ones, promised to be posted later this evening at Cognitive Daily.

I will update this blog when the correct answers are posted. So check back to see if we're right.

edward, take off your clothes

Not long ago I gave my daughters the Twilight movie for their birthday.

Moms frequently complain about the inconvenience of raising kids? Well, purchasing a Twilight DVD is one of those times when the sleepless nights pay off.

The girls loved the movie. I was pleasantly surprised at how much I liked director Catherine Hardwicke's adaptation. With a small budget and virtually all unknown actors, she pulled it off. I thought she captured some of the steaminess that is Edward's allure. Added bonus: the director, screenplay writer and book author are all women. Twilight has made box office history.

In a previous post I complained that Bella's character was, well, pathetic. I'm happy to report, however, she improved on the screen. Gone was the perpetual whine about how beautiful and perfect Edward was, the stumbling and clutziness, the passive female deferring to the strong, mysterious male, the girl so willing to take care of her dad.

Hardwicke stayed close to many other details in the book, though. I love the way she portrayed Victoria, James and Laurent. Although I was disappointed in Victoria's strawberry blonde hair. What happened to the "fiery red" described countless times by Meyers?

My main complaint is that Edward needed more of a vampirish wardrobe. Here are a few vampy suggestions to the wardrobe department for the sequels:

1. Nothing too Bella Lugosi-esque. Just something besides that tired wrinkled blue shirt and drab ill-fitting gray coat. I mean, what was that about?

2. Nixay this Members Only throwback:

Please. This would do nothing to tempt me to stick my neck out, even if immortality and all-night-sex comes with the package.

3. More black.

4. More upturned collar.

Yeah, like that.

5. Low slung jeans. Not this:

But this:

With the black belt and boots. A little black goes a long way in vampire fantasy.

As for Bella? Keep her as is. Earthy. Natural. Comfortable in cotton and denim. You know, the real woman look.

Was it just me? Or did Edward's wardrobe seriously interfere with anyone else's vision of hawtness?

For a more indepth review, check out what Roger Ebert has to say, here. I also found a hilarious "rejected screenplay" that hits the nail on the head, here.

when sex goes national

What?

"A million liberals reaching simultaneous orgasm?" Did he say?

Want to join in?

Leonard Pitts, Jr. will tell you, here, because he tells it so well.

image source, here

oh for peeps sake

I almost forgot ... the Washington Post annual Peep Show.

My top three:

#9 - R.e.s.p.e.e.p. my hat

#25 - Peeps on the run

#34 - Purple tunnel of peeps

The Post picked this winner. How about you, reader? Which diorama is your favorite?

image source

true confessions in parenting

BERNTHIS recently listed her top ten winners of the best "how I traumatized my kid" stories. Naturally when I read her original post requesting submissions, I couldn't even remember if I had any kids, let alone harrowing stories about my parenting.

But today, for some reason, a memory came tumbling back. Must have been our weekend trip to Grandma's that did it, with the twins' loud bickering in the back seat and me adding to the cacaphony by twisting in my seat, yelling as loud as I could, "Shut the fuck up!" "Stop all the yelling!" This was over who belonged to a perfectly white, unused tissue laying between them. A single unfolded tissue takes up a lot of room, you know.

So back to my story of how I traumatized my child. This was an earlier trip to the other Grandma, when the twins were too young to bicker but old enough to whine. My husband and I were traveling on a cross country flight with our three kids: our son who had just turned four and our twin daughters, 9 months old, on our laps. Yah. Good times.

You're probably picturing a three-seat-across airplane row: Mom and Dad each holding a baby in their lap, and their smiling son sitting between.

Yeah, so was I. But it was not to be. Airlines had (still have?) some obscure rule that didn't allow five occupants in a three seater row. Whatever. So instead, we had to draw straws for which (lucky) parent got to sit with only one baby and which (very unlucky) parent got to sit, several rows away, with one baby in lap and a squirmy four year old in the seat next to her.

Short straw would be mine.

It was in the midst of the three hour flight. Having already OD'd on the treats we packed for the ride, my son became extremely antsy. I had become extremely tired and impatient. Climbing up onto his window seat, he was flinging himself into the headrest of the seat in front of him. My scoldings and pleadings and bribes were not helping. I wracked my fbrain. I used to run therapy groups for abusive and neglectful parents, for gawdssake. Surely I could come up with something.

That's when my ingenius ploy began.

I told my son, "If you don't sit quietly in your seat, I will push that orange button."

"Then what happens?" He asked.

"The lady will come and yell at you."

His eyes got wide. "Oh." He sat back down in his chair. I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and allowed myself a small smile of victory.

A few minutes later he was back at it. This time the inhabitant of the seat in front of him, an older lady with the teased frosted hair and a strong frown line, turned. In that exasperated way, she first looked at him, then at me, as if to say, "Control your little brat!"

So this time I whispered to him, "If you don't sit quietly in your seat, I will push that orange button and the lady will come and take you to the little room at the back of the plane."

He scrambled across my lap and leaned his head into the aisle.

"Where?"

I pointed to the (imaginary) door at the back of the plane."

"Oh." Eyes wider. A few moments of quiet. I could only wonder what was going through his little head.

There followed, of course, more squirming. More flinging. More irritated sighs and neck shirks from the disgruntled frost head.

I continued in my desperation. "And the room is completely dark. Pitch black."

But two minutes later he was undeterred.

"And she'll leave you there all by yourself," I warned.

One minute later.

"And there are lots of spiders in the dark room," I hissed.

The spiders did it. He sat quietly for the remainder of the flight (taxiing to the terminal by this point).

Years later, at a neighborhood barbeque, the host, a fellow mom, educator, and friend, pulled up a lawn chair next to me and said, "So tell me about the room in the back of airplanes. You know, the one with all the spiders?"

Busted.

how will you take your adam?

I haven't posted about American Idol in awhile, I guess because who gives a flip what I think I wasn't all that excited about the offerings the last season or two.

But the current season? I'm excited. (I know, get a life, right?)

American Idol is packed with talent. Originally I was pulling for Megan (not to be confused with calling in and voting) because I liked her unique, jazzy, riffy style. (In the picture? That's a tatoo arm, not a sleeve).

But she pretty much dropped the ball, again and again, especially her last number. I love Bob Marley but she picked one of his least known songs, "Turn Your Lights Down Low."

Let's put it this way: Her performance didn't generate any new fans for the Marley family.

I was hoping she'd pick Maria Muldaur's, Midnight at the Oasis, or something by Phoebe Snow. But oh well. Too late now.

So at this point for me? It's all about Adam. He's got the whole package: amazing voice range (is that alto?) and a look that says sexy rock star.

I just can't decide which Adam I like fueling my fantasy looking at best:

Picture 1: Emo

Picture 2: Elvis

Picture 3: Soul Patch

How about you, reader? Which Adam revs your engine? Take the poll: