Boo!

So last night I made a big mistake. I've had a stack of Netflix movies piled up on my TV for about three weeks now (which goes against every "don't put off what you can do today" instinct) and finally could simply not stand the little red packages staring me down any longer.

And so, I popped The Skeleton Key into the DVD player. At 10 p.m. In the dark. By myself. BIG mistake. I had somehow forgotten that I'm a bit of chicken when watching anything scary (which is loosely defined. I once screamed and hid under the cover during Signs). About 45 minutes into I realized the error of my ways but was too caught up in the suspense and trying to figure out if the movie was filmed before or after Kate Hudson had her baby.

Cut to 12 a.m., when I am sitting in my room, afraid to put my feet on the floor in order to get to the bathroom and generally feeling like I did at age 7 when I watched that scary fire episode of Webster.

I believe tonight I will be watching the Gilmore Girls instead.

Take a Look, It's in a Book

I'm recovering today from a late night Augusten Burroughs bender. You see, this week I finished Dry, his memoir about his experiences battling alcoholism. It was so good I couldn't stop there. I had to run out to the bookstore and get Running with Scissors, his memoir about his, um, eccentric childhood.

As promised, my corresponding book reports...

Running with Scissors

• Somehow makes living with your mother's psychologist, to whom she's given you away, having a 33 year old boyfriend and not going to school past middle school fairly normal, in a bizarre way.
• Burroughs self-depecrating humor is marvelous. Where a lesser author would have taken these tales of horror and bemoaned his very existence for 250 pages, the book is filled with humor, honesty and a practical look at a rather unusual upbringing.
• This book is not for the faint of heart or prudish---there are some rather abrupt graphic scenes that would not be appropriate for the wee ones.

Dry

• Loved this book. Absolutely loved it. I've never been an alcoholic, but I think everyone has struggled with an addiction of some sort (my addiction may be trashy magazines and chocolate).
• Again, Burroughs takes a situation that could easily be suffocatingly painful and transforms his thoughts and experiences into the story of a journey, not an end.
• I am neither gay or male, but I appreciate that the story is not overtaken by his sexuality. Like all of us, it is a minor part of our overall selves. Again, bravo for not taking the easily sensational or trite route.

So far so good on the New Year's Resolution. My love of literature, seemingly dormant for the last couple years, is coming back strong. My college professors would be so proud.

Closure

Last night was a beautiful night...not only did I get to share in the Olympics festivities with a party that included coming in your pajamas (it was a school night after all and you needed to dive into bed immediately upon your return home), eating cheesy dip and Jimmy John's, girl porn (read: US Weekly, Life&Style, People, etc), and wearing medals around our neck that said "winner", but last night was also The Night That Sasha Fell. Twice.

I know, I know. That sounds horribly mean. But there is something so wonderful about the Karma of it all. Mean people should not be allowed to win Olympic gold. And, as I've said before, falling is funny. It almost made the fact that the Kwan wasn't there okay. Almost. And, our girl Kimmie didn't do so bad.

And so, I feel my Olympic obsession reaching a more healthy low. Until next time, that is.

Tick, Tock

When did we all become such impatient people? Was it when the telephone was invented? Or the car? Or, heaven help us, the Internet?

Today, I fell victim to our overdeveloped need for "Now!" I noticed it in my phone calls, my urgent messages, the exclamation marks added to emails, and, yes, my annoyance with the long salad bar line.

It was during my five minute salad wait that I suddenly regained consciousness and realized that I was being an impatient a-hole. Does it really matter if I get back to work five minutes later? No, I would be eating at my desk anyway. Did it matter if someone called me back at work instead of my cell phone? No, the world is not coming to an end. Did it matter if Yahoo! kicked me off email, thus erasing already-typed messages? A grudging no.

I fear that impatience has become like stress...something you feel that you must be under in today's world. Maybe the good ol' days were filled with hard labor and a decided lack of running water, but at least you didn't feel like your boss followed you home somehow via your cell phone.

Stay Tuned

Tonight's the night, dear reader. Women's Figure Skating begins.

Lest you think I have loss all class, let me clarify that the crap that's been on for the last few nights (ice dancing), is NOT a sport. Although the glares that were going on between the Italians (think Telemundo) put any staring contest I ever participated in to shame.

No, tonight the real fun begins. The montages, the skating fun facts (yes, lil' Hughes did bring Irena's dress to her), and the commentary of Dick Button. And, dear Lord, let there be falls. Dramatic falls. It may sound mean, but falling is funny. It brings back memories of way back when...when you thought Tom and Jerry were funny.

A brief aside: this past weekend was spent at my church with 75 high school girls. Despite the fact that, in general, it made me feel about 75 years old, it was reassuring to know that teenagers are still listening to Brown Eyed Girl and dancing to Like a Prayer. If they had only been wearing overalls, flannel shirts and birkenstocks, it would have been 1995 all over again.

Book Report

Part of my New Year's Resolutions List was to read at least one book a month and then talk about it with someone else. Friend Abbey has joined the bandwagon and has served as part of my book club so far, but I thought I would take a page from Entertainment Weekly (sorry, that's a horrific pun) and review said books on here as well.

And, so, I thought it only appropriate that to kick of the New Year that I read The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. The highlights are as follows:

1. Ms. Didion does a masterful job of describing those times in your life when what is sane and what is not begin to blur. aka magical thinking.
2. Despite the fact that the subject of the book is decidedly grim (a year of mourning), it somehow leaves you with a great sense of timeless humanity and the sameness of us all.
3. Joan Didion is one of those people that you only see within the stories of Vogue and remakes of the Great Gatsby. I have yet to meet a real life person like this, but through this book, am more convinced they exist.
4. The book's phrasing and syntax are yummy and make you rethink writing and language.

Stay tuned for the next report on Dry, Augusten Burrough's self-deprecatingly painful memoir.

XOXOXO

LeVar Burton

Don't Shoot!

Wow. So our VP is a moron. A gun-totting, law-breaking, friend-shooting moron, nonetheless. In Dick's honor, I've composed a brief Letterman-style list.

Top Ten Ways Dan Quayle is Looking Better and Better

10. His name is not Dick.

9. Though his mental health was often in doubt, his physical capacity to serve never was.

8. Danny was only involved in partisan newspapers, not nasty oil companies with ties to unmentionables in Iraq.

7. That whole Murphy Brown thing ain't looking so bad.

6. Marilyn Quayle is not the nut-job Lynn Cheney is. Like it or not, your choice of spouse says something about you.

5. What a waste it is to lose one's mind...or part of your face due to some buckshot.

4. Thankfully, Danny has moved to AZ and denounced any Hoosier roots. Texas still has to deal with Dick on a daily basis.

3. His name is not Dick.

2. Danny did not shoot an old man in the face.

1. While hunting drunk without a permit.

Can't We All Just Get Along?

My irritation of the day is a coworker (or two) who is of the mindset that no matter what is happening, what they are doing is most important and can interupt you at any given moment.

It makes me want to crack unprofessional jokes and send snide comments over passive-agressive email.

Seriously, what's up with these people who constantly scream "It's all about me!" and suddenly overtake your life when you were just sitting in your office, minding your own business.

Perhaps I should suggest Emily Post training for the workplace. Surely she too would be for politeness and against ego.

Long Live the Kween

Yesterday was a dark day, my friends. The Kwan has injured herself and will not be making Sasha Cohen eat ice in Torino. Sob.

I'll admit, it was hard to watch the press conference yesterday. I thought Scott Hamilton and Bob Costas were going to start crying like 13 year old girls during the interview (didn't we all?).

However, after a days worth of emotional distance and the accompaning perspective, I think it might be for the best. Isn't this better than the possibility of a skating embarrassment or a triple gone wrong?

And so, let us hope that the Kwan continues as she always has--no regrets and a gracefulness of spirit that seems to be lost on the Sasha and Taras of the world. So, for Torino 2006, long live the Kwan, down with Sasha and gimme Kimmie.

The Olympic Spirit

It's officially begun...the opening ceremonies have kicked off another two weeks of Olympic glory. Within the coming days, we will become intimately acquainted with athletes from Colorado, California, New York and all points in between. When we didn't know they even existed, suddenly we will care about that cute speed skater who has been going through a rough spot, only to find his spirit in skating. For the next two weeks, we'll know everything about the previously unknowns, only to have them dwindle into relative obscurity for the next four years.

And there are our old favorites, who we were previously introduced to thru 2002 montages, interviews and commercials. Vonetta Flowers. Apollo Ono. Mean Jean Racine who is not Racine now but may still be Mean. Those crazy curlers.

A few notes on the ceremony last night...First, what was up with the music during the parade of nations? It was like bad disco tunes from the 90s. The only thing missing was the My Heart Will Go On dance remix.

And, the outfits. Can someone please tell me why the Germans were wearing lime green and orange? And, apparently, the new trend in hats is fur, fur and more fur. The more Russia 1912 it looks, the better.

In short, or long, really, it's go time. Bring out your gold medal and American flag. Brush up on new skating scoring and the importance of athletics in a world gone mad. Remember the miracles of the last games and the promise of this year. Let the games begin...

You Get Knocked Down, But You Get Up Again

A belated thought or two about the Super Bowl...

• Commercials with people falling down are funny. Always.
• The Super Bowl is best watched with friends that are willing to be destracted. Really, it's not about the game (unless the Colts actually made it, in which case I would actually be paying attention to every down, pass and fumble).
• The Rolling Stones are old. I'd venture to say they roll very seldom anymore.
• Really, is a 19 hour pre-show neccessary? Give me a break. No one cares that much.

Cat Woman

So yesterday we had our regular Big Meeting with The Very Important People talking about Very Important Stuff. Normally, I try to be a fly on the wall and help the meeting go smoothly, while completely distancing myself from the topic at hand. Generally, this is easy because lately the the topic at hand seems to be finance or testing and frankly, I get bored.

Yesterday was really no exception except for one thing: The Cat Woman. Someone I got placed next to a woman I only know peripherally, and really can't even remember her name, only to discover that she REEKED of cats. At first I thought it was me and was trying to think where I had been that my coat would have picked up such a scent and then, it hit me, it was not me and that scent was not from a smokey restaurant or a weird mix of perfume. No, it was cats.

I spent the good portion of the THREE HOUR meeting trying to alternately breathe without smelling (which is hard) while sending my mind to some sort of zen and plotting how I could move without seeming horribly rude. In the end, I had to make the move, although I thought I covered it fairly well with an excuse that I couldn't see.

Here's the thing, I like animals. I don't really love cats, but I can tolerate them, provided they keep their distance (they are just kinda creepy). Give me a big sloppy dog any day over a cat that makes you feel like somehow you are undeserving to be in its presence. But surely this woman had to have LOTS of cats to make her whole being smell like a litter box. Ick. Makes me feel a little sick even to think about it.

So, for all you cat owners out there, a little tip, from me to you. Don't have so many that they compose a herd. And, for heaven's sake, don't get to the point that you don't even recognize the stench because you are surrounded by it all day.