jim disagrees about pee-wee

Movies that do not need to be shown in high-definition, and therefore should not be used to promote the cable company's new HD service:


Blown Away

A Night at the Roxbury

Pee-Wee's Big Adventure


Seriously, TimeWarner. Have some self-respect. Or at least get a better advertising firm.

eh?political revisited

Because we tend to watch our TiVoed Comedy Central shows at a hefty delay, Jim and I are just now watching last Thursday's Colbert Report, which featured the already much commented-upon interview with Eleanor Holmes Norton, the District of Columbia's delegate to the House of Representatives.

My favorite moment? "You flatter yourself, sir! What makes you think I find you at all attractive? I didn't find you gay!"

I want to be able to vote for her, even if she can't vote on the House floor. She rocks.

cooking up a plan

Yesterday, despite all my best efforts to avoid doing so, Jim and I ran some errands at the mall.

Usually I try to avoid the mall at all costs, which I'm sure no one believes, given my penchant for shopping. However, the mall -- particularly on a summer weekend, when every bored tourist in a hundred-mile radius descends upon South Portland -- induces a pretty strong cringe reaction in me.

All of the items on yesterday's to-do list, though, involved either a zero-sum or negative outflow of money, which was kind of a motivating factor. I had to return one item that it turned out I did not actually need to own, and redeem a few magazine tear-away cards for free and interesting merchandise that was, in an odd turn of events, actually worth acquiring.

Hey, you can never have too many pairs of comfy cotton underwear. Seriously.

Of course, we had to make a detour into Williams-Sonoma, which may never fall out of favor as my all-time favorite browsing locale.

Perhaps my mind was primed to be in a kitchen-store mood after the morning's parental phone call. Mom and Dad discovered a phenomenal place in Charleston, which we shall now visit when we spend a couple of days there in November. I had also already been mulling over what to cook for dinner, since the heat pretty much demanded pressing the outdoor grill into service, and nothing in the fridge was calling to me. I was thinking something seafood-y, but I just couldn't settle on anything.

Sonoma had a huge window display of ... something, I don't actually remember what, but above it was a massive photograph of some mouth-wateringly beautiful grilled shrimp. It was a portent. We had to go in.

Jim is a patient and indulgent human being, because taking me into a kitchen store can be a time-suck of epic proportions. I don't remember being entranced in childhood by candy stores as per the old adage (although the penny candy at Spencer's Five and Dime was pretty fun). But plop me into a sea of cast-iron casseroles, cookbooks that double as art, and shiny new microplanes? Let's just say it's a miracle my eyes remember to focus and I can control the drool reflex.

Of course, there was nothing I really, truly needed at Sonoma yesterday, but I could happily bring home, oh, just about everything they sell. Or almost everything: I don't really need any more mustard scoops, since they come as a decoration on every wedding-wrapped gift. In fact, let me know you if need some. I think we saved twelve or so before we started just chucking them with the wrapping paper.

After wandering around in a state of utensil-lust-induced psychedelic trance for a few minutes, my eyes lit upon a wonderful sight: the non-stick flexible spatula. I generally use wooden spoons when I scramble eggs, which I do nearly every morning, and my wooden spoons are dying horrible splintering deaths, one by one, probably as a result of over-washing and general disrespect. The flexible spatula, though, in the small size, is the perfect egg-scrambling tool.

I wanted this spatula. I needed this spatula. And Jim, bless him, bought me this spatula.

When you leave the mall toting bags and yet having netted a few dollars in the process, I can tell you, it's a good day.

Our next port of call was the grocery store, to recycle a month's worth of bottles and find something appealing for the evening's menu. After some butcher counter perusal, I decided on swordfish to fit the bill for finishing off a good day with dinner in style.

So for dinner, I made grilled prosciutto-wrapped swordfish kebabs with an avocado, cherry tomato, and endive salad in a mustard-lemon vinaigrette, and we opened a Portugese vinho verde that surprised us in being not just light and crisp but slightly sparkling -- and, it seems, just the thing to accompany a lovely summer meal.

I have realized, of late, that I am very happy when cooking. On days when work or life uncertainty has got me down, I find myself drawn to the kitchen, making big batches of two-bean salad or complex herb-infused marinades. I'm not entirely sure where to take that impulse -- is there such a thing as a cookbook librarian? -- but believe me, ideas are starting to simmer.

Right now, though, I think some scrambling of eggs is in order.

motobecan't

Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, my parents had a T-Shirt.

I say "my parents" because, frankly, I've never been entirely sure to whom said T-Shirt belonged. I'm mostly sure that it was, at least originally, my father's, but then Mom started "borrowing" it in that way that couples do, and eventually it was sort of a communal shirt.

Let me back up a bit. The T-Shirt dated to well before I was even a twinkle in my parents' eyes. (Can there be a communal twinkle? Eh, why the hell not --if there can be a communal shirt, right?) I'm not sure if it found its way into my father's possession before my parents' marriage, but it almost definitely lived with them when they were Windy City denizens. They were young, they were cute, and they loved to bike along the lake.

Huh. Actually, all three of those things still apply to my parents. Although these days they bike to the beach on the island. Well anyway.

So Dad, as is his wont, got pretty into the biking during the many years when it was his main form of transportation, and what with one thing and another, he acquired the T-Shirt. Made of wonderful soft thin cotton, imprinted with the Motobécane France logo, it may have been no more than a bicycle brand promotion, but that never mattered to me. In fact, I have no idea if Dad actually had a Motobécane bicycle; I think I was into my teens before I ever knew that the brand was a bicycle-and-motorcycle brand, not just a clothing company. Bikes shmikes, frankly; it was all about the T-Shirt. And as it grew more worn and beloved over the years, it became, to my child's eye, the world's most wonderful piece of clothing.

I still can't quite recall how I came to be in possession of the T-Shirt. I probably snagged it as a sleep shirt, and Mom and Dad graciously let it stay in my dresser drawer. Not that this was a rare occurence, since I'm pretty sure I stole my mom's "Ladue 63124" tee --yes, there was a time when we all that was very clever -- along with both my mother's and my father's versions of the Smith College centennial shirt (motto: "A Century of Women on Top" -- can't you tell, looking at those Smithies there? Heh).

But those shirts were just clothing, utilitarian. Not like the T-Shirt. Every time I wore it, I felt a little bit special, a little bit more connected to a life my parents had led that I had not known.

The T-Shirt traveled with me from St. Louis, to Cambridge, to Manchester, back to Cambridge, and to Portland. After a few years, I noticed that the T-Shirt didn't look quite as hale and hearty as it once had. It found a pleasant home in my t-shirt storage linen basket, and I let it rest.

Recently I uncovered the T-Shirt and pulled it out. The cotton has worn so thin in so many places that there are irreperable holes all throughout the shirt. The logo is so faded that the words are only visible to eyes that knew where once they lay. Perhaps it is symbolic of the company, the trials and ultimate downfall, the fading from the public eye. A talisman, a safety blanket, and a reminder of another time.

Or maybe it's just a shirt. But to me, it will always be the T-Shirt, holes and all, happily whiling away its days in my drawer, and occasionally accompanying me to bed on a hot summer's night.

I'd just better be sure not to wear it out of the house, because some of these holes? Damn.

laundering money

One of the washing machines in our laundry room is broken.

Normally we have to insert two dollars in the form of quarters to start the washer. (It's a little on the pricey side, no?) However, the machine on the right has decided that it is permanently full of quarters.

The "coins to start" countdown reads zero, and adding coins to the machine has no effect. Rather, the washer is just ready and rarin' to go, all the time.

Sure, we could choose to use the correctly-functioning machine, which we do if we have two enormous loads that cannot both be crammed into the single free washer. Still, I have no problem with doing laundry more often if it means fitting everything into the friendly, loveable machine that no longer enjoys eating money.

Come on. Free laundry. It's like a dream come true.

And after all? We're not complete larcenists.

We still have to pay for the dryer.

brings new meaning to "taking a header"

From today's AP wire:

MSNBC Aims to Get Edgy 10 Years Later.

Really? Why start now? And just how do they plan to define "edgy," anyway?

"The boldest move was to cancel Rita Cosby's show and institute a two-hour block of documentaries starting at 10 p.m."

Wow! Sign me up!

I'd say it's due to a slow news day, but given the proto-World War III activities in the Middle East, that's clearly untrue. I guess the good headline writers have weekends off. Nice work if you can get it.

camp d'etat

Today's final camp production was outstanding. The kids were just absolutely phenomenal, far more so than I anticipated. I can't even begin to describe how wonderful a job they did with their joke-telling ("What do you get when Batman and Robin get run over by a steamroller?" "I don't know, what do you get?" "Flatman and Ribbon!"), their play (all the egg jokes!), and their circus-themed dance drama ("The Sad Clown" --no, really).

What most impressed me? They got huge laughs from the audience during the stand-up comedy section, and not just because the audience was mostly, um, their parents.

Or so I like to tell myself. Especially since not a one of them actually, you know, mastered the juggling. Although it might be funnier to watch them chase scarves all over the stage, if you think about it.

I would love to rave about some of my favorite kids, including Caleb, the almost-seven-year-old with osteogenesis imperfecta who is as bright as many kids twice his age and a natural-born comedian; or Corey, who has now done Drama Kids for two-and-a-half years and has the most adorable giggle on the planet, if not in the entire universe; or Olivia, who at ten years old has powerful projection, expert expression, and a knack for handling kindergarteners that made her an invaluable tool for me.

However, due to my overwhelming -- but good -- exhaustion, in lieu of that, I give you the script of the Drama Kids written, produced, set designed and drawn, and even house managed (they drew their own tickets and then collected them) world premiere, The True Story of Humpty Dumpty. (Yes, I'm going all-out sap-tastic tonight. Normal content to return...eventually.)

Opening Scene: The Great Wall of China. Humpty Dumpty is trying to balance along the top of the Wall. His friend the Cheese is there too.
Cheese: I’m going to sneak up behind him! This is the first time I’ve ever scared someone! (pushes Humpty, who falls)
Humpty: I think I broke some shell! (faints)
Cheese: I’d better call 911. (dials) Hey! There’s no service!
King and Queen pass by on sightseeing tour.
Cheese: Help! Somebody help! My friend fell off the wall!
King: I think I should send all of my horses and all of men to put him together again.
Queen: It’s only a silly egg. If we don’t save Humpty Dumpty, we could feed a lot of our people, and that’s no yoke – I mean, joke!
King: You crack me up! But I like my idea better. Come on, King’s Men and King’s Horses!
Horses and Men ride up.
Horse E: Neigh! What happened? (they shake HD)
Humpty: I don’t remember. (faints again)
Sully: What a gooshy mess!
Horse H: Somebody should call his parents. (looks at the Cheese, who is trying to hide)
Joseph: Ugh. We don’t know how to fix this!
Horse H: Load him on our backs and we’ll take him to the hospital.
K’s Men: We’ll come too. What a great idea!
Horses: Why thank you!
Cheese: Who will tell his parents to go to the hospital?
Queen: Oh, we have the Royal phone. We’ll call them.
King: We get egg-cellent service.
All arrive at the hospital. Mr. and Mrs. Dumpty are waiting for them.
Mom: Humpty! Are you OK?
Dad: How could you be so clumsy?
Mom: Now now, be nicer to him. I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose!
Dad: Are you insane? I bet he just did it so he doesn’t have to go to school.
Mom: Hmph. Well, even if he did, we still have to help him get better!
Doctor Grace and Nurse Mary enter. They look at Humpty.
Grace: Hmmm. I think we should glue him.
Mary: No! We should use tape!
Mary and Grace ad-lib about the merits of tape versus glue, zippers, Velcro.
Dad: You both have it wrong! You have to sew him back together!
Mary: Of course! Why didn’t we think of that?
Grace: Let’s do it!
(They sew HD up and he sits up)
Humpty: Where am I? Where’s the rest of my Kung Pao chicken?
Mary: We sewed him back together, but I think he has amnesia!
Grace: Call the amnesia specialists!
Elle: (from offstage) Come on, Nurse Cora! We might have to do some scrambling on this one!
Cora: I’ll go get the amnesia medicine!
Mom: Oh, my poor eggy!
Elle: Now now, no use crying over spilled yolk.
Cora: Here, drink this. (Humpty drinks.)
Dad: Now we can ask him some questions!
Mom: Humpty, how do you feel?
Humpty: Like I fell off the Great Wall of China.
Everyone: You DID fall off the Great Wall of China!
Humpty: I did? But how?
Everyone ad-libs wondering how it all happened, what went on, etc. Finally the Cheese can take no more.
Cheese: It was me! I pushed him!!
Everyone: WHAT?!?
Cheese: I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to sneak up and scare him, but he …went over easy!
Humpty, can you ever forgive me?
Humpty: I don’t know. Sire, what do you think I should do?
King: Well, a grilled cheese sandwich does sound pretty good…
Everyone gasps in horror.
Queen: He’s just kidding! You should be friends again. That is, as long as you’ve learned not to horse around anymore!
Horses: Neigh!
Cheese: I definitely won’t scare people anymore.
Humpty: Then we’re friends forever.
Mom: And Humpty, if you ever fall off the Great Wall again?
Dad: Try to land sunny side up!

heads shoulders knees and -tos

I had two six-year-olds suffer kindergartener meltdowns today. Nine to three is really long for them -- even though they've done a year of full-day kindergarten, that usually includes naps, which camp does not.

So first Cora lost it because she didn't have her swimsuit with her and we were hooking up the sprinkler at lunch time. I called her mom, who was at the beach, and couldn't be bothered, really. (Hmph.) She pointed out that there were extra clothes in Cora's bag so she could run through the sprinkler, although Cora did astutely notice that there were not extra undies in there. Regardles, she calmed down and all seemed well.

Later on, though, while being too silly during Arts and Crafts, she bumped heads with her sister and collapsed into a puddle of tears. I did some lap-sitting and hugging and boo-boo kissing, and through sniffles she murmured, "I'm tired... I wanna go home!" So I suggested we go over and curl up on the couch for a little.

Lo and behold, once Cora was snuggled into the corner of the couch, whom should I notice but Sully, back to the world, hunched into a little ball. I picked him up and pulled him onto my lap, and got him to tell me what was wrong.

"They hurt my feelings," he said, his face scrunching up into a big red mess.

Well, we never did figure out who "they" were, but someone said something that Sully thought was "You're a bad colorer" and he took it hard. Luckily, my eight- to ten-year-old girls are very handy; they gathered around (who can resist a cute crying kindergarten towhead?) and assured him he was an awesome colorer, they loved the fire he drew coming from the dragon's mouth, and he should be very proud. I got him to take me over and show me the dragon and we all praised it to the heavens, and he seemed better, but still pretty worn out.

So I did the only thing I could do. I got out the emergency box of Cheetos, Fritos, and Doritos, and the kids helped themselves to a snack bag each.

Thank you, Frito-Lay. Is there anything your cheesy goodness can't do?

the true story of humpty dumpty

Undereye concealer: The camp counselor's best friend.

I look like death warmed over, but I'm having a fabulous time. Yesterday just flew by, and today did too, even with the pop-up thunderstorms that kept us in the gym during lunch.

So far, the best part has been that pretty much every parent, upon delivering his/her child to camp this morning, burst out with some variation on, "S/he had so much fun yesterday!"

Other entertaining parental comments:

"Sully was so tired that I asked him what he wanted to do, and he said, 'Just watch Little Einsteins.' He never does that!"

"Caleb woke up at quarter to five this morning asking if it was time to go to drama camp!" (My internal reaction: "Oh please the Lord, no! Don't we start early enough?")

"Corey was just chat-chat-chat-chat about camp yesterday. I don't think he wanted to come home." (Great, now I'm inheriting children.)

"Grace spent all yesterday afternoon trying to juggle!" (This from a dad who reported the event while juggling three balls seamlessly, far better than I can. Um, Mr. Hartley? Want to come teach my camp?)

I just hope they had as much fun today. We got into rehearsing the play, which is never as much fun as writing it, which we did yesterday, because you have to be quiet and listen and Joseph you've asked me what time it is every five minutes for the past three hours so now I'm not answering you anymore.

The play, though, is indubitably hilarious, and the amazing thing is, they wrote it themselves, with just a few suggestions from me.

Don't believe me that fourteen six- to ten-year-olds can write a play? Consider: Humpty Dumpty on the Great Wall of China, with a best friend who is a big wheel of cheese, has a cell phone, and with all sorts of characters who continually make egg-related puns. I couldn't write that stuff if you paid me.

My kids rock. I sort of want to scoop them all up at the end of the week and conscript them into my personal childhood drama cabal.

Right now, though, I need to shower and see if I can do anything to disguise the pervasive exhaustion creeping over my body. Bring on the Maybelline.

clownin' around

Next week is Drama Kids Summer Camp. It's a full-day camp, Monday through Friday. Melissa and I decided a while back to combine the two curricula that DK put forward for camp this summer, and to that end, our kids will be learning about comedy and clowning and writing their own play.

For the play, they'll be turning a nursery rhyme into a play, more or less. We'll talk about how to expand upon a known character, figuring out what s/he would say and do outside of the part of the story we already know.

Technically, they get to choose which rhyme they want to expand. In reality, I'm leaning towards forcing -- er, gently suggesting they consider -- Hey Diddle Diddle because the characters are fun, and there isn't one main "lead" role. Plus, what kid wouldn't want to be the Spoon?

They provide and/or make their own costumes, so we want to keep it as low-key and simple as possible. The whole point is to foster their creativity, and I'm really excited about hearing what they brainstorm for everything: lines, costumes, props, and more.

For clowning, they're going to learn about types of clowns -- Auguste, Hobo (or Character), and New Vaudeville clowns, for example. They will learn some jokes and practice some mime techniques, but the big event, right off the bat, is learning how to juggle.

Of course, I don't actually know how to juggle. Neither does Melissa's assistant, so a good chunk of our meeting today was spent with Melissa teaching us -- or, I should say, trying her damnedest to teach us -- how to juggle three items at least one time through the steps. If we can show the kids just one throw-throw-catch-throw-catch-catch-TA-DA!, we should be able to convince the children that we're old hands at this, and they'll take it from there.

It helps, Melissa assures me, that the kids have much better hand-eye coordination than we do. They'll probably pick it up instantaneously, and then I suppose I'll just have to prevent them from pelting each other with juggling balls.

Finally, each child gets to design his or her own clown face. This is a fantastic process that will eat up several hours of camp. Here's how it works: first, we will discuss the attributes of each face, including Whiteface, which the kids cannot do because it takes a boatload of white greasepaint and aside from the cost, the risk of it getting all over everything and oh my God it won't come off is too great.

The next day, they will get a piece of paper with a blank face on it and get to draw the face they want. They can do this as many times as they want, particularly if they do it so fast that they don't use all the assigned time.

And the day after that, they will recreate their clown face on a white-paper-bag-cum-puppet. They only get one puppet, but if it doesn't take them long to copy the face, they can decorate the rest of the bag as the body, too! This is the clown they get to take home and keep for posterity.

Finally, they will get to put on the full matching makeup for the dance drama we'll perform at the final show, in which they also get to juggle and one lucky kid gets to play the sad clown who learns to juggle and becomes happy.

In Camper World, the above process is called "Arts and Crafts Time." In Counselor Lingo, that translates as "I Need to Sit Down and Rest Before I Die Time."

Anyway, it's a toss-up (ha!) as to which will prove to be the more popular activity. If I were a camper, I'd be way more into writing my own play, because I'm nerdy that way. I imagine the kids are going to love the clowning, though, and it should be pretty fantastic to see by the end of the week.

That is, if I'm still alive. Five straight days of six hours spent non-stop with fifteen 6-to-10-year-olds? I didn't used to be one of those folks scared by clowns, but now, well...we'll just have to wait and see.

freed-dom

Saturday night found us dining on French cuisine better than some we had in Paris, and it didn't even involve a plane trip.

The ever-lovely Monsieur et Madame Freed (a.k.a. Dick and Alisa) threw a phenomenal dinner party, as is their wont, although I do believe that this time they outdid even themselves. Lyette and Jay came up from Boston, and we dolled ourselves up and headed up the street armed with three bottles of wine and very healthy appetites.

The evening began with chilled prosecco and home-made pâté. Yes, you read that right: Dick and Alisa made pâté.

(Aside: I am never. cooking. again.)

The hors d'oeuvres having been attacked with gusto, we adjourned to the dinner table, where we each sat down to a crystal bowl of vichysoisse. I haven't had vichysoisse in years, although it's one of my absolute favorite soups, and I'm thinking I just might have to acquire a food mill solely so that I can make my own.

There was a hilarious interlude when the gentlemen adjourned to the area in front of the refrigerator to contemplate the relative merits of microbrews, and we ladies remained at the table discussing more genteel topics. Or maybe making fun of the men. I'll leave that to you to decide.

Conversation flowed as easily as the wine -- we'd moved on to red at that point -- and the Freeds sprang into action in the kitchen. The aromas wafting out to the dining room really comprised a divine form of torture; I'm fairly sure the four of us were trying desperately not to drool openly in anticipation. Alisa appeared briefly to set an enormous bowl of watercress and baby lettuces dressed with a garlicky Caesar dressing before us, then retreated into the kitchen for a few more minutes.

Tease.

At last the host and hostess reappeared with gorgeously plated dishes for each of us: duck confit, haricots verts, and a wedge of absolutely delicious potatoes that seemed like a combination of pommes Anna and pommes soufflées (I should have asked precisely, but I was too busy eating them).

The food was astounding. It lived up to any Parisian bistro, and then some. Absolutely heavenly.

After we stuffed ourselves silly, we cleansed our palates with salad and settled back in our chairs to reflect while Dick once more slipped off to the kitchen. He ended our brief respite by presenting us each with a slice of peach galette topped with ice cream, and we figured we might as well finish yet another bottle of wine while we dove into -- I mean, politely supped on our dessert.

Coffee, tea, limoncello, and "dessert tequila" (ha!) were proferred, and we retired to the living room to chat some more before finally adjourning for the evening.

We'd just spent six hours in the heart -- and belly -- of France, and as Jim, Lyette and I stepped out into the cool night air (Mr. Spiros having decamped just a bit earlier), I could have sworn the stars sparkled like we were in Paris still.

but #14 might be my favorite

Unless you have sold your soul to Milhouse or have lost all capacity for enjoyment, you just might laugh 'til you hurt while reading The 50 Worst Video Game Names of All Time.

You've probably never heard of any of these. I sure hadn't. OK, actually, I do remember hearing about the sequel to Parappa the Rapper, but I didn't really pay attention.

Regardless: the names of these games, which are all real, and the comments that voice exactly what you are thinking after reading said names, are frickin' hilarious.

A sample:

"Jumpman.

A superpower it ain't.

From the Totally Out of Ideas department comes Jumpman.

Let's see...there's a man...and he jumps."

No better way to close out the week before a national holiday.

(Oh, and #3 comes in pretty high on my hilarity list too.)

sport of the future

Lloyd Dobler would be very proud of me. Today I had a one-on-one training session in actual contact kickboxing.

And it kick(box)ed my ass.

It all started because the gym put up a big poster advertising new small group training classes they are introducing in July. Melissa heard from a friend that you can try each one once for free, but she asked me to double-check that with the front desk when I went in yesterday. So I did.

Turns out that yes, you can try each one for free, although if you sign up to take one consistently you have to pay (essentially, you're splitting the cost of a trainer among three or four people, which really makes it more affordable). I was nodding and listening to the girl give me a whole spiel on what each class entailed, in which I wasn't very interested ("beach bodies" -- meh), when a guy behind the desk noticed my glazed eyes, wandered over and interrupted.

"I'm also teaching a contact kickboxing session," he said. "It's not listed there because I haven't scheduled it yet -- I'll work around people's schedules."

Now this was intriguing.

I've been hooked on kickboxing since I first took a cardio kickbox class, but unfortunately the class is at a totally inconvenient time. I also have a pretty great kickbox DVD, but it's too easy to slack off when I'm at home. Plus, I've really been looking for something new and different, as my workouts have, frankly, gotten very boring (going nowhere on stationary bikes and elliptical cross-trainers, it turns out, can actually get old.) I wanted to shake things up, and I thought contact -- where I'd get to punch a bag or targets -- would be awesome.

Then, it got better. Jason, the trainer in question, offered me a free one-on-one session to give me a taste of how the class will run. A free training session? Works for me. I could find out if the whole endeavour is actually worth paying for without embarrassing myself in front of an entire class.

At 10 a.m., I arrived at the gym. Jason was there waiting, and he wrapped my hands and got the gloves and targets out of his office. We headed over to the training area, and he asked me about my goals -- just to tone up, get stronger, work muscles in a new way -- and said we'd do just that.And then he proceeded to destroy me.

I thought I was in pretty good shape. I know I am not strong, because I don't like lifting weights and don't do it enough, but I do a lot of cardio and I'm aware that my heart is extraordinarily healthy. However, "pretty good shape" can apparently be interpreted in a number of ways, and this particular workout?

Interpreted it entirely differently.

I wanted to die about three minutes in. Step-ups with knee lifts, jump rope (fun!), punching with real boxing gloves (really fun!), squat lunges in between punching (not fun!) lateral movement drills, kicking, squat thrusts with pushups in between kicks (really not fun!), more speed drills, high knees, punch combos (aggression!), ridiculously intense ab work. I don't know if my internal cooling system has ever worked that hard, and I'm 100% positive that when I wake up tomorrow, weird muscles I've never thought about are going to mutiny against me and I will be walking like I'm 92 years old.

It was the greatest thing ever. I'm so signing up for this class.

beam maine up

I learned today that Jonathan Frakes lives in Belfast, Maine, with his General Hospital-star wife, Genie Francis. She is opening a store called The Cherished Home.

Actually, although I have yet to see her merchandise, I kind of take issue with the choice of name. This article states, "Her new business is located in an 1850s-era farmhouse on Route 1 on the city's east side. Rather than focus on antiques, Francis said, she wanted to provide area homeowners with a choice of items previously not available to them."

First, though, I have to give the Bangor News a nod for their generosity in considering Belfast a city, given that it has roughly 6300 permanent residents. It's actually the larger town in the area near Searsport, where my sister-in-law will be getting married in slightly over a month, and we can't wait to get up to that region, which is just phenomenally beautiful.

However, the Mid-Coast is the kind of area where the tourists come to relax at the Maine coast, eat some fabulously fresh lobster, and go shopping -- which usually means antiquing. A name like "The Cherished Home" will fit right in, but I'm afraid it might be misleading

Francis apparently got the bug for owning a home decor shop by "examining the furnishings on the General Hospital set." Forgive me if I'm a little off on this, but I would tend to think that a soap opera is not the place to take inspiration for cherishing the heart and home. For example, take the recap of the plot for merely the week of January 3, 2005, which reads as follows:

"Luke discovers that the woman who was following Emily and Connor around was paid to do so. Emily and Connor work on becoming more comfortable with each other. Diego learns that his sister, Maria, is really his mother. Sonny plans to take his children and Jordan to his island but agrees to let Kristina get used to Ric before taking her on vacation. Sonny buys Greystone out from under Ric and Alexis. Someone knocks Jordan unconscious and takes a mold of the key to Sonny's new house. Carly convinces Jason that even if Bridget takes her baby back in the year he can't deprive her of the love he has to give her now. Sam wants to name the baby "Hope." Courtney shows up at Jason's just as he and Sam are going to make love and tells them about Bridget's issue in her new school."

Not so much with the cherishing, as it were.

But we'll see. After all, she might be thinking more along the lines of Luke's place, which is sort of vibrant and fun and eclectic. And she does play Laura, of "Luke and Laura" fame, so you never know.

Had she asked me, though, I'd have turned to her husband for inspiration. See, soap watchers are probably already in the local tourist demographic. She should be thinking more of marketing to new and different clientele. Clearly, The Next Generation would have been a better direction to go in naming a home shop that intends to break the mold. She could get an entirely new group of tourists to the region, I'm sure.

how to combat (un)seasonal affective disorder

1. Realize you have to get out of the house and decide to go to CVS.

2. Look out the window. Notice the fog is so thick you cannot see the building next door.

3. Ask husband if he needs anything from store. Write down "deodorant" and "face wash."

4. Drive over bridge, wondering idly what the actual visibility is, and if Casco Bay is actually still there below you.

5. Park in slightly puddly, damp parking lot.

6. Realize husband's deodorant of choice is on sale -- two for the price of one. Grab two of the same scent.

7. Spend ten minutes reading various men's skin care labels.

8. Go back and get two different scents of deodorant.

9. Choose a face wash.

10. Wander into hair care aisle.

11. Go back to face wash and get a different one, just because.

12. Back to hair care. Notice that the fun hair color with the built-in kit for highlights is 33% off.

13. Decide that if you're going to highlight your hair, you'd better get some self-tan spray and do the whole thing right.

14. Go to cash register. Justify the fact that you are buying hair color and self-tan spray by noting the free deodorant. Ignore the fact that these two items cost six times as much as the amount you saved.

15. Banter with checkout girl when total spent comes to exactly $45, even.

16. Banter more when cash register prints out nine coupons.

17. Go home. Put away purchases.

18. Take purchases back out. Contemplate usage.

19. Use products as offering to gods of sun and weather.

20. Sun comes out. Life is good.

21. And tan.

doppelganger

Seen today in a parking lot (in Maine, not New Hampshire, actually).

Amazingly, this is not my license plate.

And I'm a little weirded out.

would you like some whine with that?

I apologize. I've been whining a lot lately, which really doesn't get anyone anywhere.

Except for the fact that the rain has been overwhelmingly intermittent at best, friends with busy calendars are gradually becoming more available, and my work schedule is picking up (which has the always-welcome dual benefits of added income and mental stimulation).

I think I'd better not take this turn of events too much to heart. If I do, well, next thing you know, I'll be throwing temper tantrums when the store runs out of my favorite olives or some other such nonsensical idiocy.

After all, with great power comes great responsibility. I must save this talent for moments of real, true, desperate need.

Or for items like this.

even worse, it looks the same for the next ten days

If you'll excuse me, I'll be sticking my finger in an electrical socket now. I figure it's my best chance at finding some bright light.

hope in a pastry shell

Today has been one of those days where things just don't seem to be going right in the world: people gone who shouldn't be gone; no answers to major questions; a general feeling of life-drift. Dinner didn't happen until after Jim played a double-header in kickball, and by then I'd just about given up trying to puzzle out the rest of it.

Then my friend Melissa called.

Melissa: "Hey, what are you two up to?"

Me: "Crashed on the couch watching TiVoed Daily Show and Colbert."

Melissa: "I just got out of rehearsal and I'm coming over. I have something yummy for you."

Me: "Oh, geez...really, we just ate..."

Melissa: "Tough. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Me: "{silence}"

Melissa: "Trust me, you of all people will appreciate this, whether you eat it now or later."

Me: "Uh...ok. Come on over."

Ten minutes later, Melissa came in the door holding a box from Mike's Pastry.

Which was, as you might imagine, chock full of cannoli.

Me: {almost drooling}"Oh. My. God. You. Didn't."

Melissa: "See? I knew you'd think this was worth it."

Melissa is, truly, the best.

And suddenly, even if the world is not quite living up to expectation, well... at least it has Mike's cannoli.

Trite as it may be, this is for Alan, the first person -- via FAP -- to take me to Mike's. I'll miss you.

schlemiel, schlimazl

Yesterday, the New York Times printed this article about Jews in northwest Arkansas, brought there by Wal-Mart and/or its providers.

The article in and of itself is moderately interesting, but what really caught my eye was one of the "Related" links.

See, one brief paragraph mentions "Ron Haberman, a doctor and synagogue member, who has introduced Jewish cuisine to the county. His new restaurant, Eat This, next door to a new 140,000-square-foot glass-enclosed Baptist church, serves knishes, matzo ball soup and latkes." The sidebar links to the Eat This menu which might be the funniest menu I could ever have imagined, much less actually read.

Don't believe me? How about the entry for the Eat This! Soup Special: "Ask your server for details. You can also ask your server for money or a Lexus but if all you get are soup details, be happy. At least you still have your health, kinehora!"

Or the description of Bubbe Sadie's Blintzes: "Language Alert: The "Bu" in Bubbe (which means grandmother in Yiddish) is pronounced like the first 3 letters in "book." This is in contradistinction to the pronunciation of the Southern name Bubba (who is somebody's brother-cousin in Central Arkansas). "

You gotta give this guy credit for whistling in the dark. I can really only imagine that the people actually giggling at the menu are people who don't need the explanations, but still, if you need a little chuckle, check it out. It's good times.

Now if you'll excuse me, I wants to get me some of them thar LOT-kuz.

ETA:Jim points out that this article falls squarely inside the "Wacky Jew" beat, which we and our friend Alana used to laugh about each week. I feel like the beat has not been terribly active of late...perhaps this heralds a return to form, as it were.

That, or the reporter just really wanted some rugelach.