Problems, I Have a Few

Before The Dude pressed pause on Facebook, we were having a competition to see which of us could achieve the lowest number of friends.  (I am talking about Facebook friends, as there is no competition in real life; the Dude has many more friends than I do.  So I guess I'm "winning" that "game".)  We took this challenge seriously and every time one of us dropped the ax, the other had to make some tough decisions.  I believe we were tied at 90 friends when he went on hiatus, though I've culled the heard a bit more in anticipation of the challenge picking up as soon as he reactivates his account. 

Yesterday I started thinking about our longstanding sibling promise to serve as funeral bouncer for each other.  The funeral bouncer keeps unwanted attendees from entering the venue, by force if necessary.  Do either of us imagine that war criminals would attempt to pay their respects upon our deaths?  No, but there were a few high school girls who were really bitchy to us.  (While we were in high school.  Though I would probably be savaged by today's high school girls too.)  This funeral agreement is not just an inside joke that we shared in our teen years.  We still discuss it from time to time.  The Dude gets genuinely ticked when I suggest I may be too distraught over his death to evict mourners. 

Contemplating these strange misanthropic activities has caused me to wonder how we became two weirdo peas in an antisocial pod.  Why is it that each of us is suspicious of people who collect Facebook friends like Sesame Street's Bert collects bottle caps?  Why are we wary of people who enthusiastically attend their high school reunions?  And how do I explain my answers to those questions when they boil down to, "Because OBVIOUSLY."

I Heart You, Tina Fey

After I FINALLY made my way through the fifth A Song of Ice and Fire book, I decided that I was ready for some lighter reading.  It took my half a year to read five of George R. R. Martin's books (I started strong and slowed down during the fourth and fifth books), so I was delighted to cruise through three funny books in just a couple of weeks.

1.  Let's Pretend This Never Happened by Jenny Lawson
My friend L sent me this book last summer right after I started reading Game of Thrones, so it sat on my bookshelf for ages and ages.  I saw L and her lovely daughters in February and promised her that I was finally going to start Let's Pretend This Never Happened.  It was so pleasant to have a breezy, comedic collection of stories to read.  I will say that as a gal who cusses like a sailor, I was actually a little distracted by Lawson's constant swearing.  A well placed f-bomb can slay me, but the language in this book was gratuitous-- with one exception.  During a childhood game of tag, Lawson accidentally ran into a deer carcass that her father was cleaning in their yard.  The experience, which she describes as wearing a deer sweater, caused her to vomit inside the carcass.  Holy smokes, use as many curse words as you'd like in that chapter, Jenny Lawson.

2.  Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns) by Mindy Kaling
Mindy Kaling is both a very funny person and a girly-girl.  So I can, at best, relate to her on like 50% of 50% of things.  (I was on the state championship math team, so yeah, I know that would be 25%.)  Kaling's interest in fashion and her frequent references to her "best friend" made me feel like a dude.  Her story about storming out of work and her inclusion of a bunch of cell phone self-portraits confirmed that we have very little in common.  But really, her subject matter was no  more foreign to me than Jenny Lawson's.  I was entertained by both books, so mission accomplished.

3.  Bossypants by Tina Fey
The consensus is that Tina Fey is brilliant and hilarious, right?  I figured this book might be a bit of a let down because I had high expectations.  Well, Mean Girls was super funny, "30 Rock" was one of my favorite shows of the last decade, and Bossypants made me laugh out loud on the T like a weirdo.  (Unprovoked laughter is better than publicly weeping while finishing Tuesdays with Morrie and A Thousand Splendid Suns on public transportation.  Strangers prefer an unhinged train mate to be a jolly nutbag rather than a sloppy sack of gloom.)  In a fantasy world where I could choose a celebrity to be my friend, I think I'd go with Fey.  (Bonus: I'd also score Amy Poehler as a FOAF*.)  Not only is Tina Fey a smart, funny, successful woman, I also imagine that she possesses just the right amount of judginess, which I both relate to and value in a pal.

*Friend of a Friend

In Praise of Thank-You Notes

I am on record as a serious Christmas enthusiast.  Christmas was never more magical than during my childhood, and yet an unpleasant task loomed during the most wonderful time of the year-- writing thank-you notes.  My parents were strict about enforcing their thank-you note policy at Christmas, birthdays, and other occasions that resulted in presents.  I dreaded sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of blank note cards.  I was not allowed to simply write, "Thank you for the [blank].  I really like it.  Love, Herself."  My parents insisted that we compose proper, personal notes.  It was ridiculous how overwhelming a few letters could be.  Some years I secretly created a template from which to work, modifying it slightly for each recipient.  I tried the trick of increasing my penmanship size.  The Dude had the advantage there, as his standard writing was much larger than mine.  When cards with pre-printed sentiments on the interior were mixed in with blank cards, The Dude and I would race to snatch them up.  We were especially depressed when white lined paper was our only option.  Suffice it to say, I would have been delighted if my parents had abandoned their thank-you note policy.

I am not sure at what point in time I went from being forced into writing thank-you notes to writing them on my own, and ultimately to placing a great deal of value on the giving and receiving of thank-you notes.  I am grateful that my parents got me into the habit of writing them, and I am super judgmental of people whose parents evidently did not do the same.  Now instead of feeling dread upon seeing a stack of blank thank-you notes, I feel anxious until I have crossed each recipient off my thank-you list.  When I complained about having to write thank-you notes when I was little, my dad explained to me the work that went into the presents I received.  He wasn't just talking about the effort a person makes to choose the right gift.  He told me that the person who included a check inside my birthday card may have had to work several hours to earn the money given to me.  Maybe because my dad had a physical job that required him to walk for miles in humid summer weather and in freezing winter weather, the idea of a someone spending hours of his or her day working for my benefit stayed with me.

Three decades into my thank-you-note-writing career, I am now militant about them.  My favorite advice columnist, Emily Yoffe from Slate's Dear Prudence, is similarly rigid about writing thank-you notes.  I've quoted it before, but this line from Yoffe is a personal favorite:

"My mail would indicate that many people who receive gifts think the thank you note is passe.  Which I think allows the gift giver to decide that as far as future gifts are concerned, you'll pass."

When I get a hand-written thank you note these days, I immediately add a check plus into the space the sender occupies in my brain.  An easy way to gain my favor is to send a thank-you note my way when the time is right.  Likewise, I range from disappointed to infuriated when I do not receive thank-you notes.  (Not sending a thank-you note for a wedding present?  SERIOUSLY?!)

In my search for articles about thank-you notes, this was the best I found.  I'm more extreme than the author, as I think a thank-you email is kind of cheap-- though still far better than no thank you at all.

Thank you to my parents, who taught me etiquette and gratitude.  Thank you to my family and friends who reinforce those early lessons with their good manners.  

Jimmy Fallon writes thank-you notes every Friday night.  You can crank a few out each year.

It Must Be Easter Because This Blog Has Risen from the Dead

If ever there were a reason to post, it is the 20th anniversary of The Sandlot, the movie that inspired the name of our blog. 

The Dude and I were genuinely obsessed with The Sandlot.  It came out when I was in grade seven and The Dude was in grade five.  We were already a year into our obsession with two movies released the previous year-- The Mighty Ducks and Newsies.  The Sandlot and The Mighty Ducks go together nicely as an adolescent sports flick double feature, but I have to own up to our appreciation of Newsies.  We love us some musicals.  In the early '90s, we didn't own many movies.  In fact, before saving up to purchase these three killer VHS tapes (and the two subsequent Duck sequels), I believe the only movies at 8 Victor Terrace were E.T. and The Addams Family.  E.T. was the first movie I ever saw at the theater, and is an acknowledged classic.  I am still contemplating naming my fake son Elliott in honor of that film.  The Addams Family is a little tougher to explain.  I did see it at the theater with a bunch of my grade six friends, but I'm not 100% sure why we felt compelled to scoop this for our collection.  I can tell you with certainty that we bought it at McDonalds though-- right around the time when Micky D's was hosting "All You Can Eat Pizza Nights."  Pizza at McDonalds.  It didn't last, but damn if it wasn't delicious.  Back me up, Dude.

When I think back to the number of times The Dude and I watched Newsies, The Mighty Ducks, and The Sandlot, I know it is a small miracle that we made good grades and grew to be quasi-successful adults.  In 1994, D2 came out and we worked that into our rotation.  (D3, released another two years later, was never a favorite, though we did buy it to complete the set.)  I can remember the excitement of our mum driving us to Home Vision Video to buy these gems.  We had to save up somewhere in the neighborhood of $15-$20 for each, but boy did we get our money's worth.  The Dude and I got into a routine of watching these movies constantly for several years.  We didn't have cable and I hadn't hit my John Hughes period yet, so we would easily crank through selections from the Newsies/Ducks/Sandlot collection every weekend.  And sometimes we'd fit one in after school if we didn't have practice.  My dad was not pleased with our consumption of these movies, but he did enjoy The Sandlot when he sat through it once.  (He is not a repeat viewer.  That comes directly from our mum's bloodline.)

The Sandlot holds up as the most quality of our mid-90s favorites.  It is the story of Scotty Smalls, a pre-teen boy who moves to a new neighborhood in 1960s California.  Although Smalls initially doesn't have any athletic or social skills, Benny "The Jet" Rodriguez takes him under his wing and Smalls joins the group of neighborhood boys who spend their summer vacation playing ball together at the sandlot.  I related to the anxious, non-athletic Scotty Smalls.  Benny, the most talented player and the leader of the group, always reminded me of what my dad might have been like as a kid in the '60s.  (Don't burst my bubble if you knew my dad in the '60s and he was a can't-hack-it pantywaist who wore his mama's bra.)  Michael "Squints" Palledorous slayed me with his giant grin after tricking Wendy Peffercorn into giving him artificial respiration, and his delivery of "for-ev-er" will be stuck in my head until the end of time.  But the movie is stolen by red haired and pudgy (say hello to my future Match.com tagline) Hamilton "Ham" Porter.  Holy smokes is Ham quotable.  The article below references "You're killing me, Smalls" and I'm bummed that the director never happened to overhear me one of the approximately 11,000 times that I have uttered those words.  Ham's description of himself "baking like a toasted cheeser" on a hot summer day clearly struck a cord with The Dude and me.  Tropical weather is hard on husky gingers.  And Ham's trash talking is priceless.  Enjoy:

 

I can't believe two decades have passed since The Dude and I were in our Newsies/Ducks/Sandlot heyday.  Four movies with pre-teen/teen male casts-- What more could a junior high gal (and her little brother) have wanted on any given Saturday afternoon in mid-90s Central Maine?

Check out this article about the 20th anniversary of The Sandlot.  It includes a "Sandlot Kids: Then and Now" slideshow.  Yes!

The Last Five

I've been on a bit of a documentary kick lately.  I watched Searching for Sugar Man the day that it won the Oscar for Best Documentary, so yeah, my finger is on the pulse of. . . the only documentaries of which average folks are aware.

Diana Vreeland: The Eye Has to Travel (2011)
I am currently reading Joan Didion's A Year of Magical Thinking and 80% of the names mentioned in the book go right over my head.  If I weren't such an uncivilized numb nut, I would probably be blown away by the literary superstars that the author references.  It could be that Diana Vreeland and Joan Didion have absolutely nothing in common, but part of what I took away from The Eye Has to Travel and A Year of Magical Thinking is that Vreeland and Didion were talented, respected, and lived lives that are crazy foreign to me.  As a gal with no interest in fashion, I was not the target demo for this movie about a fashion editor.  It was fine, but it didn't stick with me like the best documentaries do.  3 out of 5

How to Survive a Plague (2012)
When my parents or The Dude call me and ask what I'm doing and I respond with, "I'm watching a documentary about AIDS" (this is the second one I've watched in a year), they wonder about my leisure time choices.  This was a powerful movie, but I liked We Were Here (2011) more.  How to Survive a Plague focused on the activism and political work of groups such as Act Up and was mostly based in New York.  We Were Here was based in San Francisco and felt a little more personal.  I would give the first a 3 and the second a 4.

Searching for Sugar Man (2012)
The mystery part of this documentary was engaging and the musician himself, Rodriguez, was an interesting character.  After I watched this I had a lot of questions and when I did a little internet sleuthing, I started to think that the information in this movie had been tweaked a bit for maximum impact.  That was a bit of a bummer.  4 out of 5

A Small Act (2010)
This was flat-out inspiring.  I really liked A Small Act a lot.  (Thanks for the recommendation, Netflix.)  A teacher in Sweden decides to sponsor the education of a child in Kenya.  The child grows up to attend Harvard and work as a Human Rights Commissioner at the U.N.  The background of his Swedish sponsor, a stranger to him until he sought her out as an adult, and the ripple effects that one person can have on the world were genuinely amazing.  I gave it a 4 after watching it, but a month later it may be creeping toward a 5.

The Queen of Versailles (2012)
This was pure entertainment.  A billionaire businessman and his pageant wife are in the middle of building the largest home in the United States when the market collapses.  The beauty queen wife, Jackie, is fun to watch.  Although the Siegels are beyond loaded, I was able to relate to them better than I was Ms. Vreeland.  4 out of 5

Stay off the streets

Gov Deval Patrick and his staff, folks.

Hard to Believe It Took 8 Months For Scalabrine to Hit the Blog

I am amused by this article about former Celtic Brian Scalabrine playing amateurs one-on-one.  I enjoyed watching Scalabrine during his Celtic years, partially because he was such an enthusiastic member of the team and partially because he looked like he could be related to me.  (There are too few ginger professional athletes.)  Some fans forget that even the bench warmers on NBA teams are elite players.  Payback!

Back In Business

One of my first lessons of 2013 is that, for me, blogging is like exercising.  If I get into a good routine, I'll do it on a daily basis.  Once that routine is disrupted, however, I'm toast.  Just like the exercise bicycle in my bedroom that has been serving as clothing storage, this blog has not been living up to its potential.  I took a little break for the holidays and then I took a longer break for the post-holiday depression that kicks in every January.  As days passed and The Boss ragged on me for not adding any new content to the blog, I started to feel pressure to post something a little more substantial than a photograph and a sentence upon returning.  Although inspiration hasn't really hit, I'm going to press the "publish" button this afternoon regardless of how lame this post is.  There has to be a first day back on the bike even if I pass out after ten minutes.

I am nearly half way through A Dance with Dragons, the fifth book in George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series.  I feel like I've been making my way through these books for a decade.  I took a tiny pause in early December as I waited for book five to arrive at my house.  During those few days I reread Charlotte's Web.  What a delight.  Not only do I love that book, but it was also very portable.  My current hardcover is bulky and heavy and I am sick of lugging it around.  Now that I have roped my grandmother, father, and two uncles into this series, I should probably zip it and pretend that books four and five haven't been disappointing.  I am hoping that book six will be a return to form.  The Dude bought me a bunch of (paperback, perfect for commuting) books for Christmas and as soon as I finish A Dance with Dragons, I can't wait to start plowing through that stack.

Downton Abbey, Cougar Town, and Girls are back on TV, and Community starts back up shortly.  I may have to adjust my work schedule to part time in order to keep up with all of this programming.  On Downtown Abbey, Poor Lady Edith just can't catch a break.  I did appreciate learning from her that "Spinsters get up for breakfast."  That explains why my cats have not been bringing me breakfast in bed.  Mystery solved.

I watched Pitch Perfect with The Dude last week.  The non-musical content of the movie was not great, but I really liked the songs.  (Anna Kendrick's Beca was a giant B.  And based on her name, either she or her parents are dopes.  I strongly dislike creatively spelled names.)  The riff off was fun and I wish they had included more than two categories before ending it.  With the number of songs featured in just six minutes of the movie, I am sure they had to reign things in so they weren't paying royalties for 50 different songs.  The main guy in this movie loves The Breakfast Club, so that won serious fondness points with me.  I watched that movie SO HARD when I was a teenager.  I don't think I have watched it since graduating from college over ten years ago, so just seeing little snippets of it during Pitch Perfect put a smile on my face.  It didn't hurt that of the many songs featured in this movie, they made sure to include a song from The Jacksons too.  Nice!