Several years ago, my in-laws were house-hunting. My FIL having been in the military, they had moved a million times and were not unfamiliar with the search for new digs and all its attendant problems and surprises. Nevertheless, I'm pretty sure that this one particular realtor caught them off guard.
The house was nice enough, I guess, but my MIL pointed out to the realtor that the master bathroom lacked a door. His response?
"Oh, you've been married long enough that you don't need a door on the bathroom."
Seriously. Not surprisingly, my in-laws didn't buy that house. In fact, I don't think they continued working with that realtor.
When did privacy become so cheap that a virtual stranger is comfortable telling you that you don't need a bathroom door? And it hasn't gotten any better.
Actually, it's gotten much worse.
I used to cringe watching sports on TV, knowing that the camera was at some point going to pan the crowd and zero in on some poor schmuck picking his nose or something. And I was always mindful of those cameras when I attended sporting events in person (not that that happened often). These days you might as well forget decorum; what fun is that? For every person who values his own little bubble, there's some intrusive idiot with a camera phone and a link to youtube, just waiting to pounce on the guy with the open fly or the lady with the bra strap slipping down her arm or the unfortunate soul tripping over his own feet or the weary mother dealing with a kid's temper tantrum. Is it not hard enough to endure these types of humiliations without having them displayed on the Internet for all the world to see? Beyonce couldn't escape it even after she begged her audience not to post her fall on youtube. (I once read a description of youtube as the evil genie that will never go back in the bottle. Got that right!) These are the same nincompoops who chat on their cell phones in the restroom, blissfully unaware that others in that same room really might not appreciate the sound of their bathroom activities being transmitted to the person on the other end.
And at whom do you aim the blame? There are all sorts of possibilities, but I think much of it should be directed at those who don't attach any importance to their own privacy, much less others'. Pam Anderson, anyone? Paris Hilton? In these days of out-of-control identity theft and predators trolling for victims on myspace, you'd think people would be a little more careful about self-disclosure. (Yeah, you'd think that, wouldn't you?)
And don't get me started on magazines that print pictures of dead people, or those "true crime" TV shows where you get to see the victims' bodies while listening to the detective brag about his prowess in solving the crime. How does this fall under the heading of "entertainment"? (Currently, my only exception to this objection is the pictures of the death camps in Europe following WWII. There are some things one needs to see in order that no one ever experiences it again.) I've never appreciated reporters shoving a microphone into the face of someone who has been on the receiving end of a calamity, either. What is wrong with people?
It goes way beyond not having a bathroom door. Some things just absolutely belong behind barriers! To my way of thinking, it's more than a lack of respect for privacy. It represents an assault on human dignity, and there is little enough of that as it is.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
Check your phone at the door, kid!
Is it just me, or are other people's kids taking over the world?
I think they are. They're starting with my house. And they're very slick about it, too. The current nefarious plot involves sleep deprivation. It's better than anything S.P.E.C.T.R.E. used against James Bond.
I cannot tell you how many times in the past month I've been awakened by some friend of Daredevil's, calling at the most ridiculous times ostensibly to talk with him, although he's been asleep for hours. Surely they must realize that some people are actually not up at three o'clock in the morning!
Or perhaps not. Maybe I'm the one who's out of touch. In any event, I really did have the following exchange (or something very close to it; lack of sleep plays tricks with my memory) with Daredevil's girlfriend recently:
Her: Is Daredevil there?
Me: He'd better be. And he'd also better be asleep. Like I was.
Her: Oh, did I wake you?
Me: Of course not, don't be silly. I was getting up to answer the phone, anyway. Do you have any idea what time it is?
Her: No.
Me: It's three-thirty in the morning. It's only three hours since the last time you called and did wake me up. I just haven't been able to get back to sleep, knowing you'd call again. I have to say, you're very accommodating.
Her: Sorry.
Me: I have a rule. No calls to my house after nine p.m., and none before eleven o'clock in the morning on the weekends.
Her: Okay, I get it, I get it!
Me: [not quite sure what I said here, but it ended with a satisfying slam of the receiver into its cradle; I hope I gave the rude little brat a headache.]
My kids don't have cell phones, and all their friends do, which is how they're getting away with disrupting my sleep unbeknownst to their parents. Until now. Because now I, too, have a sinister plan. I'm going to forward all my after-nine-p.m. calls to their land lines. Beware, midnight caller! I've got your parents on speed-dial, and the minute I get rid of your obnoxious butt, I'm going to be just as obnoxious as you. I figure if they get mad, they can take it out on you, since I can't. Just remember, you started it.
Maybe if I make enough grown-ups stagger to the phone at some ungodly hour, they'll stop falling asleep on the parenting job, and we adults can go back to ruling the world.
I think they are. They're starting with my house. And they're very slick about it, too. The current nefarious plot involves sleep deprivation. It's better than anything S.P.E.C.T.R.E. used against James Bond.
I cannot tell you how many times in the past month I've been awakened by some friend of Daredevil's, calling at the most ridiculous times ostensibly to talk with him, although he's been asleep for hours. Surely they must realize that some people are actually not up at three o'clock in the morning!
Or perhaps not. Maybe I'm the one who's out of touch. In any event, I really did have the following exchange (or something very close to it; lack of sleep plays tricks with my memory) with Daredevil's girlfriend recently:
Her: Is Daredevil there?
Me: He'd better be. And he'd also better be asleep. Like I was.
Her: Oh, did I wake you?
Me: Of course not, don't be silly. I was getting up to answer the phone, anyway. Do you have any idea what time it is?
Her: No.
Me: It's three-thirty in the morning. It's only three hours since the last time you called and did wake me up. I just haven't been able to get back to sleep, knowing you'd call again. I have to say, you're very accommodating.
Her: Sorry.
Me: I have a rule. No calls to my house after nine p.m., and none before eleven o'clock in the morning on the weekends.
Her: Okay, I get it, I get it!
Me: [not quite sure what I said here, but it ended with a satisfying slam of the receiver into its cradle; I hope I gave the rude little brat a headache.]
My kids don't have cell phones, and all their friends do, which is how they're getting away with disrupting my sleep unbeknownst to their parents. Until now. Because now I, too, have a sinister plan. I'm going to forward all my after-nine-p.m. calls to their land lines. Beware, midnight caller! I've got your parents on speed-dial, and the minute I get rid of your obnoxious butt, I'm going to be just as obnoxious as you. I figure if they get mad, they can take it out on you, since I can't. Just remember, you started it.
Maybe if I make enough grown-ups stagger to the phone at some ungodly hour, they'll stop falling asleep on the parenting job, and we adults can go back to ruling the world.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Shopping: Not for the faint of heart
It's back to school time, and Drama Princess and I will soon be out scouring the countryside for this year's school supplies and new duds.
I'd like to say that I do this earlier and earlier every year, but that would be a lie and you'd all know it. (I say this about Christmas shopping too; every year I promise myself that next year, I'll buy one or two or three gifts every month, and have it all done before Halloween. But that's next year's project.) I take a little comfort in knowing I'm not the only one who puts it off. I've seen some pretty impressive fist-fights in the aisles at Target, but fortunately as kids get bigger, they also get better and better at making their mothers behave. I've been known to drag Drama Princess and her brother, Daredevil, into Wal-Mart at three in the morning, just to avoid the afternoon smackdowns that inevitably take place in the search for the elusive graph paper or dry erase markers.
The problem is that I'm that rarest of females, the woman who hates to shop. It's not that I'm cheap (okay, I am, but that's irrelevant). I just hate crowds, and noise, and narrow aisles, and rude customers, and rude salespeople . . . but most of all, I hate trying things on. And I'm pretty sure Drama Princess was born without the Shopping Gene as well.
Take the quest for the perfect swimsuit.
Now in her early teens, Drama Princess outgrows things faster than I can find them on sale, so before a trip she took back in June, it was necessary to find her a new swimsuit.
Now, Drama Princess is a tiny little petite thing (she got that gene from me, of course, although I hope she also got the gene which will turn her into Jabba the Hutt when she turns 40; it's only fair) and finding a swimsuit in the right size isn't easy. The Women's Department is completely out of the question. The Junior Department is iffy at best. Which leaves the Girls' Department.
Not surprisingly, Drama Princess had a load of trouble here. After all, she's not a little girl any more, and the swimwear for little girls is--well, little girlie. Not her size. Right size but wrong colors. Too many flowers. Stupid little animals all over them. Ten stores and three and a half hours after we began our search, Drama Princess was wailing, "They're all pink or flowered or monkey-infested!" Where were the grown-up looking swimsuits sported by those little pageant hussies you see on TV? Not at Kohl's!
And the prices! How does something the size of a pocket handkerchief with a bra hook cost fifty bucks? And while we're at it, who decided it was a good idea for young girls to dress in something the size of a pocket handkerchief? Don't get me going on bikinis. Drama Princess is mad enough at me as it is.
At long last, we found a place that had swimwear "separates." Mix and match, tanks and shorts and bikini tops and bottoms. No flowers, no pictures of Spongebob and, best of all, no monkeys. Ten minutes after we entered the store (and forty dollars later!), Drama Princess had the perfect swimsuit. She was happy with the way it looked on her, her dad was happy that it was modest, I was happy that the ordeal was over. For now.
But now that school starts soon, looks like I'll have to get back into the swim of things.
I'd like to say that I do this earlier and earlier every year, but that would be a lie and you'd all know it. (I say this about Christmas shopping too; every year I promise myself that next year, I'll buy one or two or three gifts every month, and have it all done before Halloween. But that's next year's project.) I take a little comfort in knowing I'm not the only one who puts it off. I've seen some pretty impressive fist-fights in the aisles at Target, but fortunately as kids get bigger, they also get better and better at making their mothers behave. I've been known to drag Drama Princess and her brother, Daredevil, into Wal-Mart at three in the morning, just to avoid the afternoon smackdowns that inevitably take place in the search for the elusive graph paper or dry erase markers.
The problem is that I'm that rarest of females, the woman who hates to shop. It's not that I'm cheap (okay, I am, but that's irrelevant). I just hate crowds, and noise, and narrow aisles, and rude customers, and rude salespeople . . . but most of all, I hate trying things on. And I'm pretty sure Drama Princess was born without the Shopping Gene as well.
Take the quest for the perfect swimsuit.
Now in her early teens, Drama Princess outgrows things faster than I can find them on sale, so before a trip she took back in June, it was necessary to find her a new swimsuit.
Now, Drama Princess is a tiny little petite thing (she got that gene from me, of course, although I hope she also got the gene which will turn her into Jabba the Hutt when she turns 40; it's only fair) and finding a swimsuit in the right size isn't easy. The Women's Department is completely out of the question. The Junior Department is iffy at best. Which leaves the Girls' Department.
Not surprisingly, Drama Princess had a load of trouble here. After all, she's not a little girl any more, and the swimwear for little girls is--well, little girlie. Not her size. Right size but wrong colors. Too many flowers. Stupid little animals all over them. Ten stores and three and a half hours after we began our search, Drama Princess was wailing, "They're all pink or flowered or monkey-infested!" Where were the grown-up looking swimsuits sported by those little pageant hussies you see on TV? Not at Kohl's!
And the prices! How does something the size of a pocket handkerchief with a bra hook cost fifty bucks? And while we're at it, who decided it was a good idea for young girls to dress in something the size of a pocket handkerchief? Don't get me going on bikinis. Drama Princess is mad enough at me as it is.
At long last, we found a place that had swimwear "separates." Mix and match, tanks and shorts and bikini tops and bottoms. No flowers, no pictures of Spongebob and, best of all, no monkeys. Ten minutes after we entered the store (and forty dollars later!), Drama Princess had the perfect swimsuit. She was happy with the way it looked on her, her dad was happy that it was modest, I was happy that the ordeal was over. For now.
But now that school starts soon, looks like I'll have to get back into the swim of things.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
A Salute to the Silver Screen
I didn't get much sleep last night. DH and I stayed up and watched Mr. Skeffington, starring the inimitable Bette Davis and the equally inimitable Claude Rains. (The beauty of TCM is that the movies are uncut, the only drawback to that being the long wait for a bathroom break.) It was a very long movie, but so engaging that unless you were half asleep or starving to death before it started, you wouldn't really notice how long you'd been sitting there watching.
Which got me to thinking about movies in general, and classic films in particular. Mr. Skeffington was a black and white picture, which right away means that a lot of people I know are never going to see it, because they refuse to watch a black and white picture. I don't get that. Clearly they have no idea what they're missing. These same people are really big into special effects, too, and computer animation and so forth.
Good stuff, all of that. Star Wars would just not be the same without it. But give me a solid plot, riveting story line, fascinating characters, excellent dialogue . . . .
What better example of all those things is there than Casablanca? Nothing blows up. No 3-D effects. Just a truly moving tale of star-crossed lovers, a war that gets in the way, a husband who's even more in the way, and you have the recipe for the perfect movie. It doesn't hurt to have Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman bringing the story to life, either. And no color, I might add.
How about film noir? I could watch The Maltese Falcon over and over and over again and never tire of it. Nobody could touch Bogart as Sam Spade, and I defy anyone to recast the part of Joel Cairo; there will never be another Peter Lorre. And when Spade kept telling Brigid O'Shaughnessy that he wouldn't play the sap for her . . . well, now, that was manfully done! And it was manfully done in black and white.
For pure dialogue-intense joy, check out The Thin Man. No two leading actors played off each other better than William Powell and Myrna Loy, and there's no wife more devoted than the one who gets mad at her husband not because he hit her and knocked her out cold, but because being unconscious kept her from seeing him kick the bad guy's butt. And guess what? Black and white.
Like having the living daylights scared out of you? Give Bela Lugosi, the quintessential Dracula, a try. No gore, but if you put yourself in 1931, it's pretty freakin' scary! All those old monster films were: Frankenstein (also one of the scariest books I've ever read), The Wolfman, King Kong. The remakes don't even come close. Not even the color ones. If you prefer your chills to be more on the psychological than the physical side, try the following: Gaslight; Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?; Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte; Rebecca. Of course, Alfred Hitchcock provides a wealth of mind-jarring spook stories (and some of those are actually in color!) designed to scare the pants off the unsuspecting.
If you really must have eye candy, then Busby Berkeley is the guy for you. I don't even know where to begin here. The over-the-top stage productions in Dames and Footlight Parade and the various Golddiggers movies have to be seen to be believed. Choreography at its elaborate best. Don't be afraid to watch Million Dollar Mermaid. The early days of synchronized swimming.
I'm not knocking color pictures. Gone With the Wind is my all-time favorite movie and there's certainly no shortage of color there! All I'm saying is that those of you who refuse to watch black and white movies just because they're black and white are losing out on some really fine Hollywood offerings. And don't even get me started on people who won't watch silent films. One word for you: Metropolis. Okay, one more word: Wings. Clara Bow is reason enough to watch that one, boys!
I have a whole big list of great films I've seen, color and B&W, complete with plot summaries. Obviously, I don't get out much, but that's all right. I'm easily entertained. And for those of you who aren't--well, don't miss The Wizard of Oz. It's the best of both worlds.
Which got me to thinking about movies in general, and classic films in particular. Mr. Skeffington was a black and white picture, which right away means that a lot of people I know are never going to see it, because they refuse to watch a black and white picture. I don't get that. Clearly they have no idea what they're missing. These same people are really big into special effects, too, and computer animation and so forth.
Good stuff, all of that. Star Wars would just not be the same without it. But give me a solid plot, riveting story line, fascinating characters, excellent dialogue . . . .
What better example of all those things is there than Casablanca? Nothing blows up. No 3-D effects. Just a truly moving tale of star-crossed lovers, a war that gets in the way, a husband who's even more in the way, and you have the recipe for the perfect movie. It doesn't hurt to have Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman bringing the story to life, either. And no color, I might add.
How about film noir? I could watch The Maltese Falcon over and over and over again and never tire of it. Nobody could touch Bogart as Sam Spade, and I defy anyone to recast the part of Joel Cairo; there will never be another Peter Lorre. And when Spade kept telling Brigid O'Shaughnessy that he wouldn't play the sap for her . . . well, now, that was manfully done! And it was manfully done in black and white.
For pure dialogue-intense joy, check out The Thin Man. No two leading actors played off each other better than William Powell and Myrna Loy, and there's no wife more devoted than the one who gets mad at her husband not because he hit her and knocked her out cold, but because being unconscious kept her from seeing him kick the bad guy's butt. And guess what? Black and white.
Like having the living daylights scared out of you? Give Bela Lugosi, the quintessential Dracula, a try. No gore, but if you put yourself in 1931, it's pretty freakin' scary! All those old monster films were: Frankenstein (also one of the scariest books I've ever read), The Wolfman, King Kong. The remakes don't even come close. Not even the color ones. If you prefer your chills to be more on the psychological than the physical side, try the following: Gaslight; Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?; Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte; Rebecca. Of course, Alfred Hitchcock provides a wealth of mind-jarring spook stories (and some of those are actually in color!) designed to scare the pants off the unsuspecting.
If you really must have eye candy, then Busby Berkeley is the guy for you. I don't even know where to begin here. The over-the-top stage productions in Dames and Footlight Parade and the various Golddiggers movies have to be seen to be believed. Choreography at its elaborate best. Don't be afraid to watch Million Dollar Mermaid. The early days of synchronized swimming.
I'm not knocking color pictures. Gone With the Wind is my all-time favorite movie and there's certainly no shortage of color there! All I'm saying is that those of you who refuse to watch black and white movies just because they're black and white are losing out on some really fine Hollywood offerings. And don't even get me started on people who won't watch silent films. One word for you: Metropolis. Okay, one more word: Wings. Clara Bow is reason enough to watch that one, boys!
I have a whole big list of great films I've seen, color and B&W, complete with plot summaries. Obviously, I don't get out much, but that's all right. I'm easily entertained. And for those of you who aren't--well, don't miss The Wizard of Oz. It's the best of both worlds.
Monday, August 4, 2008
An Open Letter to the Idiot on the Train
I'm pretty sure you thought you were being funny when you made the comment about "some ladies" who would have trouble getting up the stairs on the train. You know, the ones you referred to as "large and in charge." Very original; what a deep thinker you must be!
The actuality is, you're just rude. I have no doubt that you've been thinking like that since you were a young man. Fine, think what you want. But you really don't have to let everything that crowds your tiny disgusting mind come out of your huge disgusting mouth. Any idea how many MEN might have that same problem you pointed out? Or how about people with bad knees, or hips, or feet? They too might have difficulty with stairs. Oh, wait, you only meant heavy people--or more specifically, heavy women--because the stairway was narrow. Hmm. Well, it looked to me like everyone on that train was having issues with it--including you. But that didn't stop you from running that big mouth of yours!
I wish I'd been faster on my feet that night. I might have told you that I wish I could be more like you, because it must be nice to be so close to perfection that you can say rude, insensitive, unkind things to a perfect stranger about other perfect strangers, and feel no twinge of conscience whatsoever. I wish I'd told you off completely, instead of just saying "That's not nice," for fear of being rude myself. The young lady sitting next to me was very upset by your attitude and your comments. Hope you're pleased with yourself!
I don't suppose you have any idea how many people's feelings you stomped all over being a jackass that night, nor do I suppose you care. But I just thought you should know that not everyone thinks you're funny. Some of us think you're just pathetic.
The actuality is, you're just rude. I have no doubt that you've been thinking like that since you were a young man. Fine, think what you want. But you really don't have to let everything that crowds your tiny disgusting mind come out of your huge disgusting mouth. Any idea how many MEN might have that same problem you pointed out? Or how about people with bad knees, or hips, or feet? They too might have difficulty with stairs. Oh, wait, you only meant heavy people--or more specifically, heavy women--because the stairway was narrow. Hmm. Well, it looked to me like everyone on that train was having issues with it--including you. But that didn't stop you from running that big mouth of yours!
I wish I'd been faster on my feet that night. I might have told you that I wish I could be more like you, because it must be nice to be so close to perfection that you can say rude, insensitive, unkind things to a perfect stranger about other perfect strangers, and feel no twinge of conscience whatsoever. I wish I'd told you off completely, instead of just saying "That's not nice," for fear of being rude myself. The young lady sitting next to me was very upset by your attitude and your comments. Hope you're pleased with yourself!
I don't suppose you have any idea how many people's feelings you stomped all over being a jackass that night, nor do I suppose you care. But I just thought you should know that not everyone thinks you're funny. Some of us think you're just pathetic.
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