My wife just walked into the room as I was sitting at the computer, and I smiled.
It took me a second to realize I was smiling. Then it took me another second to realize why I was smiling.
And that made me smile even more.
I am blessed beyond measure in my life. I have an incredibly long list of things for which to be thankful.
Right near the top is that I have someone who makes me smile just by the mere fact that she's there in the same room.
Apart from virtually anything to do with my kids, the only other time I smile spontaneously out of simple joy is with giddy anticipation in the seconds before the opening faceoff of a hockey game. I realize this says more about me than I would care for you to know, but there you go.
Regardless, here's what I hope you'll do:
If you have someone in your life whose mere presence is enough to make you happy, be actively thankful for that person.
If you don't have someone who fits that description right now, understand they're on their way into your life. I believe that wholeheartedly. It may take them awhile to get there, but they're coming. And they'll be just as glad to see you as you'll be to see them.
I'm smiling as I type this.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
One way to save your children from having YOU as a parent
I don't have many theories about raising children, mostly because I'm pretty much winging it as I go. I've been winging it for close to 19 years. And so far none of my kids have:
(a) committed a felony (or at least there have been no convictions)
(b) lost their lives while under my care
(c) been abducted by a man in a windowless white van
These are my criteria for parenting success. I'm not sure I'm capable of much more.
Which is why, as I often say, Terry cannot die. Well, eventually she CAN die. I have no say over that. But it absolutely must not happen in the next 15 years, because she's the one who instills actual values into our children and teaches them practical stuff.
My role, other than to eventually get another job and resume my duties as Chief Provider, is to teach them things like:
- Why hockey was meant to be played 4 on 4
- Why the 3,000-mile oil change is a scam
- Why 1983 was the greatest year in the history of music
- Why you need to pour milk into a cereal bowl in a certain way such that every single piece of cereal gets milk on it BEFORE you start eating. This is vitally important.
- Why you should never put your hand on the table.
Regarding that last point, I'm thinking it has been covered before in this blog, hasn't it? Hold on a second while I go and check...
Ah, yes, this tradition of mine was described in a post last April (see point #8). In case you have no desire to click on that link (and honestly, I wouldn't be that motivated if I were you), I've been doing this thing with the kids since they were little in which I try to get them to put their hands flat on the kitchen table. When they do, I pound their hand − hard − and say, "NEVER put your hand on the table!"
Why, you wonder? And I ask, "why not?" It's to the point that I have to trick them into actually putting their hands on the table, and I'm lucky if I can get even one of them to do it in the space of a year. They're clearly on to me.
But every once in awhile I'll put on a stern face when one of our offspring is sitting at the table and say, "Did you spill milk here? I can't believe you spilled your milk." And the kid will indignantly say, "I didn't spill my milk! What are you talking about?" And I'll rub the table and say, "Well, then, why is it so sticky here?"
And then, if the stars align just right and the child forgets who they're talking to, they'll get an annoyed look on their face and rub the spot I show them. And in the space of 8 milliseconds, my fist will come crashing down onto their hand and I will triumphantly remind them NEVER TO PUT THEIR HAND ON THE TABLE.
This is the greatest feeling in the world, and it actually teaches them a valuable lesson: Namely, that you can't trust ANYONE in the world, not even your crazy father. Maybe especially your crazy father.
The point is, I clearly won't be writing a parenting book any time soon. And if I do, it will be called "Never Put Your Hand on the Table: And Other Things I've Tried to Teach My Poor Children." It won't sell well, but I'll be a hero to dads across the world who make it their mission in life to show kids the value of pain.
Still, I will say this: If I have learned anything from nearly two decades of dad-dom, it is the value of confidence in a child. You cannot, in my view, overestimate the value of a child's self-worth.
Now, before you conservative types get your panties in a bunch, please understand that I'm not talking about the cheap, feel-good brand of self-esteem our society so often tries to pump into kids these days. I'm not for everyone getting a trophy, no score being kept (in most circumstances), etc. etc. etc.
I'm talking about the very real benefits of simply helping a kid believe they're worth something. And that they can do whatever (realistic) task set before them.
I think there's value in doing this for every kid, but especially girls. I coach a lot of girls sports, and I've found this unfortunate fragility that creeps into the psyche of female athletes starting at about the age of 10 and often lasting well into their teenage years (and beyond).
You have to be very careful how you deal with them. Criticism absolutely needs to be offered in a positive, constructive way. This is not to say they're not tough. They absolutely are (and vicious, too...I'm telling you, girls soccer games are as rough as any football game in which I ever played).
But Lord knows these girls are bombarded daily with the not-so-subtle message that they're not good enough. They're not skinny enough, they're not pretty enough, they're not smart enough, and on and on and on. They don't need to be beaten down on the athletic field, too. They should feel empowered by sports.
That doesn't mean I won't be tough on them. I will. I'll let you know if you're not playing to your potential. You can't help lack of natural ability, but you most certainly can help lack of effort.
Ultimately, though, these girls need to hear five positive things for every one negative. And the "negative" shouldn't even be negative as much as a guideline for improvement. Yes, one day they'll need to be ready to deal with a tough boss, and yes, we need to prepare them for the roller coaster ride of life.
But to my way of thinking, the way we do that in these adolescent years is to build a base of self-confidence that will naturally breed toughness, strength of character, and all of that other Girl Scout stuff that actually means something in life.
So I take every opportunity I can to praise my daughters. I do it with my sons, too, but I don't think they're fighting the same battles as my girls.
And besides, my boys instinctively KNOW a 2005 Honda Accord can go 5,000 miles before it's time to change the oil...
(a) committed a felony (or at least there have been no convictions)
(b) lost their lives while under my care
(c) been abducted by a man in a windowless white van
These are my criteria for parenting success. I'm not sure I'm capable of much more.
Which is why, as I often say, Terry cannot die. Well, eventually she CAN die. I have no say over that. But it absolutely must not happen in the next 15 years, because she's the one who instills actual values into our children and teaches them practical stuff.
My role, other than to eventually get another job and resume my duties as Chief Provider, is to teach them things like:
- Why hockey was meant to be played 4 on 4
- Why the 3,000-mile oil change is a scam
- Why 1983 was the greatest year in the history of music
- Why you need to pour milk into a cereal bowl in a certain way such that every single piece of cereal gets milk on it BEFORE you start eating. This is vitally important.
- Why you should never put your hand on the table.
Regarding that last point, I'm thinking it has been covered before in this blog, hasn't it? Hold on a second while I go and check...
Ah, yes, this tradition of mine was described in a post last April (see point #8). In case you have no desire to click on that link (and honestly, I wouldn't be that motivated if I were you), I've been doing this thing with the kids since they were little in which I try to get them to put their hands flat on the kitchen table. When they do, I pound their hand − hard − and say, "NEVER put your hand on the table!"
Why, you wonder? And I ask, "why not?" It's to the point that I have to trick them into actually putting their hands on the table, and I'm lucky if I can get even one of them to do it in the space of a year. They're clearly on to me.
But every once in awhile I'll put on a stern face when one of our offspring is sitting at the table and say, "Did you spill milk here? I can't believe you spilled your milk." And the kid will indignantly say, "I didn't spill my milk! What are you talking about?" And I'll rub the table and say, "Well, then, why is it so sticky here?"
And then, if the stars align just right and the child forgets who they're talking to, they'll get an annoyed look on their face and rub the spot I show them. And in the space of 8 milliseconds, my fist will come crashing down onto their hand and I will triumphantly remind them NEVER TO PUT THEIR HAND ON THE TABLE.
This is the greatest feeling in the world, and it actually teaches them a valuable lesson: Namely, that you can't trust ANYONE in the world, not even your crazy father. Maybe especially your crazy father.
The point is, I clearly won't be writing a parenting book any time soon. And if I do, it will be called "Never Put Your Hand on the Table: And Other Things I've Tried to Teach My Poor Children." It won't sell well, but I'll be a hero to dads across the world who make it their mission in life to show kids the value of pain.
Still, I will say this: If I have learned anything from nearly two decades of dad-dom, it is the value of confidence in a child. You cannot, in my view, overestimate the value of a child's self-worth.
Now, before you conservative types get your panties in a bunch, please understand that I'm not talking about the cheap, feel-good brand of self-esteem our society so often tries to pump into kids these days. I'm not for everyone getting a trophy, no score being kept (in most circumstances), etc. etc. etc.
I'm talking about the very real benefits of simply helping a kid believe they're worth something. And that they can do whatever (realistic) task set before them.
I think there's value in doing this for every kid, but especially girls. I coach a lot of girls sports, and I've found this unfortunate fragility that creeps into the psyche of female athletes starting at about the age of 10 and often lasting well into their teenage years (and beyond).
You have to be very careful how you deal with them. Criticism absolutely needs to be offered in a positive, constructive way. This is not to say they're not tough. They absolutely are (and vicious, too...I'm telling you, girls soccer games are as rough as any football game in which I ever played).
But Lord knows these girls are bombarded daily with the not-so-subtle message that they're not good enough. They're not skinny enough, they're not pretty enough, they're not smart enough, and on and on and on. They don't need to be beaten down on the athletic field, too. They should feel empowered by sports.
That doesn't mean I won't be tough on them. I will. I'll let you know if you're not playing to your potential. You can't help lack of natural ability, but you most certainly can help lack of effort.
Ultimately, though, these girls need to hear five positive things for every one negative. And the "negative" shouldn't even be negative as much as a guideline for improvement. Yes, one day they'll need to be ready to deal with a tough boss, and yes, we need to prepare them for the roller coaster ride of life.
But to my way of thinking, the way we do that in these adolescent years is to build a base of self-confidence that will naturally breed toughness, strength of character, and all of that other Girl Scout stuff that actually means something in life.
So I take every opportunity I can to praise my daughters. I do it with my sons, too, but I don't think they're fighting the same battles as my girls.
And besides, my boys instinctively KNOW a 2005 Honda Accord can go 5,000 miles before it's time to change the oil...
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Apparently I'm supposed to hate the snow
I have lived my entire life in Northeast Ohio. More specifically, I have lived my entire life in one small city in Northeast Ohio.
You can say a lot of things both good and bad about the place I call home. But the one thing out-of-towners always mention is the snow. And they don't say it in a kind way.
"Cleveland? Oh....You guys get a lot of snow, don't you?"
Yes, I suppose we do. The annual snowfall totals vary drastically (less than 40 inches some years, over 100 others), but the average is about 57 inches a year. Multiply that by 43 (my age), and you get roughly 2,450 inches of snow that have fallen here in my lifetime. That's more than 200 feet. That's a lot of snow.
And I love it.
Very rarely do you hear me complain about snow. I am a graduate of the school of thought that says, "It's Cleveland. In February. Snow is going to fall. If you don't like it, go someplace else."
A lot of people do just that. It's fashionable for Ohioans to head south in the early months of the year. Some even have winter homes down in Florida, where they flee for several weeks until the snow (mostly) goes away, then they return.
These are not, in my estimation, real Ohioans. At best they're honorary members of the state. You're an Ohioan - and more to the point, a Clevelander - only if you stick it out winter after winter. Anyone can live here in July when it's 80 degrees every day and we get relatively small amounts of rainfall. That's enjoyable. But if you scurry off to Tampa at the first flakes, then you're not really one of us. Sorry, that's just the way it is.
Our precipitation totals are padded every year by what meteorologists call "lake effect snow." It has something to do with the moisture from the relatively warm lake being swept up into the atmosphere and adding a few inches to every snowfall.
But honestly, we still don't get nearly as much snow as they do three hours east in Buffalo or the rest of upstate New York. Syracuse averages 115 inches a year. When we get that much (which is rare), we act like we've survived a nuclear holocaust.
The snow really only affects my life in two ways:
(1) A few times per winter, it makes my drive to work (you know, when I actually am working) a little slower
(2) About 10 times per winter, I have to go outside and snowblow and/or shovel it away
And really, that's about it. I don't think that's too much of a reason to complain. But complain we do. Oh my goodness, people here whine and moan about snow like it's some completely new and entirely unexpected climatic phenomenon. Can you believe it? FROZEN WATER FALLING FROM THE SKY? WHAT?!? NO ONE SAID ANYTHING ABOUT THAT!
I get especially annoyed by people who used to live here and post snarky comments on Facebook like "It's 85 degrees here in Phoenix! Hope you Ohioans are enjoying the ice and snow!"
Guess what? I am enjoying the ice and snow. And I really don't care how warm it is in Arizona. Or Florida. Or South Carolina. Or whatever southeastern and/or Sun Belt state you moved to. I've chosen to live here. I have the means to live virtually anywhere I want, but I want to live here. I like it here. It's nice here.
Because it really is. Cleveland is a great place to live, despite what you may have heard. The people are friendly, the change of seasons is enjoyable, the amenities are nice, etc. I've traveled to a lot of different places, and I've liked nearly all of them. But you couldn't pay me to live anywhere else.
Yet societal expectations dictate that I should complain about a weather pattern that established itself here centuries ago and is not likely to drastically change anytime soon (even with the warmer winters we've been experiencing). It is what it is, people. Deal with it.
My, my, I am cranky today, aren't I? Must be the cold and snow that's making me irritable...
Monday, March 4, 2013
Don't worry, I probably can't beat you at SongPop
Do you know this game SongPop? It's an app that people play on their phones. I guess you could play it on your desktop computer, too, but I have yet to meet anyone who does it that way.
I own a smartphone, but generally I'm not a big "app guy." I should be. I mean, there are lots and lots and lots and LOTS of free apps that are cool and useful. And the ones I do have are great. But I don't go to the app store and just shop around or anything like that.
I did, however, download SongPop. And I love it. The idea is that you listen to snippets of songs and try to identify them (or the artist who recorded them) as quickly as possible. You get points for doing this, and you go one-on-one against another person to see who can get the highest score from a set of five songs.
This appeals to me for three reasons:
(1) I love music
(2) I love games
(3) I'm inordinately competitive
The thing is, I'm not a SongPop genius or anything. I win about as often as I lose, which makes me the SongPop equivalent of almost every Cleveland sports team I've ever rooted for. But I still enjoy the game and make a point of playing it at least once a day.
I have a small circle of people I play against. Most of them are pretty good at SongPop, but none is as good as my nephew Mark. Mark is the New York Yankees of SongPop players (NOTE: This analogy would have worked better a few years ago when the Yankees were actually good. I wanted to say "the Montreal Canadiens of SongPop," but only my hardcore hockey fan friends whose memories extend back to the 70s would have any idea what I was talking about).
Anyway, Mark is really good at SongPop. To the point that part of me thinks he's cheating. He not only guesses every tune correctly, he does it in an average of something like 1.2 seconds. And some of his answers happen in less than a second. I can't process the song in less than a second, let alone identify the correct answer from the choices given and then select it by touching the screen. This whole sequence takes me an average of, I would say, 3 seconds. Occasionally I get under 2 seconds, but for the most part, I'm slow.
Is this because I'm old? I ask this seriously. Do you start to lose your reflexes and brain processing power in your early 40s? If so, then it's happening to me. I don't mind it so much except that it means I constantly lose to Mark. And to Kathy Ciciretti. And to Mike Pugh. They're all very good at SongPop.
Chris Dorazio is also good at SongPop (EDITOR'S NOTE: Do we need a refresher course here? Since it has been more than half a year since I was regularly blogging and mentioning Chris Dorazio? OK, for those who don't know, Chris Dorazio is my daughter Chloe's boyfriend. He's Vietnamese. But he has an Italian last name. And he juggles. And he is always referred to as "Chris Dorazio." Got that? OK, good. Let's continue.)
Chris Dorazio is good at SongPop. And he plays it a lot. He and I have these really tight games. If one of us finds himself too far behind the other on the weekly scoreboard, we'll select a musical category where we know we have an advantage. I should have mentioned for those who haven't played SongPop that you can select a musical category or genre, and the songs you have to guess will all fall into that category or genre.
Like, for example, if Chris Dorazio wants to stump me, he'll pick "Modern Rap" or "Glee." He knows my knowledge in both of those is lacking, though occasionally I'll get lucky and beat him. If I need to shut him down, I'll go to one of my favorites: 80s Collection or New Wave or Jazz. It becomes a Battle of the Musical Generations.
And let me say this: I actually do know a LITTLE something about modern music and all of that. I have five kids, three of whom are teenagers and one of whom is within a year of becoming a teenager. So I have no choice but to be at least passingly aware of current music. But I never remember who actually sings what.
For instance, there's a rapper named "Flo Rida." His name is pronounced "Flow RIGHTA." But I, being the Clueless Adult, initially looked at the spelling of his name and said "Flow RIDDA," with a short "I" sound. You know, like the state. The child to whom I said this − it may have been Chloe − laughed at me. Derisively. I was so proud.
And there are acronyms involved in modern pop/R&B music that I can't follow. There's a group called LMFAO, right? Or is it ROTFL? There's a hip hop artist called B.o.B. And there's a band called Fun, but they're just plain "Fun," not "F.U.N." Who has time to keep track of all of this? Not even the unemployed, I can tell you that.
There's also the fact − and please understand how much it pains me to say this − that so much of what I hear on the radio these days sounds exactly the same. Like it's the same song just sort of remixed and maybe refashioned with the same synthesizer-based instruments and a slightly different melody. I don't want to think like this, I really don't. It's straight from the Old Guy Playbook, but I can't help it.
Back in my day (April 1986 through June 1987), even the hair band songs were all distinctive! You could tell Ratt apart from Poison in an instant. And the lead singers at least wore different colored lipstick so we could distinguish them from one another, which I always thought was very considerate.
I used to be a pretty ardent follower of popular music. That all changed circa 1991 when the grunge thing came along and I found that, at the age of 21, I was unable to tell Soundgarden from Pearl Jam from Smashing Pumpkins. It happens to everyone eventually, it just happened to me early in life.
So the result is that I sometimes struggle in SongPop. Actually, I usually struggle in SongPop. I always forget the Gangnam Style guy's name. And I get Justin Bieber mixed up with OneDirection − a mortal sin in my daughter Melanie's eyes. But then again she's 12 and, really, what does she know?
She couldn't name every song on Side A of Duran Duran's debut album, which her old man had on cassette circa 1981, that's for sure. Score one for daddy!
Friday, March 1, 2013
There's less and less of me all the time
I am no longer old, fat and ugly. I'm just old and ugly now, which is a relief.
Over the past few months, I've gotten rid of the "fat" part using Weight Watchers. I've dropped 27 or 28 pounds so far (not sure exactly how much...I weigh in tomorrow morning). And while I don't claim to be an underwear model or anything now, I'm at least back down into a healthy weight range, and I intend to stay there.
I'm a big fan of Weight Watchers, though I never say it's the right weight-loss method for everyone. Most people, yes, just not everyone. You have to be willing to figure out point values for foods and to track everything you eat every day. This sounds daunting at first, but for me it quickly becomes second nature.
The thing a lot of people don't get about Weight Watchers is that there are no "restricted" foods. None. You can eat whatever you want. It's just that, as you might expect, calorie-laden foods have higher point values, and you only get so many points in a day/week. So while that 3-pound slice of cake looks delicious, I would only recommend it if you don't plan on eating again until, say, the middle of next summer.
Because that's the thing: No matter how you go about losing weight, ultimately you're going to have to change how you eat. Whether you're counting points or avoiding carbs or following the Mongolian Yak Shepherd Diet, weight loss has always been, and always will be, a matter of calories in vs. calories out. Burn more than you take in and you lose weight. Go the opposite direction and start shopping for pants with exponentially larger waist sizes.
Speaking of which, I'm experiencing one of those problems-you-like-to-have in that half of the clothes I own are, geometrically speaking, now too big for me. Some are only slightly too big, while others are comically large. The last time I lost this much weight, I came into work wearing a black suit that my kind co-worker Jennifer said "makes you look like you're playing dress-up with your daddy's clothes."
And yes, there was a "last time" for me. I started doing Weight Watchers with Terry in 2008 and lost more than 30 pounds in three months. Then I got cocky and thought, "Well, I don't need Weight Watchers to keep the weight off. I can do it myself." And yes, I said it in the exact moronic tone you might expect.
You probably know what comes next: I not only gained the 30 pounds back, I added a few more for good measure! Because I'm just that kind of a thorough guy!
So this time I went back with the intention of not only taking the weight back off − something at which I'm actually quite good − but learning mentally and physically how to keep it off forever.
I hate to make this comparison because I don't in any way mean to belittle Alcoholics Anonymous, but I liken weight loss to AA: You're never actually "recovered." That is, I need to stay on Weight Watchers or some sustainable form of it for the rest of my life if I hope to remain relatively lean and healthy. I'm too weak and lazy to just "eyeball" foods and limit portion sizes. Given free rein at the buffet table, I would eat everything there...and the table itself.
So once I hit my goal of 185 pounds in another month or two, I plan to keep on attending Weight Watchers meetings and following the program. Forever. I've given a lot of thought as to how that will work, and it's no trivial thing given that I might live another 40 or 50 years. I really think I will not only do this, but do it with no problem. As I've transformed my body over these last few months, I've been striving to do the same with my mind, and I believe I've made real progress there.
By the way, most people think I'm kidding when I say I weigh 190 pounds right now. That's in clothes and shoes, but still, at first glance I don't look to be 190 pounds. That is the blessing and the curse of my family: We wear weight well. I've ALWAYS been heavier than people assumed, which is handy when you're playing that guess-your-weight carnival game but of little use otherwise.
My primary care doc, the wonderful and inspiring Michelle Spech-Holderbaum, says 185 would be a "fantastic" weight for me and that anything under that is getting toward "you look gaunt and old" territory...though as we've established, there's probably no escaping "old" and "ugly" for me. I'm just looking for "relatively non-fat." That would be more than sufficient, thank you.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
When Daddy finds a job...
Two people in my family are gainfully employed. And I'm neither of them.
The reason, you see, is that I am currently "between jobs," which is a polite way of saying I'm unemployed.
I never, ever expected to be out of work. No one ever does, I guess, as that is one of the foremost items on The List of Things That Happen to Other People.
From August 22, 1988, until Jan. 4th, 2013, I always had something to fill in the blank for "Name of Employer." At no point during that quarter of a century was I without a job.
Then, with one bizarre meeting last month in the office of the COO of my former company, my world turned upside down.
I know my story isn't uncommon. And I know that saying "my world turned upside down" borders on the melodramatic. But on the Holmes and Rahe stress scale (which I found on Wikipedia and am going to assume is famous in psychology circles), "dismissal from work" is the eighth most life-changing event that can happen to a person.
In case you're curious, the top seven such events, in order, are death of a spouse, divorce, marital separation, imprisonment, death of a close family member, personal injury or illness, and marriage. I have experienced only two of those things, but I imagine I'll be adding a third if I don't find a job soon, since Terry will likely either leave me or inflict "personal injury" upon me.
(By the way, I think "your own death" should probably rank #1 on the Holmes and Rahe scale, don't you? I can't imagine anything more life-changing than that.)
One of the blessings of losing your job - and there are a few - is that everyone you've ever known comes out of the woodwork to let you know they're praying for you, thinking about you, looking out for jobs on your behalf, etc. Which is nice. And helpful, too, since even the long hours I spend in front of the computer every day aren't possibly enough to uncover ALL of the potential vocational opportunities. It's good to have extra sets of eyes out there working for me.
Another blessing is that I get to get the mail almost every day. You wouldn't believe how important the arrival of the mail becomes when you're home all the time. Eddie the mail guy pulls up in his little truck and I find myself giddy with the possibilities. I don't know what I'm expecting, though, since I have yet to get an unsolicited job offer in the mail. But that's the thing...YOU NEVER KNOW. So Eddie comes and I dutifully put on my shoes and retrieve the mail in case there's something really good there.
I also enjoy running errands at 2 o'clock in the afternoon while the rest of you are working. There are no crowds to contend with at any of the stores and no traffic to speak of. When I finally do find a job, that's something I'm going to miss.
Incidentally, that phrase "when I get a job" or "when Daddy finds a job" is one that comes up a lot in our house these days. Examples:
* "When Daddy gets a job, we can go back to eating three meals a day again. Isn't that great?"
* "McDonald's? No, we're not going to McDonald's. When Daddy gets a job, maybe we'll go to McDonald's. But right now, we're not going to McDonald's."
* "Don't worry, honey. When Daddy gets a job, he'll start shaving and grooming himself again. I think we can all just deal with the smell for awhile. It won't be long."
And that's just it: I don't KNOW if it will be long. In the back of my mind, I had sort of hoped to be working again by the first of March, which in retrospect was unrealistic. Now I have thoughts like, "Will I be working by April? By May? By the beginning of summer? Good Lord, will I ever work again?!?"
It doesn't help when people who have been through this before try to console you by telling stories that start this way: "I know how you feel. I was out of work for nine months and I..." And you don't hear the rest of what they're saying because you're thinking, "NINE MONTHS? NINE MONTHS?!? OHMYGOSHOHMYGOSHOHMYGOSH..."
I have constructed elaborate scenarios in my head in which my unemployment drags on for so long that we exhaust our savings and I'm forced to join the migrant Mexican workers here in Lake County who pick grapes a few months out of the year and return to Guadalajara for the winter. If I'm allowed to select my Mexican migrant worker name, I'm going with Manuel. Or maybe Pablo. Either way, I hope the pay is good.
A lot of people will tell you to have faith and that this will be (say it with me) "The Best Thing That Could Have Happened." And I do believe some good will come of it. Some day. Soon, I hope. In the meantime, I've got two bucks in my pocket that Terry doesn't know about it. And I'm going to use it to get a couple of things off the Dollar Menu at McDonald's. Unemployment doesn't have to be THAT bad...
Monday, February 25, 2013
I'm worried about Anne, and you should be, too
Hi, it's me again, and I'm worried about Anne Hathaway.
I don't usually worry about Anne Hathaway. I don't usually even THINK about Anne Hathaway, which in no way is meant to be a slight against her. She's a fine actress and, I'm sure, a decent human being. But I can only keep track of about four different things at any given point, and up until now, Anne Hathaway never actually made the list.
But now she's there. And I'll tell you why.
I didn't watch a second of the Academy Awards telecast last night. Or are we supposed to call it The Oscars? I think we're supposed to call it The Oscars now. That's how the people at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences want us to refer to it. This is called "branding." It's part of what I do for a living, and I'll be the first to admit it's annoying. We want to control the way you think and feel about the products, services and events we're promoting, and it's shocking how good we are at it. You people are like sheep. We tell you to do something, and 90% of the time you do it. Of course, everyone already calls it "The Oscars" anyway, I think, so it's not like it's difficult to get people to stop saying "Academy Awards." But the point is, we're supposed to call it The Oscars (capital "The"), so in the interest of making my fellow marketers feel good, that's exactly what I'm going to do.
Anyway, I didn't watch The Oscars last night. Not by choice or anything, I was just busy. I coach Chloe's high school girls indoor soccer team, and we had a 9 p.m. game to play. It was our third Sunday-evening-at-9 game of the season, which doesn't bother me so much but seems to amaze a lot of other people. "You're playing when? Sunday night at 9?!? Why so late? That's ridiculous!" And I tell them that almost everything related to kids' sports is ridiculous these days, so I don't get phased by the scheduling.
But getting back to my point, I didn't watch The Oscars last night. I have nothing against The Oscars, I just didn't watch them. But today I read two different fashion-oriented articles about The Oscars, and both expressed shock and borderline outrage at the dress worn by Anne Hathaway, whom you may recall I'm starting to worry about.
I Googled a picture of said dress (in the interest of blogging research), and honestly wasn't all that moved by it. As Oscar dresses ("The Oscar" dresses?) go, it wasn't any more revealing than the other stuff you see women wearing as they walk down that red carpet. But it still wasn't something I would ever allow my own daughters to even contemplate wearing, which is why I'm worried about Anne Hathaway.
Anne Hathaway burst into our collective consciousness 11 or 12 years ago as the star of the surprisingly successful film "The Princess Diaries." She was pretty, endearingly nerdy, and almost exactly what we, as a society, prefer our 19-year-old actresses to be. The movie was a hit with the preteen set, and at the time I had a couple of preteen girls in my house, so I was fine with it.
Over the next few years, Anne Hathaway went on to make a few more innocent flicks, including a Princess Diaries sequel (or two? I can't remember) and "Ella Enchanted" and we all maintained that sort of low-level awareness of her existence that kept her in a position to make big money in show business.
But then she started making Adult Films. And by "Adult Films," I don't mean the stuff you pay Time Warner 10 bucks to watch on demand. I mean movies that deal with more grown-up subjects and themes. And we, as a society, gave our cautious approval.
And then it all went wrong. Some years ago, Terry and I rented "Brokeback Mountain," which in retrospect was not a good thing to do. Live and learn, I guess, but I could have gotten by just fine without having seen it. I remember we were watching "Brokeback Mountain," and there was a scene in which things were getting hot and heavy between Anne Hathaway and Jake Gyllenhaal in the backseat of a car. Fine. That's a good example of something that happens in real life between consenting adults (or teenagers...whatever), so it was cool.
But then, in an instant, my Anne Hathaway bubble burst. Without getting into too much detail, suffice it to say that in a matter of seconds, Ms. Hathaway removed her top and whatever else she had on that covered her upper half. And we were horrified. Not because, you know, "OH NO, BOOBIES!" But because this wasn't what Anne Hathaway was supposed to do, as far as we were concerned. This was unacceptable for the girl who played Mia Thermopolis.
And in that moment, I became Old Dad Guy. I wanted to shake her by the shoulders and say, "Put your clothes back on! Don't you see what you're doing here? Don't you see this is a point from which you can never turn back? Don't do it, Anne Hathaway! Don't do it!"
Now I realize this is my problem and not Anne Hathaway's problem. She's an adult. She can do what she wants and make her own career choices. But, it's just...that's not the direction I wanted her to go, and she did it anyway. I wanted her to do nice little Disney movies (and to voice the occasional animated movie) forever. But she got the Serious Actress Bug, and there was no going back after that.
Anne Hathaway went on to reveal vast acres of flesh in other movies after "Brokeback Mountain," but I never saw any of them. Couldn't bring myself to do it. Princess Mia was no longer Princess Mia for me, which again, I realize is my problem and not hers, but it has been disappointing nonetheless.
Anyway, Anne has gone all sorts of crazy in other ways, too, losing so much weight for her Oscar-winning ("The Oscar-" winning?) role in "Les Miserables" that even her director looked at her and said, "Hey, hey, whoa, whoa! Slow it down there, Kate Moss!" And understand, Hollywood directors are not known for having outpourings of compassion for their $20 million starlets if whatever the starlet is doing makes her more convincing for the role.
So the point is, I'm worried about Anne Hathaway. And I guess not so much worried as disillusioned that things didn't go the direction I wanted for her. But hey, whether or not Anne is happy, none of it is really my business. It's just that, you know...sometimes I want to go all Simon & Garfunkel on her: "Where have you gone, Anne Hathaway? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you."
I don't usually worry about Anne Hathaway. I don't usually even THINK about Anne Hathaway, which in no way is meant to be a slight against her. She's a fine actress and, I'm sure, a decent human being. But I can only keep track of about four different things at any given point, and up until now, Anne Hathaway never actually made the list.
But now she's there. And I'll tell you why.
I didn't watch a second of the Academy Awards telecast last night. Or are we supposed to call it The Oscars? I think we're supposed to call it The Oscars now. That's how the people at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences want us to refer to it. This is called "branding." It's part of what I do for a living, and I'll be the first to admit it's annoying. We want to control the way you think and feel about the products, services and events we're promoting, and it's shocking how good we are at it. You people are like sheep. We tell you to do something, and 90% of the time you do it. Of course, everyone already calls it "The Oscars" anyway, I think, so it's not like it's difficult to get people to stop saying "Academy Awards." But the point is, we're supposed to call it The Oscars (capital "The"), so in the interest of making my fellow marketers feel good, that's exactly what I'm going to do.
Anyway, I didn't watch The Oscars last night. Not by choice or anything, I was just busy. I coach Chloe's high school girls indoor soccer team, and we had a 9 p.m. game to play. It was our third Sunday-evening-at-9 game of the season, which doesn't bother me so much but seems to amaze a lot of other people. "You're playing when? Sunday night at 9?!? Why so late? That's ridiculous!" And I tell them that almost everything related to kids' sports is ridiculous these days, so I don't get phased by the scheduling.
But getting back to my point, I didn't watch The Oscars last night. I have nothing against The Oscars, I just didn't watch them. But today I read two different fashion-oriented articles about The Oscars, and both expressed shock and borderline outrage at the dress worn by Anne Hathaway, whom you may recall I'm starting to worry about.
I Googled a picture of said dress (in the interest of blogging research), and honestly wasn't all that moved by it. As Oscar dresses ("The Oscar" dresses?) go, it wasn't any more revealing than the other stuff you see women wearing as they walk down that red carpet. But it still wasn't something I would ever allow my own daughters to even contemplate wearing, which is why I'm worried about Anne Hathaway.
Anne Hathaway burst into our collective consciousness 11 or 12 years ago as the star of the surprisingly successful film "The Princess Diaries." She was pretty, endearingly nerdy, and almost exactly what we, as a society, prefer our 19-year-old actresses to be. The movie was a hit with the preteen set, and at the time I had a couple of preteen girls in my house, so I was fine with it.
Over the next few years, Anne Hathaway went on to make a few more innocent flicks, including a Princess Diaries sequel (or two? I can't remember) and "Ella Enchanted" and we all maintained that sort of low-level awareness of her existence that kept her in a position to make big money in show business.
But then she started making Adult Films. And by "Adult Films," I don't mean the stuff you pay Time Warner 10 bucks to watch on demand. I mean movies that deal with more grown-up subjects and themes. And we, as a society, gave our cautious approval.
And then it all went wrong. Some years ago, Terry and I rented "Brokeback Mountain," which in retrospect was not a good thing to do. Live and learn, I guess, but I could have gotten by just fine without having seen it. I remember we were watching "Brokeback Mountain," and there was a scene in which things were getting hot and heavy between Anne Hathaway and Jake Gyllenhaal in the backseat of a car. Fine. That's a good example of something that happens in real life between consenting adults (or teenagers...whatever), so it was cool.
But then, in an instant, my Anne Hathaway bubble burst. Without getting into too much detail, suffice it to say that in a matter of seconds, Ms. Hathaway removed her top and whatever else she had on that covered her upper half. And we were horrified. Not because, you know, "OH NO, BOOBIES!" But because this wasn't what Anne Hathaway was supposed to do, as far as we were concerned. This was unacceptable for the girl who played Mia Thermopolis.
And in that moment, I became Old Dad Guy. I wanted to shake her by the shoulders and say, "Put your clothes back on! Don't you see what you're doing here? Don't you see this is a point from which you can never turn back? Don't do it, Anne Hathaway! Don't do it!"
Now I realize this is my problem and not Anne Hathaway's problem. She's an adult. She can do what she wants and make her own career choices. But, it's just...that's not the direction I wanted her to go, and she did it anyway. I wanted her to do nice little Disney movies (and to voice the occasional animated movie) forever. But she got the Serious Actress Bug, and there was no going back after that.
Anne Hathaway went on to reveal vast acres of flesh in other movies after "Brokeback Mountain," but I never saw any of them. Couldn't bring myself to do it. Princess Mia was no longer Princess Mia for me, which again, I realize is my problem and not hers, but it has been disappointing nonetheless.
Anyway, Anne has gone all sorts of crazy in other ways, too, losing so much weight for her Oscar-winning ("The Oscar-" winning?) role in "Les Miserables" that even her director looked at her and said, "Hey, hey, whoa, whoa! Slow it down there, Kate Moss!" And understand, Hollywood directors are not known for having outpourings of compassion for their $20 million starlets if whatever the starlet is doing makes her more convincing for the role.
So the point is, I'm worried about Anne Hathaway. And I guess not so much worried as disillusioned that things didn't go the direction I wanted for her. But hey, whether or not Anne is happy, none of it is really my business. It's just that, you know...sometimes I want to go all Simon & Garfunkel on her: "Where have you gone, Anne Hathaway? A nation turns its lonely eyes to you."
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