Yesterday afternoon I got the call informing me that my wedding dress had arrived at the bridal shop. It was all the prompting I needed to suit up in my new workout gear and hit the gym.
Ladies, if you think you have a hard time finding clothes that fit just right, just wait until it's time to go wedding dress shopping. At bridal shops, all of your body image issues will be laid out before you, with a numerical value assigned to each.
For me, that played out in the form of some disproportionate measurements when I ordered the dress this past fall: size 2 bust, size 6–8 hips, size 8–10 waist. (Gap.com tells me my thigh is a size 2 - just for another data point.) Not news to me, but it was still a bit deflating to see on paper. Knowing the hell I go through trying to find jeans that fit this frame, I have nothing but dread for the seven rounds of alterations I'm undoubtedly in for with this dress.
In an effort to control as much as I can of my own destiny, it's time to get back into the habit of regular gym-going. I'm telling myself that the fact that I went on December 29 instead of waiting until January 1 means it's not a New Year's resolution but rather simply a year-round good habit.
It's a drop in the bucket, but a two-mile jog is better than nothing, and it's enough to give me that general feeling of put-together-ness that's really the main reason I work out.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
What's My Name?
I believe any self-respecting animal, when brought into a household, will see that it earns itself at least two to three serviceable nicknames.
That's just a starting point. Additional nicknames can be dispensed according to the animal's propensity for mischief and hijinks.
Gizmo, for instance, is better known as Gizmeister, Gizmatic, Gizmodo, G-Money, and simply G.
Annie, on the other hand, has racked up Annabelle, Annie Sue, Princess, Pretty Girl, Annie Susannie, Annie Banannie, and Killer. Probably more I'm missing right now. More mischief = more nicknames.
She's "Trouble" when I walk into the kitchen and find her nose under the lid of the trash can. A sharp "HEY!" is enough to put all four paws on the ground, but more yelling never does any good. She just gives me the "huh?" look, with the doggie head tilt and the attentive floppy terrier ears that bounce along as she trots on to her next conquest. She's such a damn optimistic little dog. She'll never develop a conscience on matters like this — she'll just put a little bit of effort into not getting caught. Really, it's our fault for giving her the opportunity to get into trouble in the first place. So I just shake my head and take out the trash, which I knew I needed to be getting around to anyway.
"Problem child." There's another one.
Gizmo's current shenanigans of choice all involve the Christmas tree. I think it was deformed within hours of purchase after he sprang through the branches trying to attack my hand as I hung ornaments. But who can blame the guy. That's a kitty playground if there ever was one.
We're eyeing a nice little doggie named Kali at the Humane Society. Her description says she loves to play with other doggies — sometimes more than the other doggies really appreciate. That's Annie to the core. If this Kali thing pans out, we'll have to work on building up a bank of nicknames. I'll start with supercalifragilistic.
Based on her description, I think she'll earn a few more.
That's just a starting point. Additional nicknames can be dispensed according to the animal's propensity for mischief and hijinks.
Gizmo, for instance, is better known as Gizmeister, Gizmatic, Gizmodo, G-Money, and simply G.
Annie, on the other hand, has racked up Annabelle, Annie Sue, Princess, Pretty Girl, Annie Susannie, Annie Banannie, and Killer. Probably more I'm missing right now. More mischief = more nicknames.
She's "Trouble" when I walk into the kitchen and find her nose under the lid of the trash can. A sharp "HEY!" is enough to put all four paws on the ground, but more yelling never does any good. She just gives me the "huh?" look, with the doggie head tilt and the attentive floppy terrier ears that bounce along as she trots on to her next conquest. She's such a damn optimistic little dog. She'll never develop a conscience on matters like this — she'll just put a little bit of effort into not getting caught. Really, it's our fault for giving her the opportunity to get into trouble in the first place. So I just shake my head and take out the trash, which I knew I needed to be getting around to anyway.
"Problem child." There's another one.
Gizmo's current shenanigans of choice all involve the Christmas tree. I think it was deformed within hours of purchase after he sprang through the branches trying to attack my hand as I hung ornaments. But who can blame the guy. That's a kitty playground if there ever was one.
We're eyeing a nice little doggie named Kali at the Humane Society. Her description says she loves to play with other doggies — sometimes more than the other doggies really appreciate. That's Annie to the core. If this Kali thing pans out, we'll have to work on building up a bank of nicknames. I'll start with supercalifragilistic.
Based on her description, I think she'll earn a few more.
The Great Sage James Lipton Speaks
Can we just retire the word "sexting" and all media coverage thereof?
This morning, the top headline on IndyStar.com read "Poll: Sexting common among young people / Teens do not think about the consequences of sharing racy images, experts say." Earlier this week, the Today Show ran yet another segment on the dangers of "sexting," designed to frighten mothers everywhere with the tale of a teen who committed suicide after her racy photos were exposed to peers. Or something. I'll admit, I left the room when I saw her mother sitting on the couch with Meredith Vieira.
A tragic story, no doubt, but dirty pictures don't actually kill anyone. To draw a direct line between hitting "send" and ending one's life is a gross oversimplification of the complex tragedy of teen suicide.
A Google search for "the dangers of sexting" returns 110,000 results, but really, I can only think of one: nakey pix ending up in the hands of someone other than the intended recipient. If, in the image-centric years of teenagedom, the threat of that kind of exposure isn't enough of a deterrent, the dire scare tactics of the Today Show will at best be laughed at.
Possibly even more grating than the coverage of sexting is the etymology. Dirty pictures are neither sex nor text, but apparently the concurrence of Xs was just too sweet to pass up. And while my connection to teenagers is tenuous at best, the second definition on UrbanDictionary.com confirms my suspicions that the word is not of the kids' construction but rather the media's.
So kudos to LG for treating the phenomenon with humor rather than doomsday warnings in this highly watchable (and re-watchable, and forwardable) PSA featuring James Lipton. (Double kudos for resisting the urge to say "sexting".) Ad wizards have figured out what the national news media can't: kids will pay less attention to the sensational-but-rare consequence than they will to the more likely and relatable one.
That's the message, kids. Don't sext, lest there be tweets about your petes.
This morning, the top headline on IndyStar.com read "Poll: Sexting common among young people / Teens do not think about the consequences of sharing racy images, experts say." Earlier this week, the Today Show ran yet another segment on the dangers of "sexting," designed to frighten mothers everywhere with the tale of a teen who committed suicide after her racy photos were exposed to peers. Or something. I'll admit, I left the room when I saw her mother sitting on the couch with Meredith Vieira.
A tragic story, no doubt, but dirty pictures don't actually kill anyone. To draw a direct line between hitting "send" and ending one's life is a gross oversimplification of the complex tragedy of teen suicide.
A Google search for "the dangers of sexting" returns 110,000 results, but really, I can only think of one: nakey pix ending up in the hands of someone other than the intended recipient. If, in the image-centric years of teenagedom, the threat of that kind of exposure isn't enough of a deterrent, the dire scare tactics of the Today Show will at best be laughed at.
Possibly even more grating than the coverage of sexting is the etymology. Dirty pictures are neither sex nor text, but apparently the concurrence of Xs was just too sweet to pass up. And while my connection to teenagers is tenuous at best, the second definition on UrbanDictionary.com confirms my suspicions that the word is not of the kids' construction but rather the media's.
So kudos to LG for treating the phenomenon with humor rather than doomsday warnings in this highly watchable (and re-watchable, and forwardable) PSA featuring James Lipton. (Double kudos for resisting the urge to say "sexting".) Ad wizards have figured out what the national news media can't: kids will pay less attention to the sensational-but-rare consequence than they will to the more likely and relatable one.
That's the message, kids. Don't sext, lest there be tweets about your petes.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
New Favorite Word: Accessory
Mystery = solved. I was hoping it would be something crazy, like an inferior twin I had absorbed while we were competing for resources in the womb, but an extra rib is probably the next-best thing.
Turns out this "neck mass" has been there all along. It's an accessory first rib or cervical rib—an extra rib bone that lives above where a normal human's first rib would be. The head and neck specialist I saw today said I was born with it and I will go the rest of my life with it, and there is almost no chance it will ever become symptomatic. He described it as "a rare, but not unheard-of, anatomical abnormality."
These were welcome words after I had spent the last month wondering what was protruding out of my neck. All I knew was that it wasn't cancer, which, to my neurotic brain, meant everything else in all of known and unknown medical science was on the table. And with everything on the table, who knew what unspeakably torturous acts of testing and treatment might lie ahead.
Not that the exam today was entirely pleasant. It began with two doctors performing a full head and neck exam plus an extensive manual inspection of the anomaly. In followed about three more doctors, then two or three of their students, then a dental school prof and four or five of his students, each examining my neck to various degrees. They speculated early on that a cervical rib was the culprit, so by the time the students were paraded through, I felt more like a case study than a patient. A circus exhibit. "Here we have a young lady with an accessory rib," said dental-school guy to his students. They filed past one by one and mashed around on the protrusion.
A review of the CT scan images confirmed the cervical rib, placing me in a relatively small group (one in 500 people, according to Wikipedia) of similar mutants. Sadly, no special powers come along with the trait, but not too many downsides appear to either. At least one source seems to suspect a link between rib anomalies and early childhood cancer, for which I'd be well out of the woods by now, and Wikipedia suggests a possible but pretty slight risk of something called thoracic outlet syndrome.
So rather than cancer or any other of a million potential health threats, instead all I have is (finally) a response to that "tell us something interesting about yourself" prompt that comes up at work retreats and the like. It was such a relief that I grinned a few times during the latter half of my exam. When the doctor said I had "a rare, but not unheard-of, anatomical abnormality," I said, "So basically, a cool new fact about me?"
"A cool new fact about you," he replied.
Weird, but I'll take it.
Turns out this "neck mass" has been there all along. It's an accessory first rib or cervical rib—an extra rib bone that lives above where a normal human's first rib would be. The head and neck specialist I saw today said I was born with it and I will go the rest of my life with it, and there is almost no chance it will ever become symptomatic. He described it as "a rare, but not unheard-of, anatomical abnormality."
These were welcome words after I had spent the last month wondering what was protruding out of my neck. All I knew was that it wasn't cancer, which, to my neurotic brain, meant everything else in all of known and unknown medical science was on the table. And with everything on the table, who knew what unspeakably torturous acts of testing and treatment might lie ahead.
Not that the exam today was entirely pleasant. It began with two doctors performing a full head and neck exam plus an extensive manual inspection of the anomaly. In followed about three more doctors, then two or three of their students, then a dental school prof and four or five of his students, each examining my neck to various degrees. They speculated early on that a cervical rib was the culprit, so by the time the students were paraded through, I felt more like a case study than a patient. A circus exhibit. "Here we have a young lady with an accessory rib," said dental-school guy to his students. They filed past one by one and mashed around on the protrusion.
A review of the CT scan images confirmed the cervical rib, placing me in a relatively small group (one in 500 people, according to Wikipedia) of similar mutants. Sadly, no special powers come along with the trait, but not too many downsides appear to either. At least one source seems to suspect a link between rib anomalies and early childhood cancer, for which I'd be well out of the woods by now, and Wikipedia suggests a possible but pretty slight risk of something called thoracic outlet syndrome.
So rather than cancer or any other of a million potential health threats, instead all I have is (finally) a response to that "tell us something interesting about yourself" prompt that comes up at work retreats and the like. It was such a relief that I grinned a few times during the latter half of my exam. When the doctor said I had "a rare, but not unheard-of, anatomical abnormality," I said, "So basically, a cool new fact about me?"
"A cool new fact about you," he replied.
Weird, but I'll take it.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
So You Think You Can...Squeal
I'm gonna go ahead and be one of those people and say I liked So You Think You Can Dance better before it was cool.
I have a severe lady-crush on Cat Deeley, so it will be pretty tough to get me to stop watching. But it's like they're trying to lose me.
The stage upgrade isn't helping. I feel like the constant movement of the LEDs pulls the eye away from the performers and often sets a Vegas-y tone that doesn't always suit the routines. I was thrilled last week when they reined it in for Kathryn and Legacy's performance. I'd like to see more of that.
The squealing teenage girl contingent—whose influence is reflected in the continued presence of Mollee and Nathan, and with whom Nigel seems increasingly frustrated—pull the feel of the show more toward American Idol than I'm comfortable with.
It seems maybe the rush to bring another season to light so quickly in the wake of the stellar fifth season has either taken a toll on the quality or taken the air out of my enthusiasm. In my defiant avoidance of the seemingly endless audition process, I've missed getting to know the dancers and probably couldn't pick half the cast out of a police lineup. Maybe I've also missed out on getting emotionally invested in these kids.
That said, I'm thrilled by the addition of Adam Shankman as a permanent judge. He adds a much-needed consistently technical voice to the panel, yet manages to balance his critiques with a reminder of how much fun we're all having. Together with Nigel, whose measured and informed criticism I've always been a fan of, I'm hoping Shanks can help put a lid on Mary Murphy. My remote control's mute button would appreciate the relief.
What has always brought me back to the show is the legitimate talent—and, clunky as it is to say, art—on display on the part of both the choreographers and the performers. And for as easy as it would be to go the other way, the skill level seems to have risen in tandem with the show's popularity. But until we start seeing some memorable routines and some real star power emerge out of this current cast, I'm going to wonder whether that trend peaked with season five.
I have a severe lady-crush on Cat Deeley, so it will be pretty tough to get me to stop watching. But it's like they're trying to lose me.
The stage upgrade isn't helping. I feel like the constant movement of the LEDs pulls the eye away from the performers and often sets a Vegas-y tone that doesn't always suit the routines. I was thrilled last week when they reined it in for Kathryn and Legacy's performance. I'd like to see more of that.
The squealing teenage girl contingent—whose influence is reflected in the continued presence of Mollee and Nathan, and with whom Nigel seems increasingly frustrated—pull the feel of the show more toward American Idol than I'm comfortable with.
It seems maybe the rush to bring another season to light so quickly in the wake of the stellar fifth season has either taken a toll on the quality or taken the air out of my enthusiasm. In my defiant avoidance of the seemingly endless audition process, I've missed getting to know the dancers and probably couldn't pick half the cast out of a police lineup. Maybe I've also missed out on getting emotionally invested in these kids.
That said, I'm thrilled by the addition of Adam Shankman as a permanent judge. He adds a much-needed consistently technical voice to the panel, yet manages to balance his critiques with a reminder of how much fun we're all having. Together with Nigel, whose measured and informed criticism I've always been a fan of, I'm hoping Shanks can help put a lid on Mary Murphy. My remote control's mute button would appreciate the relief.
What has always brought me back to the show is the legitimate talent—and, clunky as it is to say, art—on display on the part of both the choreographers and the performers. And for as easy as it would be to go the other way, the skill level seems to have risen in tandem with the show's popularity. But until we start seeing some memorable routines and some real star power emerge out of this current cast, I'm going to wonder whether that trend peaked with season five.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
New Least-Favorite Word: Mass
I was hoping the "IV" on the door was Roman numerals. I was not so lucky.
"IV" meant that for the second time in a month, a needle was going into my arm, sending me into what I'm guessing is a mild form of panic attack.
Apparently CT scans can be done with or without a "contrast medium" - an iodine-based substance that highlights the patient's blood vessels on the scanned image. Mine required the contrast.
The CT scan will hopefully help my doctor identify a mysterious knotty mass in the right side of my neck. A blood test (panic attack #1) showed normal white blood cell counts, ruling out lymphoma, which appeared to be the first and/or worst concern. I'm not clear on what that leaves, but apparently the imaging will narrow it down.
It's been there for a while without changing. I'm not even sure how long. I got a massage in April and the therapist noticed it then, but I had been vaguely aware of it for probably another six months or year before that. And because I'm not in the habit of mashing around on my neck, for all I know I could have been born with it and just never paid attention.
Even after the massage therapist told me to get it checked out, I sat on it for a while. I figured if it hadn't changed in however many months, it may never change, and probably wasn't anything. Worse yet, I figured it would take a lot of expensive and uncomfortable poking and prodding to figure out that it was nothing.* And my phobia is such that I would rather this thing grow a face and start talking to me than have to have so much as a simple blood test.
My fear of needles is highly irrational. That's established. It's not even a fear so much as a reaction. And it's not the pain that bothers me. It's not even really the needle.
It's the vein.
Even the word makes me cringe. Vein. Ugh. I don't like acknowledging the existence of my veins. I don't like taking my own pulse. I really don't like other people messing with my pulse points. So sticking a needle in there is pretty much psychological torture. I squirm, I groan and whine, I grit my teeth, I get tunnel vision, white out, cold sweats, lightheaded, need to lie down. Torture. I think I'd do better with waterboarding.
Ideally, and probably, this neck mass will turn out to be nothing. But if nothing else, it has let me know that I never again want the doctor to look at me and say "I have no idea what that is." The anxiety and the inconclusive tests are one thing, but I have a feeling the bills are going to be a whole 'nother.
*Update 11/11: CT scan reveals nothing. Literally, they don't even see anything where the mass should be. Confirms it's not swollen lymph nodes, but beyond that, still a mystery. So I get to see specialists - that's plural - next week, who will no doubt order more tests that provide no conclusive answers.
"IV" meant that for the second time in a month, a needle was going into my arm, sending me into what I'm guessing is a mild form of panic attack.
Apparently CT scans can be done with or without a "contrast medium" - an iodine-based substance that highlights the patient's blood vessels on the scanned image. Mine required the contrast.
The CT scan will hopefully help my doctor identify a mysterious knotty mass in the right side of my neck. A blood test (panic attack #1) showed normal white blood cell counts, ruling out lymphoma, which appeared to be the first and/or worst concern. I'm not clear on what that leaves, but apparently the imaging will narrow it down.
It's been there for a while without changing. I'm not even sure how long. I got a massage in April and the therapist noticed it then, but I had been vaguely aware of it for probably another six months or year before that. And because I'm not in the habit of mashing around on my neck, for all I know I could have been born with it and just never paid attention.
Even after the massage therapist told me to get it checked out, I sat on it for a while. I figured if it hadn't changed in however many months, it may never change, and probably wasn't anything. Worse yet, I figured it would take a lot of expensive and uncomfortable poking and prodding to figure out that it was nothing.* And my phobia is such that I would rather this thing grow a face and start talking to me than have to have so much as a simple blood test.
My fear of needles is highly irrational. That's established. It's not even a fear so much as a reaction. And it's not the pain that bothers me. It's not even really the needle.
It's the vein.
Even the word makes me cringe. Vein. Ugh. I don't like acknowledging the existence of my veins. I don't like taking my own pulse. I really don't like other people messing with my pulse points. So sticking a needle in there is pretty much psychological torture. I squirm, I groan and whine, I grit my teeth, I get tunnel vision, white out, cold sweats, lightheaded, need to lie down. Torture. I think I'd do better with waterboarding.
Ideally, and probably, this neck mass will turn out to be nothing. But if nothing else, it has let me know that I never again want the doctor to look at me and say "I have no idea what that is." The anxiety and the inconclusive tests are one thing, but I have a feeling the bills are going to be a whole 'nother.
*Update 11/11: CT scan reveals nothing. Literally, they don't even see anything where the mass should be. Confirms it's not swollen lymph nodes, but beyond that, still a mystery. So I get to see specialists - that's plural - next week, who will no doubt order more tests that provide no conclusive answers.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Insert Witty Balloon Pun Here
Stumbled upon this today:
http://www.npr.org/blogs/talk/2009/10/what_fate_for_balloon_boys_par.html
"[S]hould the parents be somehow punished?"
Should they? Sure. But how do you go about punishing these people?
This family sought out to orchestrate a large-scale publicity stunt in pursuit of a reality TV show deal, and to date they've gotten about six days of wall-to-wall national coverage and a splash of international attention. Unless a judge bars the family from coming into contact with a video camera for the rest of their days, there's no punishment on earth that would make them regret the stunt or deter other fame-seekers from trying to match or even outdo them.
Networks are undoubtedly biding their time until they can assess where the legal chips are going to fall, gauge the ongoing public interest, and see if the family's asking price will go down. Then they'll pay any debts owed to the authorities for the costs of the rescue operation and the show will air somewhere between Kate + 8 and the Duggar family trainwreck.
Punish them? It can't be done.
http://www.npr.org/blogs/talk/2009/10/what_fate_for_balloon_boys_par.html
"[S]hould the parents be somehow punished?"
Should they? Sure. But how do you go about punishing these people?
This family sought out to orchestrate a large-scale publicity stunt in pursuit of a reality TV show deal, and to date they've gotten about six days of wall-to-wall national coverage and a splash of international attention. Unless a judge bars the family from coming into contact with a video camera for the rest of their days, there's no punishment on earth that would make them regret the stunt or deter other fame-seekers from trying to match or even outdo them.
Networks are undoubtedly biding their time until they can assess where the legal chips are going to fall, gauge the ongoing public interest, and see if the family's asking price will go down. Then they'll pay any debts owed to the authorities for the costs of the rescue operation and the show will air somewhere between Kate + 8 and the Duggar family trainwreck.
Punish them? It can't be done.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Is that a real question?
My new favorite phrase: Let's follow that thought to its logical conclusion.
This afternoon's HARO email included the following query from a Fox News writer:
1) With "Bruno" coming out, are the stereotypes Sacha Baron Cohen perpetuating bad for the gay community -- just as strides are being made in areas like gay marriage; 2) Just what groups *are* ok to laugh at any more -- has PC-ism changed comedy?
WRT #1: Fair enough, I guess. It assumes the premise that Cohen is perpetuating stereotypes, which could be argued, but meh.
What I'm really curious about is #2. What is the real question being asked here? What constitutes "ok"?
Are you asking whether there are any groups humorists can mock or belittle without fear of offending anyone? Because the answer would, of course, be "no." Of course there aren't. Are you talking about satire? Aiming for a higher concept may offend fewer, but surely there are some in the audience who will miss the point, and others who get the joke but still take offense.
Are you talking about laughing at bad gay jokes in the breakroom? Actual government censorship?
The question seeks to lead the answerer to the conclusion that political correctness has had a censoring effect on comedy, and that this is bad. (Which, by the way, is not supported by the existence of the movie cited in question #1.) As a representative of a network that's regularly seen to be in league with the types of people featured in the video at http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2009/06/video_rabid_letterman_protesto.html, is the writer suggesting that the world would be a funnier place if the David Lettermans of the world were making more jokes about whichever Palin daughter? Doubt it.
This afternoon's HARO email included the following query from a Fox News writer:
1) With "Bruno" coming out, are the stereotypes Sacha Baron Cohen perpetuating bad for the gay community -- just as strides are being made in areas like gay marriage; 2) Just what groups *are* ok to laugh at any more -- has PC-ism changed comedy?
WRT #1: Fair enough, I guess. It assumes the premise that Cohen is perpetuating stereotypes, which could be argued, but meh.
What I'm really curious about is #2. What is the real question being asked here? What constitutes "ok"?
Are you asking whether there are any groups humorists can mock or belittle without fear of offending anyone? Because the answer would, of course, be "no." Of course there aren't. Are you talking about satire? Aiming for a higher concept may offend fewer, but surely there are some in the audience who will miss the point, and others who get the joke but still take offense.
Are you talking about laughing at bad gay jokes in the breakroom? Actual government censorship?
The question seeks to lead the answerer to the conclusion that political correctness has had a censoring effect on comedy, and that this is bad. (Which, by the way, is not supported by the existence of the movie cited in question #1.) As a representative of a network that's regularly seen to be in league with the types of people featured in the video at http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2009/06/video_rabid_letterman_protesto.html, is the writer suggesting that the world would be a funnier place if the David Lettermans of the world were making more jokes about whichever Palin daughter? Doubt it.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
The First of >25 Things
A couple months ago, the "25 random things about me" meme was all over Facebook. Users were to publish 25 facts about themselves and tag 25 people. The 25 tag-ees were then to publish their 25 random facts, re-tag the tagger and 24 others, and on it goes. Spread like a virus.
As is characteristic, I missed the boat on this little fad. By the time I thought I had scratched together a passable collection of random facts, the thing was over. And really, I think I was hung up around 23 or 24.
So reproduced below, in expanded format, is the first of a few of the random observations I thunk up before abandoning the project altogether.
---
My greatest music-related guilty pleasure: On long solo drives, especially in the summer, I dig out a couple CDs loaded with country songs from when I was a kid and sing along.
My country listening started in the early '90s and fizzled late in the same decade. I tuned out right around the time Faith Hill started showing up on top-40 stations; for whatever reason, "crossover" country was a deal-breaker for me. But for a few years there, it didn't get any better than Reba McEntire and Garth Brooks.
That stuff does not age well, though. Looking back, I can safely say that if anyone tries to tell you country's not all about drinkin' and cheatin', they're in denial. Songs I actually have in my collection include "Bubba Shot the Jukebox," "Jukebox with a Country Song," and "Prop Me Up Beside the Jukebox" - and that's not the only theme. Whiskey is also big. Also rain, rodeos, and saying goodbye.
A focus on place is also heavily recurrent. Georgia, Austin, Arizona, Carolina, and Little Rock (twice) are among those represented in my playlist, and that's just the song titles. What is it that's so evocative about a dirt road, a muddy river, a slow train, or a small town?
It's an idealization of the American dream. A simpler time and place. A simpler way of life. Where everybody knows your name. How many of the people who identify with those places in song would be mind-numbingly bored by them in reality? But only the Dixie Chicks, in "Wide Open Spaces," sing about heading to the big city without attaching any consequences to it.
And despite my derision, the place theme is a big part of my nostalgia for the genre. An open road, man. Falling in love. Maybe it was Memphis. Porch swings. Hot summer nights. Maybe my nostalgia is actually for all the trouble I didn't get into around porch swings and muddy rivers when such things were right there in my backyard for the taking.
Or maybe, more simply, I'm just getting old and like to listen to stuff I already know the words to and can sing along with...on an open road...with the windows down...on the backroads of Indiana, on my way back home...
As is characteristic, I missed the boat on this little fad. By the time I thought I had scratched together a passable collection of random facts, the thing was over. And really, I think I was hung up around 23 or 24.
So reproduced below, in expanded format, is the first of a few of the random observations I thunk up before abandoning the project altogether.
---
My greatest music-related guilty pleasure: On long solo drives, especially in the summer, I dig out a couple CDs loaded with country songs from when I was a kid and sing along.
My country listening started in the early '90s and fizzled late in the same decade. I tuned out right around the time Faith Hill started showing up on top-40 stations; for whatever reason, "crossover" country was a deal-breaker for me. But for a few years there, it didn't get any better than Reba McEntire and Garth Brooks.
That stuff does not age well, though. Looking back, I can safely say that if anyone tries to tell you country's not all about drinkin' and cheatin', they're in denial. Songs I actually have in my collection include "Bubba Shot the Jukebox," "Jukebox with a Country Song," and "Prop Me Up Beside the Jukebox" - and that's not the only theme. Whiskey is also big. Also rain, rodeos, and saying goodbye.
A focus on place is also heavily recurrent. Georgia, Austin, Arizona, Carolina, and Little Rock (twice) are among those represented in my playlist, and that's just the song titles. What is it that's so evocative about a dirt road, a muddy river, a slow train, or a small town?
It's an idealization of the American dream. A simpler time and place. A simpler way of life. Where everybody knows your name. How many of the people who identify with those places in song would be mind-numbingly bored by them in reality? But only the Dixie Chicks, in "Wide Open Spaces," sing about heading to the big city without attaching any consequences to it.
And despite my derision, the place theme is a big part of my nostalgia for the genre. An open road, man. Falling in love. Maybe it was Memphis. Porch swings. Hot summer nights. Maybe my nostalgia is actually for all the trouble I didn't get into around porch swings and muddy rivers when such things were right there in my backyard for the taking.
Or maybe, more simply, I'm just getting old and like to listen to stuff I already know the words to and can sing along with...on an open road...with the windows down...on the backroads of Indiana, on my way back home...
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Problem Child
Sometimes I think I give Annie a little less credit than she deserves.
Yesterday in PetSmart, where we got our regular mani/pedi, a sales associate asked her age and seemed surprised when I said she's about a year and a half.
Usually, this reaction comes because the inquirer has assumed she's only about half-grown – she has an eternally youthful look about her, I guess. But the sales associate instead commented on how well-behaved she was, presumably for someone with as much puppy left in her.
I gave a little "Pfft! Who, my dog?" expression of incredulity and proceeded to tell her just how mistaken she was, gushing about how much of a different animal Annie is without this Gentle Leader collar on, etc., etc.
But later on, I got to thinking about it. I'm certainly used to being the mother of a poorly-behaved dog, and she did promptly jump up and put her paws on said sales associate after being complimented for her behavior, and she was a bit squirmy during the nail trim and file.
Around the house, though – and really just in general – she's showing me in little ways that she's learning to live in our world more and more. And with that, we're also learning more and more how to live with her in our world.
Annie was not an apartment dog. That's well-established. Despite our best efforts, she was having potty incidents at a rate of once or twice a week. She gave her share of impolite greetings to the neighborhood kids. And, presumably because she figured the whole complex was her territory, unsuspecting strangers were often subjected to a high-alert warning bark during the course of a regular walk or potty break.
Now, though, it seems that a few months' maturity and a few hundred extra square feet of indoor space has been the medicine she needed. Whether it's the added space for running (or, more accurately, chasing the cat), the easier and speedier potty breaks in a designated space, the quieter surroundings, happier owners, or all of the above combined, she seems to be growing day by day into a more contented, less mischievous animal.
It doesn't hurt that, on those occasions when she is mischievous, we're getting a better idea of how to get the result we want. The key, really, is to work with her rather than against her. I've come to the conclusion that she's never going to learn what she is and is not supposed to get into. She's never going to be like my mom's dog, Sally, who can inherently tell an intended dog toy from, say, her owner's glasses or retainer (or dryer sheets, or wallet, or iPod, or cat poop – the list goes on). When Annie grabs a sock out of the laundry basket and trots past me with her ears perked up, she's not being "bad" – she wants to play. Rather than yelling and trying to chase her down, I find it's most effective to cheerfully ask her to bring it over, just as I would when she has a toy she wants me to throw for her, and unceremoniously take it from her and put it away.
Maybe it's because I'm old, but there's something therapeutic about having this little mutt around. Something comforting about waking up weekdays in the fetal position because the dog is stretched out across two-thirds of the bed, or on weekends being woken way too early by a stare I can feel with my eyes closed because she wants to do business and eat breakfast NOW, only to go right back to bed and sleep for three or four hours. Something heartwarming about being greeted every time I walk through the door by a 35-pound animal that springs three feet off the ground to try to kiss my face. Something adorable about the knowledge that at any moment, she might barrel around the corner and bowl the cat over and chase him to the top of the fridge.
Yeah, no – she's still a bad dog.
Yesterday in PetSmart, where we got our regular mani/pedi, a sales associate asked her age and seemed surprised when I said she's about a year and a half.
Usually, this reaction comes because the inquirer has assumed she's only about half-grown – she has an eternally youthful look about her, I guess. But the sales associate instead commented on how well-behaved she was, presumably for someone with as much puppy left in her.
I gave a little "Pfft! Who, my dog?" expression of incredulity and proceeded to tell her just how mistaken she was, gushing about how much of a different animal Annie is without this Gentle Leader collar on, etc., etc.
But later on, I got to thinking about it. I'm certainly used to being the mother of a poorly-behaved dog, and she did promptly jump up and put her paws on said sales associate after being complimented for her behavior, and she was a bit squirmy during the nail trim and file.
Around the house, though – and really just in general – she's showing me in little ways that she's learning to live in our world more and more. And with that, we're also learning more and more how to live with her in our world.
Annie was not an apartment dog. That's well-established. Despite our best efforts, she was having potty incidents at a rate of once or twice a week. She gave her share of impolite greetings to the neighborhood kids. And, presumably because she figured the whole complex was her territory, unsuspecting strangers were often subjected to a high-alert warning bark during the course of a regular walk or potty break.
Now, though, it seems that a few months' maturity and a few hundred extra square feet of indoor space has been the medicine she needed. Whether it's the added space for running (or, more accurately, chasing the cat), the easier and speedier potty breaks in a designated space, the quieter surroundings, happier owners, or all of the above combined, she seems to be growing day by day into a more contented, less mischievous animal.
It doesn't hurt that, on those occasions when she is mischievous, we're getting a better idea of how to get the result we want. The key, really, is to work with her rather than against her. I've come to the conclusion that she's never going to learn what she is and is not supposed to get into. She's never going to be like my mom's dog, Sally, who can inherently tell an intended dog toy from, say, her owner's glasses or retainer (or dryer sheets, or wallet, or iPod, or cat poop – the list goes on). When Annie grabs a sock out of the laundry basket and trots past me with her ears perked up, she's not being "bad" – she wants to play. Rather than yelling and trying to chase her down, I find it's most effective to cheerfully ask her to bring it over, just as I would when she has a toy she wants me to throw for her, and unceremoniously take it from her and put it away.
Maybe it's because I'm old, but there's something therapeutic about having this little mutt around. Something comforting about waking up weekdays in the fetal position because the dog is stretched out across two-thirds of the bed, or on weekends being woken way too early by a stare I can feel with my eyes closed because she wants to do business and eat breakfast NOW, only to go right back to bed and sleep for three or four hours. Something heartwarming about being greeted every time I walk through the door by a 35-pound animal that springs three feet off the ground to try to kiss my face. Something adorable about the knowledge that at any moment, she might barrel around the corner and bowl the cat over and chase him to the top of the fridge.
Yeah, no – she's still a bad dog.
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