More Movies!

From the "everybody knows this already" department: Crash is a gooooood movie. One of the best serious dramas I've seen in quite a while. It's upsetting, doesn't have a lot of light moments, but the effect for me was more thoughtful than depressing. The movie follows a dozen or so characters (big cast, all terrific) as their lives are affected by a couple days' events on the streets of Los Angeles. It makes for a lot to think about: 21st century racism, isolation, prejudice, fear; the fact that everyone has more to them than first shows (and isn't that some of the oldest wisdom, "don't judge a book by its cover"? We all know to try not to do that. We all do it anyway). That you never really know what is happening in someone else's life is worth thinking about, and Crash is a great vehicle for it. Every character has something to identify with. Every one also has deep flaws.

Moralizing: We're all flawed humans. Treat each other kindly. Bad things may still happen, but to do otherwise is to live in a kind of prison.

Crash reminded me a bit of House of Sand and Fog, another excellent drama, this one based on a powerful novel by Andre Dubus III. House of Sand and Fog is quite sad, however, and though I recommend it I don't want to see or read it again.

***

Good news from the "sometimes even Sandy digs a chick flick" department: Mona Lisa Smile (2003) wasn't nearly as nauseating as I'd feared. Julia Roberts plays Katherine Watson, a new art history instructor at Wellesley College in 1953. An independent thinker from California, Miss Watson is unprepared for and ill-suited to the conservative, stodgy, stifling environment she finds at Wellesley, despite its being a school for the sharpest minds in the country ("I thought that I was headed to a place that would turn out tomorrow's leaders, not their wives").

Miss Watson proves herself a powerful instructor and role model. She teaches a lot, she learns a lot. It's a nice story, however stereotyped and stylized. Especially noted: the costumes are great. Maggie Gyllenhaal is lovely. Julia Stiles has a terrific voice. Marcia Gay Harden is funny, borderline freakish, as the chintz-loving elocution/deportment instructor.

The story is complete fiction -- I don't think that Wellesley College had classes in deportment and whatnot, as even then it was a place for serious education -- but it is true that in 1953, even women's college graduates for the most part "only" married and raised families. I suppose the question is there: how far have we come? Even in 2007, nobody asks men how they plan to balance career and family. But I don't have the energy for that today, and as Katherine Watson learns, we don't all measure by the same yardstick. Mona Lisa Smile is a good story, and a pretty movie, and I'm going to leave it at that.

I gave my love a story... that haaaad noooo ennnnnd...

You know the scene in Animal House where Bluto Blutarsky (or whatever) comes down the stairs at a party and there's some dude strumming an acoustic guitar, soulfully crooning

"I gave my love a cherry
That had no stone,
I gave my love a chicken
That haaaad nooooo booooooone..."

and Bluto grabs the guitar, smashes it on the stairs, and hands it back with a muttered "sorry"?
At least that's how I remember that scene.

Well, I always thought that song was a joke, part of the genius of the script (another gem is the headline: "Sophomore Dies in Kiln Explosion.")

Turns out, as I was blissfully unaware until recently, it isn't. It's an actual for-real song, that real people sing. Incredibly, this can be done with a straight face. Just not by me.

I learned this because Peanut and I take a music class Wednesday mornings while Bean is in school. Each 10-week session comes with a CD of a reasonably pleasant mix of songs in different styles for the kiddos to learn. So I unwrap the new CD, pop it in, and what to my horrified ears should appear but this damn tune, in all its sincere, saccharine splendor. And I can't help but also hear the satisfying crunch of an acoustic guitar being smashed mid-verse.

Sadly, the Bean heard the song in the car today and has decided it is "soooooo beautiful." She sings it constantly, and... well... the kid can't carry a tune in a bucket.

I have the mental guitar smash going on infinite loop.

Leave a light on, just in case.

Can you watch horror movies? How 'bout alone, late at night? In a dark house? With your spouse on a trip to Far Far Away and your little ones sleeping upstairs and occasionally making vaguely unsettling gurgling noises over the baby monitor?

Something possessed me (ha! - I kill me. Double ha! ... right, not funny. Sorry.) to watch 1408 under those circumstances. Based on a terrific short story by Stephen King, it's about what happens when Mike Enslin, a jaded writer of cheesy "haunted inn" travel guides (played by John Cusak looking appropriately chunky), stays in room 1408 at New York City's Dolphin Hotel, over the strenuous objections of hotel manager Gerald Olin (played by Samuel L. Jackson looking appropriately stern). "Nobody lasts more than an hour," says Olin. Enslin scoffs, demands the key and checks in. He notes on his tape recorder that 1408's major threat appears to be its horrid decor, and blithely flips through a thick file of news clippings and grisly photographs of its previous unfortunate occupants.

Then. Chocolates appear on the pillow while his back is turned. Cute trick, thinks Eslin. But as the clock radio, untouched, begins to blast the Carpenters' "We've Only Just Begun," again and again and again -- well. He begins to realize that the manager wasn't yanking his chain. There's serious evil in 1408, and he'll likely die there.

The movie's got some flaws, but overall it's effectively creepy, and one of the best King adaptations I've seen. (The Shining, of course, is the gold standard. Actually, the others I can think of weren't so good, so maybe that's faint praise.) Anyway the original story, as always, is even better. I'm going to read it again, probably with another adult in the house.

updates

On the missing person - not much hope. There has been nothing in the Cape Cod Times (I won't link you to their website, which is astonishingly bad, for a news outlet) about the man who went overboard off the ferry for almost a week now. His cap has been found; that is all. Evidently he went off the starboard bow. Those propellers come pretty quickly -- I think if you're aiming to survive, you'd choose a different spot to dive from, but I don't really know. Anyway I'm guessing the outcome won't be a happy one. I happened to be in Falmouth (Cape Cod town closest to Martha's Vineyard) the other day and saw posters of his picture on the telephone poles in town. Sad.

On the casino proposal - some reason for optimism. News today is that Governor Patrick's proposal includes a provision for voters at the local level to have the final say on whether or not there will be a casino in their town. So at least there's that. It doesn't help Lakeville residents deal with a potential casino in Middleboro, but it's something. If a casino is approved locally, well, I'd say it's all kinds of stupid, be careful what you wish for, etc., but it's less horrid than the state just giving it the OK from above. People can still say no -- let's hope they do.

On the way to the bus stop

Bean: Wouldn't it be nice if a nice girl monkey came to tell that skunk to stop messing up our yard?
Me: Um... sure. That would be nice. Why a girl monkey?
Bean: Because monkeys have hands like people and can pick things up, and feet like hands so they can climb trees.
Me: Good point. (forgets to ask why not a boy monkey)

On the way back from the bus stop, Peanut carrying acorns, me carrying my tea:

Peanut: What if someone put an acorn in someone's tea?
Me: Someone should not put an acorn in someone's tea.
Peanut: If someone did that, someone would have a time out.

More pissing into the wind

(submitted on stopandshop.com, for whatever it's worth)

TO: STOP & SHOP
FROM: SANDY SHOES
RE: GIANT SANTA

Hello -
May I just say that it is WAY TOO SOON to be displaying that stupid giant inflated Santa thing in the grocery store? People say that Christmas commercialization happens earlier and earlier every year, and that is certainly true at Stop & Shop, where you now have Christmas displays up and running within hours of the autumnal equinox.

It's gross. Please stop it.

The poor employee who was stationed in front of it, and taking the brunt of everyone's comments, said that everyone -- EVERYONE -- who came in was disgusted and complaining about it. I know I'm one of just a few who will take the time to write, but you know and I know that HUNDREDS of customers feel the same way. Hello? Do you care?

I would really appreciate Christmas displays being held off until after Thanksgiving. Otherwise it's one more reason I'm doing more and more of my shopping at Trader Joe's. (The other reasons include that they sell eggs for $1.19/doz. Where does Stop & Shop get off charging twice that?)

Thanks for reading.

The House Always Wins...

...we the people stand to lose.

The Governor of Massachusetts, Deval Patrick, has recently come out in favor of casino gambling in our fair Commonwealth, and put forth a proposal for three casino "resorts" to be built in different regions of the state.

I am terribly disappointed in him. So disappointed, I [edit: almost] wish I'd voted Republican. And that, my friends, is a bitter, bitter thing for this pro-choice/pro-gay marriage/environmentalist/equal and civil rights advocate/public education enthusiast to admit.

Those who support the proposal say that casinos mean a whole lotta tax money, which we simply must generate to fix our infrastructure and give our schools a boost. Why not casinos, say they. Gambling isn't the end of civilization. Nobody forces people to gamble, and who are we to moralize about what people do with their money? Isn't it hypocritical to have bingo, the state lottery, etc. but get all prudish about a casino? Lighten up! People are just going down to Connecticut to the casinos there -- why not keep the money in state?

The money, the money, the money. Always and only the money. Our government has smelled cash, and look out, here they come.

Why does this matter to me? Mr. Sandy and I don't gamble. It would be easy to think of casino gambling essentially as a tax on people who either can afford to willingly lose some money, or are (sorry, but let's face it) too stupid not to throw away money they need. Not being either, why should I worry about it further? Let 'em pay. So what. Shrug.

But what moral society taxes its stupid so heavily? The Governor boasts about how much he plans to have us spend on gambling addiction programs, etc., to alleviate the myriad social ills that nobody denies are coming along with the casinos. We'll set up trust funds to take care of all the unpleasantness, won't that be nice? I will be so glad to read about the generous payout to the family of the first shit-for-brains parent who leaves an infant to suffocate in the car while they play just a few hands of $10 blackjack. Yay us!

What's the human cost of all this revenue? I doubt we'll even break even.

Never mind that we ought to be fixing our bridges and roads with the considerable revenue already being generated by income and sales and myriad other taxes. It's not as if Massachusetts citizens are undertaxed.

And speaking of roads, how 'bout we take a higher one, and not put casino projects out to the highest bidder?

Because (have we forgotten?) the casino-in-Massachusetts issue was supposed to be about the Mashpee Wampanoag tribe, now federally recognized as a sovereign nation, getting an exclusive opportunity to better their economic situation by building a casino somewhere in southeastern Massachusetts. To that end, for better or worse, they already have land and a deal in the works in the town of Middleborough. The tribe appears mired in its own serious problems -- their recently resigned longtime leader is a convicted rapist, among other things, and IRS and FBI agents have come a'calling with questions about certain "fiscal irregularities" -- but all that aside (!), it was supposed to be their opportunity. Not Deval Patrick's.

But Wampanoag, schwampanoag. Let's have three ca$ino$! Let's put 'em out to bid! Think of the roads we'll fix, and nobody will ask why it couldn't have been done without Ballys in the Berkshires, or whatever friggin' monstrosity we end up with.

Are casinos really the best our state can do? Is this the best and highest use of our land, our labor? I truly don't think so, but I wouldn't bet on this government looking for another way. Brace yourselves for the newspaper accounts of dead babies in parking lots. Dice roll in 2012 or so. Will it be worth it?

Miss Spelled

I'm a very good speller. I don't say this to brag, because it ain't braggin' if it's true, but also because I don't think it's an indication of intelligence or anything except that I happen to be able to do it. It's a knack. Some of the smartest people I know, way smarter than I, can't spell for beans.

But here are some words that just don't come automatically, and always make me pause, if only for a split second.

zucchini
broccoli
occasionally
embarrassed

It's the double letters.

(I know: Most. Boring. Post. Ever.)

Tattoo You?

Classy.

I heard somewhere the statistic that a third of all Americans have at least one tattoo. That's a lot of us.

In theory, I have nothing against tattoos. I wouldn't get one myself, because 1) I am a wuss about painful things and don't do them on purpose if I can help it, and 2) I can't think of an image I'd want on my own skin for ever and ever and fading ever.

In practice, I have a sort of mildly held, open-but-not-likely-to-change opinion that most tattoos, on most people, are ugly and/or look just plain stupid. Those lower back butterflies or whatever, aka "tramp stamps"? Ugly. Asian characters of meaning unknown sometimes even to the person on whom they're inked? Look stupid. Likenesses of other real humans, alive or dead are often ugly and always creepy. Tattoos of mermaids, dolphins, roses, dragonflies, the name of your child/lover/mother/favorite band/patron saint: whatever floats your boat. Just not my style.

If you Google images of "beautiful tattoos," what you'll dredge up is images of ugly tattoos. It's just what there is.

So, I was unsurprised yet strangely fascinated to come across this blog: Horrible Tattoos. Checkit.

Novel fodder

A local news story this morning made me think of novels, or potential novels, or truth being potentially at least as strange as fiction.

Three days ago, this 28 year-old man rode his bike to the pier in New Bedford, boarded the 1:30 PM ferry to Martha's Vineyard, and hasn't been seen since. Surveillance cameras show 26 passengers getting on board in New Bedford, 25 disembarking on the Vineyard. A Navy veteran and Merchant Marine, he is a strong swimmer, trained in cold water survival. It is assumed he went overboard, but nobody knows precisely where. Buzzard's Bay is chilly but definitely survivable this time of year. His mother is asking people to walk shorelines and help look for her son.

So what happened? Suicide seems unlikely. Alien abduction? Foul play? Meticulously planned escape (from gambling debt? blackmailers? an unbearable personal life?)? Is this guy hundreds of miles away with a new identity by now?

And who should finish this story? Sue Grafton? Stephen King? John Grisham? Whoever's riding Robert Ludlum's coattails these days? Creative Writing 101 at a college near you: "Write this story in the style of your favorite contemporary author"?

The simplest explanation is usually the likeliest, but I'll be kind of bummed if this turns out to be a stupid alcohol- or drug-influenced accidental drowning instead of the tip of an intense and complicated international espionage iceberg. Or something.

Lost in Translation

Not the movie, though I liked it better than the paid critics did.

I recently had reason to read Psalm 23. I can't remember the reason, I've since been distracted. That happens a lot. I'll be thinking about something, then reminded of something else I've always wondered and go to look it up and find something else interesting, then get an email about something else entirely, and so on. That's not counting interruptions. Mr. Sandy sometimes calls me Dory.

"Look, something shiny!" Where?

OK, it was nothing.

Anyway. I have two Bibles: the Good News Bible I was given at my confirmation, which calls itself "today's English version," and a very cheaply bound King James version which I bought when I needed a Bible to look up some other long-forgotten thing, and hadn't yet retrieved my confirmation one from my parents' house.

Anyway, anyway. Psalm 23 in the KJ Bible reads thusly:

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou annointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Lovely, right? Lyrical. Powerful.

Compare to the Good News version:

The Lord is my shepherd; I have everything I need.
He lets me rest in fields of green grass and leads me to quiet pools of fresh water.
He gives me new strength.
He guides me in the right paths, as he has promised.
Even if I go through the deepest darkness, I will not be afraid, Lord, for you are with me.
Your shepherd's rod and staff protect me.
You prepare a banquet for me, where all my enemies can see me;
you welcome me as an honored guest and fill my cup to the brim.
I know that your goodness and love will be with me all my life;
and your house will be my home as long as I live.

Good grief! "I have everything I need"? That sounds like something you'd say to the waiter, or the nurse.

Who could have thought it was a good idea to water down the incomparable "yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death"? Who thought we needed "rod and staff" clarified and so added the gratuitous "shepherd's" to it? Who did away with the lovely "my cup runneth over"?!

Bah.

Instead of "today's English," they should just have subtitled it "for today's morons."

Note to churches: why talk down to kids with the Good News Bible? High school students read more poetry than most grownups, and there's no reason they shouldn't get the good stuff.

Finished.

Mr. Sandy and I finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows the other night. (I'd been reading a chapter a night aloud at bedtime, and in hindsight it is clear that I have J.K. Rowling to blame for some of my recent fatigue.)

What an amazingly good, rich set of stories this has been. I feel a little bereft. They are there to reread of course, but still.

I love best the details -- the characters' wonderful names, the odd plants and magical creatures, the owls, the secrets of Hogwarts, the charms and potions and devices. Portraits and portkeys. Howlers and gillyweed and blast-ended skrewts.

And I have questions! There are loose ends -- what happened to...? How did...?

I need to see the deleted scenes!

Ah well. Though I'm sorry the saga is over and I'll miss that first-time reading experience, I'm so glad that I didn't ignore this series first as kid stuff, then as an overhyped popular culture phenomenon. It's more than both those things.

Well done, Ms. Rowling, well done indeed.

I'm not tired. I'm not tired. I'm not ...zzzzzzzzzzz.

That'd be me in denial, not my children.

I have always (since babyhood, says my mother) had better things to do than go to sleep. That is until pregnancy, during which I could easily fall asleep at any time of day, and would sometimes find it impossible not to, even standing up. Mr. Sandy observed that pregnancy seemed to have permanently changed my falling asleep process from an hour-long ordeal to a two-minute slide to slumber. Having the babies didn't bring back the old toss-and-turn habit... as a new mother, you catch what rest you can as efficiently as possible.

It's now been 3.5 years since I was preggers, and lately the old slow-to-sleep pattern seems to be creeping back. Unfortunately, it doesn't feel like I need less sleep, just that I'm getting less.

But! Aren't we supposed to need less sleep as we get older? When does that kick in? As someone who's always half resented needing sleep at all, I'm sort of looking forward to that.

Or is it just a myth?

"Myth?"
"Yeth?"

TO: Macy's, Hyannis, MA

FROM: Sandy Shoes
RE: The limits of good taste.

I noted with regret (but not disbelief) that you saw fit to put up Christmas trees in your store the day after Labor Day.

Even by today's dubious standards, that struck everybody in the place (including your grumbling employees) as -- how shall I say? Horrid. Gross. Tacky. Without class.

Just so you know, I try to avoid places where all those adjectives apply at the same time.

And me without my eye patch!

Holy poop deck, me hearties, I almost forgot it's Talk Like A Pirate Day. I shall switch keyboards at once:

RRRRRRRR! Avast!

The Department of Redundancy Department

A representative sample, by no means a complete list, of things I say a thousand times a day that make me feel like some sort of crazy mean angry bitch:

No.
I don't understand what you're saying when you use that voice.
Try again.
Use words please.
Use your nice words please.
No.
Please stop that.
Please STOP THAT.
STOP THAT!
Did you wipe?
Where do your underpants go?
What did you forget?
No.
Don't suck, brush.
That means MOVE the brush on your teeth.
Don't talk, eat.
Your sleeve is in your plate.
Your hair is in your plate.
No.
Please drink your milk.
Please take another bite.
Is the light on in your room?
Do I listen to whining?
I can't reach it when I'm driving.
Come out from behind there.
TELL ME WHEN YOU POOP.
No.
Is it OK to hit/yell at/grab things from your sister?
What do you say?
That's enough.
I said, THAT'S ENOUGH.

And, when I finally snap, which I'm not proud of, but it happens: Why do I have to say the same things again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again EVERY SINGLE DAY? WHY?!?
Mommy needs a time out.

The Sound of (relative) Silence

At bedtime, I ask the girls to tell me what their favorite part of the day was, sometimes with amusing results. The past two nights, the Peanut has said that her favorite part of the whole day was when the Bean got on the bus to go to school.

Not to dis my firstborn, but I can relate. That Bean is being loud and bossy lately. Also loud and jubilant, which I love -- she's a happy healthy girl and it's great to see. But loud and silly, which is a small doses thing for me. The baby voice she affects sometimes just sends me through the roof.

If only I could get the Peanut to EAT HER SUPPER and the Bean to CUT IT OUT with the stupid noises all freakin' day... well. There'd be something else.

One thing about parenting is you realize the annoying phases pass, just as the precious ones do. But in the meantime, kindergarten may be saving my sanity, and it definitely gives the Peanut some well-deserved time to play on her own terms.

Sometimes....

...being a stay-at-home Mom feels like having agreed to be annoyed to a slow death by my own offspring.

Well. Better by them than by the cubicle farm, I suppose.

1 Stupid Street, Smalltown, MA

There is a street in my town called "Triangle Circle." I make that pissed-off Marge Simpson noise whenever I see it.

Darthly Hallows

No Breakfast?!

OK, so I promise this blog won't become All About Kindergarten, but the Bean related something today that gave me pause (I just love that phrase): Her teacher asked the class to raise their hands if they'd eaten breakfast today -- and at least 5 of the kids had not.

What the? Who (among those of us with means to prevent it, and I'm not talking super-expensive-granola -- eggs are $1.19/dozen! Bananas are $0.59/lb!) would send their 5 year-old to school with an empty belly?

I just don't get it.

Day 2 - still lovin' the bus

The Bean was very excited again for the school bus this morning. I had an easy time of it too -- it's only the first day that hurts. After she got on, and the bus pulled away, the Peanut peered up into my eyes and said, "don't be sad, OK Mommy?" Cute. Now who's going to say that when she goes?

Holy Vitamin A, Batman!

Here's an easy way to get carrots down the kiddos' gullets. And yours! It's tasty.

Carrot Soup

olive oil for sauteing
2 c. chopped onion
3 cloves garlic, minced

2 t ground coriander
1 t paprika
1/2 t ground turmeric
1/4 t ground black pepper

6 c. low sodium chicken broth
2 lb. peeled baby carrots

1/2 c. half-and-half
1/4 c. honey

Saute the onion and garlic in olive oil in a Dutch oven (= large saucepan, probably the pot you'd make a pound of spaghetti in. Not an actual appliance, as I thought when I first heard the term) about 5 min.

Add coriander, paprika, cumin, turmeric and black pepper (those colors! gorgeous). Stir it all up.

Add carrots and broth. (Carrots first, otherwise you'll be dumping 'em into a big pot of broth, and the splashing will make you say bad words and feel like a dope. OK, maybe just me then. But carrots first.)

Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer half an hour.

Scoop about a third of it into a blender and puree; pour pureed soup into a big bowl, puree the rest.

Mix in the half-and-half and honey. (Not to get all Martha Stewart on you, but if you spray the measuring cup with cooking spray, the honey slides out easier.)

Voila.

If you have fresh cilantro, chop some up and mix it in. If you don't, then yay, you don't have to wash and chop cilantro, which is kind of a pain anyhow.

First Day of School! First Day of School!

It goes so fast, blah blah blah. All the cliches are true.

This baby -->
started kindergarten today. She and the Peanut and I walked to the end of our little street and waited a minute or two for the bus. Then a hug for her sister, and she stepped aboard, frog backpack in hand -- off to kindergarten.

I'm so proud of her for being ready for this big independent step, and taking to it so well.

Also my heart is a little bit broken, in the way that mothers' hearts break when their babies get on the bus. I cried shamelessly back to the house. Just as on her first day of preschool, I felt this awful tugging in my chest. Heartache.

Our bus driver is a lovely man. He said to the Bean, "give your mother big a hug before we go, she needs it today." That was kind. I am already thinking about things to bake for him when it's frigid outside and driving the school bus maybe doesn't seem like the best of jobs.

I am sure I'm not the first mother in the universe who put her child on the bus, then drove to the school and observed her arrival from a discreet distance (I promise I will do this only once). The Bean got out, someone hung a tag around her neck (name, address, bus number), and she joined the line of kids in her class. A couple of the boys are familiar from preschool, which is nice. She seems little, though not tiny. She only just turned five, maybe she's the youngest in the class. Assembled, they marched in... Bean at the end of the line, a bit apart from the group, because that's how she does things. She'll be fine. Good-bye, sweet Bean. Be safe. Have fun!

And... we'll see you at lunchtime.

It's only a couple of hours, but the first day's a doozy.

Here's where I wax poetic about summer's end...

...or not. Woo hoo! Summer's end! Happy dance!

Labor Day rocks. This is the best time of the year. I love the Exodus of the Summer People. They're nice folks, mostly, and I wish them well both here and wherever they go back to. It's just that it's so cool on the Cape when they're gone. Less traffic, less litter, less noise, no parking fees or crowds at the beaches -- what's not to love?

Also, I admit, I'm one of those who loves their "normal" schedule and is always happy to get back into it. I feel a bit unsettled in summertime. Routine makes me happy when I have a happy routine. Yes, it sounds stodgy and boring. What can I say, part of a tedious midlife crisis is embracing this kind of mundane self-awareness. Otherwise how could it be tedious?

Happy Labor Day :).

Movies!

A couple weeks ago I had a few days off all to myself (yay!) and hit the road to visit friends in the NJ town of my ute. I love a road trip to visit friends, though I'm looking forward to our next car, whatever it turns out to be, to put the love back in the road part. Our current commuter econobox is over 250K miles with no problems whatsoever (Toyota? I'm ready for my close-up...) except that the a/c crapped out just in time for summer. But summer's all but done, and cars are another thread.

We saw some movies!

Casino Royale is holding up to repeated viewings. I am beginning to shake my head a bit during the underwater action near the end of the movie, but I still love it. I had never heard of Daniel Craig (somehow -- dang children! -- I missed Layer Cake; Netflix should be fixing that for me shortly) before learning he was the next Bond. Any apprehension I had about him (I did like Pierce Brosnan in the role) evaporated early on the first time I saw this movie. I am accused of just liking his, um, bathing suit. Not true -- the man rocks a dinner jacket as well ;). But most importantly, he nails the Bond character. According to IMDb, the next Bond movie, coming in '08, is reported to be a direct sequel to Casino Royale, so that'll be interesting.

The Simpsons Movie was good fun. All kinds of Simpson cleverness, many laughs. At 87 minutes, it didn't try too hard, which is key for a TV show-made-movie. There were lots of allusions to/pokes at other films. I caught just a few, so there had to have been lots that I missed entirely or couldn't quite place then forgot about.

Did you know you can make yourself a Simpson character? S'fun.
That's me, sorta. I can never find the right hair with those things.

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, I think I mentioned below somewhere, was really, really good. Visually great, well-paced, and having read the book, I have to say the movie folks are doing a great job deciding what to leave out, what to keep in without making a four hour film. We saw it at an IMAX theater in a shopping mall... is this a great country, or what?


Seen at home long after the rest of the world has forgotten all about 'em:

It took me a long while to get around to Mrs. Henderson Presents (2005). The title put me off. Shallow of me, but if the title is ugly, awkward or silly, I can't help but be less interested in the film, no matter how many Oscar nominations it gets. Anyway this awkwardly titled movie is based on a true story of a wealthy widow in 1930s London who buys a theater for something to do because she can't stand the idea of embroidery and charity work for the rest of her days. Shocking the aristocracy (including a stuffy Lord Somethingorother played by Christopher Guest), Mrs. Henderson's productions feature -- horrors! -- naked women. Judi Dench is fab, of course, in the role. Bob Hoskins both produced the movie and costars as the theater manager (and if you've ever wanted to see Bob Hoskins naked, here's your chance). No, wait! See it anyway! It's a lovely drama, both funny and poignant.

Looks like I haven't shuffled my Netflix queue in a while and we're in British Drama mode. Thankfully I can recommend this one as well: last night we saw A Good Woman (2004), based on Oscar Wilde's 1892 comedy "Lady Windemere's Fan." Scarlett Johansen stars in the title role as the young bride of a wealthy financier, brushing off advances by her husband's dashing friend (cad, or good guy?). Meanwhile, having run out of other people's husbands to seduce in New York, the mysterious Mrs. Erlynne (Helen Hunt) arrives in Amalfi, and the serious gossip begins. What's Mrs. Earlynne doing spending so much time with Mr. Windemere? Where's her money coming from? Things are more complicated than they appear. It's a nice movie with beautiful costumes and scenery, entertaining secondary characters, and top-notch dialogue... it's Oscar Wilde after all, what's not to like! Except: Scarlett Johansen's bee-stung lips sort of get on my nerves. I don't know why. Hers are too much, Helen Hunt's not enough, and they both look a little odd. But the hair! The shoes! The dresses! Beautiful.

Larry "wide stance" Craig

Well, well, well. Larry Craig, U.S. Senator from Idaho, joins the growing list of Republican "traditional values" crusaders to hit the news for trying to blow/be blown by/otherwise get off in the company of another man in a public restroom. Ordinarily -- because why should tapping one's foot in a public restroom be a crime? -- I'd wish him happy cruising, or whatever, (providing consenting partners of legal age, &c.) and turn my attention elsewhere, maybe after noting that, um, some soul-searching appears to be in order for the Craig family. Or something.

However. This illustrious Senator:

Voted YES on constitutional ban of same-sex marriage. (Jun 2006)
Voted NO on adding sexual orientation to definition of hate crimes. (Jun 2002)
Voted NO on expanding hate crimes to include sexual orientation. (Jun 2000)
Voted YES on prohibiting same-sex marriage. (Sep 1996)
Voted NO on prohibiting job discrimination by sexual orientation. (Sep 1996)

The hypocrisy! -- man. It's just not funny.

But he almost makes up for it with the "wide stance" claim. That's how his foot touched the man's in the next stall, doncha know. The Senator has a wide stance on the shitter.

Snort!

Enough with the spiders, m'kay?

We are having a heck of a year for spiders. Sure, over the season you see some spiders in the house. What's normal, a few a week? Something like that. Some weeks more, some weeks fewer.
This year, though, man. Yesterday I killed a half-dozen spiders, representing at least four species.

I watched the biggest one, the kind more associated with woodpiles than upstairs bathrooms, for quite some time before launching my attack. To do battle, I'd sent the girls out of the bathroom, and armed myself appropriately. This was no mere square-of-toilet-tissue spider. This was a two-paper-towel carnivorous arthropod, scuttling sideways up and down the wall along the corner with the mirror over the sink. It was in a state of high agitation, and get this: sparring with its image in the mirror. I was not imagining this. I observed for several minutes, hoping it'd get somewhere more accessible than just behind the outlet with the toothbrush and hair dryer plugs obstructing attack. (I prefer to handle these unpleasantries in one mighty blow.) And I swear, this one was fighting, rearing up on some back legs and waving some front ones around.

Maybe that's old news to people who know more about spiders than I, which is to say, nearly everyone. I had never seen a spider do that before -- kittens, yeah, but not spiders -- and found it distinctly unsettling.

Glossing over the embarassing events that followed (I admit the hair dryer came into play), I will just say this megaspider's last stand wasn't nearly as swift or clean as I'd have liked. I had to go back and clean up a leg. No, not my leg. Grrr.

The Sound of Freedom

We just had an airshow here on Cape Cod. That phrase, "the sound of freedom," has been bandied about even more than usual.

To be honest, the airshow itself... huge crowds, earsplitting noise, bad food, impenetrable traffic, searing heat from sun and pavement... sounds like hell on earth to me. Planes just aren't my thing, though I do appreciate in a detached sort of way how cool they are, how amazing the technology, how deeply impressive their thundering overhead, especially in those tight formations (wow). Given a chance to check them out up close without the crowds, noise, traffic, and heat, I definitely would, and it would rock.

But here's a question. Please know I'm not trying to be coy. Though disinclined to air shows, I'm not anti-military. I'm proud of those who defend our country, and truly admire their strength and skills. I just wonder, because every time I hear the phrase, something about it rings kind of naive to me...

How are military aircraft screaming overhead the sound of freedom?

I know... "freedom isn't free," and this is how we ensure it. But that's why it strikes me more as a sound of grim necessity. Wouldn't true freedom be not needing it to be heard?

When the aircraft pass overhead, I am certainly impressed. It can be exhilerating. But I don't associate it with freedom, because there's something terrible (in the old sense of the word) about it as well, that makes me feel distinctly less free.

Just thinking out loud.

Different kinds of freedom, I suppose... freedom to, and freedom of, and freedom from.

You (yes, *you*) are the Peanut Gallery.

In talking with people about blogs, blogging, and this blog, I've been made aware that it wouldn't necessarily be talking down to people to explain the bit about commenting.

If you browse blogs, you'll often see a link that says "[some number] comments" beneath each post. Bloggers sometimes call 'em something else -- mine currently says "0 shouts from the peanut gallery." Click on it. You'll see that some readers have left comments about the post, and sometimes it can lead to whole conversations being had between commenters, and friendships between people who've never met. The Internets are cool like that. Famous bloggers get hundreds of comments on each of their posts. Unknown hacks such as I get a couple here and there, and savor each one :).

The famous blogger I linked to has an amusing, sometimes even laugh-out-loud funny blog (the downside: it runs to the self-congratulatory). Oddly, he has banned me from leaving comments. (You'll have to take my word for it that I'm not one to make obscene, threatening or otherwise ban-worthy comments. My story, and I'm sticking to it, is that There Must Be Some Mistake.) Which brings me to another point about commenting: bloggers can disallow comments entirely on certain or all of their posts. Some blogs allow anonymous comments, others don't. Some bloggers preview, or moderate, comments on their blogs before allowing them to appear to all readers. Others don't bother.

I allow everything. So far, so good.

So comment away, beloved Peanut Gallery. It's cool to hear from you.

Harry Potter Immersion

At a chapter a night, Mr. Sandy and I are about a third of the way through Deathly Hallows. Hopefully we'll keep up the pace as bedtime gets earlier with school starting next week (!).

I saw Order of the Phoenix on Friday -- at an IMAX theater. WOW. It was awesome.

I am having Harry Potter style dreams lately.

And I took a silly Harry Potter quiz:

Which Harry Potter Character Are You?

Hermione Granger. You are very smart, very clever, bookish, a loyal friend, loving, you fight for what you believe in, and can be pretty when you dress up. However, you are obsessed with school and rules, can sometimes take your projects overboard, you're a know-it-all, and you can be easily offended and overly cautious. But your friends stand by you and you totally got to date a professional quidditch player.

Playdate

We had one of the Bean's friends over to play this morning. A nice little girl, tiny thing, very quiet, probably because she'd never been at our house before.

Out of the blue, she announced to me, "sometimes at home I sit on my brother's soccer ball and pretend it's an egg."

"What kind of bird do you pretend to be?" I asked.

"Not a bird. A cat." she said.

Okey-dokey.

Then we baked flaxseed muffins. Ha!

No we didn't. I made chocolate cupcakes from a box and used frosting from a tub, and the girls dumped their own rainbow sprinkles on the top and thought it was the greatest thing ever.

I did make 'em eat carrots with their lunch first.

Overheard in My Kitchen

Bean, to Peanut: Why are you not afraid of Great White sharks, but you are afraid of leopard sharks?

Peanut: Hm. That is strange.

"Goodnight Nobody"

After Nineteen Minutes I went for shameless fluff reading, hold the difficult issues. Jennifer Weiner's Goodnight Nobody fit the bill.

Our heroine is Kate Klein, who has just moved with her husband and three toddlers from New York City, which she loved, to a stultifyingly dull Connecticut suburb. With her sense of humor and (horrors!) interests beyond her home and family, not to mention unruly hair, some extra weight, and clothes that aren't silk, suede, or spotless, she feels totally out of place and is losing hope of making any friends among the sleek, high-heeled, pedicured, flaxseed muffin-baking, Pilates-sculpted Perfect Mommy set.

Things get interesting when one of these perfect mommies invites Kate over for lunch, and upon arrival Kate discovers her body facedown in the kitchen, knifed in the back. Kate latches on to the mystery and with the help of her old friend Janie, she starts finding things out. Needless to say the mommies aren't all that they seem.

It's all highly improbable, but who cares. This novel, like Weiner's others (she also wrote Good in Bed, Little Earthquakes, and In Her Shoes, of which was made the movie w/Cameron Diaz), is totally fun. Earthquakes (about a group of pregnant friends and how their lives change as the babies come) and Nobody are more specific to mothers in their funniness, but they're all a riot. Perfect beach or hammock reading.

We're done, right? Right.

Mr. Sandy is cleaning out the garage, and things are going in three general categories: to the dump, to be donated, to be kept.

He came across the baby stroller. "We really are done, right?"

We really are done. A third child would tip us into precarious territory financially, emotionally, and physically (a pregnancy at 40 isn't a no-brainer). I also have strong feelings about there being plenty of people in the world already. I know that large families living simply can leave less "footprint" than smaller ones living carelessly, as so many do, but still. There are enough people in the world already.

So, we're done. Really.

Still, we both think about it sometimes. That door is hard to close. I don't think I want to hear it latch behind me.

Pet Peeve

I like dogs as much as the next guy. No more, if I'm totally honest, but no less. Doggies can be fun. They can be cute. They can be good friends. They can be good for our health, they can protect and defend us, they can even save lives.

They can also shit all over the damn place. And many of them appear to be owned by people who don't give a shit about the shit, so to speak. I hate that.

Please do not let your dog shit at the beach*, and then neglect to pick up after it. Hello? People lie on the beach. Children dig in the sand. They can get very seriously sick from touching dog poop.

Same goes for the playground, for the sidewalk, for my yard, for Chrissake. Did you think I wouldn't notice? That I wouldn't care?

I often see people walking their dogs, toting a plastic bag for the inevitable chore. I stop and thank those people for making the effort, and they say "you're welcome." I think most dog owners are probably considerate about it. So what's the matter with the rest of them?


*By the way, what part of "No Dogs Allowed May 15 - Sept. 15" is unclear? Don't like the law, then take it up with the town. But it IS the law, until it isn't.

"Nineteen Minutes"

My not-so-serious book group met at sunset yesterday, with beach chairs, blankets and wine and a cake decorated like the Texas flag as a sendoff for one of us who is moving there. I felt like blowing Taps for her. The prospect of moving to Texas for anything but an absurdly lucrative short-term gig would fill this heat-dreading, socially liberal-thinking New Englander with despair. But she seems in good spirits, and will be back for summers.

We relaxed and gabbed for three hours or so, relighting candles often in the humid breeze and passing drizzle. Somewhere in there we spent considerably less than 19 minutes discussing Nineteen Minutes, by Jodi Picoult.

The novel (Picoult's 14th, but the first I've read of hers) is about a small town high school shooting. The story is told from several characters' perspectives, in present and in flashbacks. Peter Houghton is an odd boy, cruelly and mercilessly bullied since earliest childhood. His parents are gifted in their work, clueless in their parenting. One day, Peter packs his backpack full of loaded guns. He goes to school and kills ten people, injures more. Some of his targets make sense revenge-wise, some don't. When apprehended, he says, "they started it."

Josie Cormier is Peter's only childhood friend, who eventually drifts away from him in favor of the popular kids, and struggles with losing herself in that group and particularly in a relationship with a scarily controlling boyfriend. Alex Cormier is Josie's mother, a newly appointed judge, thriving in her career but missing some things at home. Patrick Ducharme is the detective whose case this horror becomes, and Jordan McAfee, the attorney for Peter's defense.

It's a messy story, and it needs at least as many perspectives as Picoult provides, to provoke the right questions. Who to blame? Who to forgive? Where is our empathy -- can it be in many places at once?

I found my own to be spread like frosting, thicker in some places than others.

We did touch on some of the writing issues: Picoult's characters are very well-drawn, but is her Sterling High too full of cliches? (maybe, but it mostly works.) Is the ending too contrived (not necessarily, but I would've liked more from Josie's perspective), its promise of new life too hokey (yes, and as a reader, I resent having my chain so obviously yanked)?

But as a group of mothers, we focused mostly on the fears this book brought out. How do we raise* our children not to become the kinds of people that do these things? More importantly (by the numbers, at least -- there are far more bullies than murderers in the world), how do we raise children that won't be horribly mean people, if not killers?

How do we keep from raising children we one day don't know or recognize?

Scary stuff, as I ready my eldest for kindergarten in a few short weeks. I know that school can sometimes be a cruel place, and that she'll have to navigate some of its cruelty on her own.

I'm curious what high school students who read this book think of it. And of course I'd like to hear from you, if you did.


*I was always taught that one raises livestock and rears children, but when I put "rear" into the above paragraphs, it reads strangely. So I capitulated. Grrr. When did we start "raising" children instead of "rearing" them?

stupid computer games

From time to time I go through phases of being completely absorbed in stupid computer games. I'm in one now. Self-loathing is starting to set in. And yet... I can't quite stop. Must... get... best... score.

Stupid.

Church

It's true, I did go to church this morning. I brought the Bean, who had a great time playing with the child care person (a lovely older woman who drives a Jeep with fake flowers twisted around the antenna, and turns out to be the senior church warden) during the service. Peanut stayed home with Daddy to do a "project," designed to keep her from being too upset that her sister got to wear a pretty dress and Go Somewhere.

I have mixed feelings about church, which could probably fill many more paragraphs than any (either?) of my readers here would want to give time to. I grew up going to an Episcopal church: went to Sunday school, sang in the choir, attended confirmation classes, and served as an acolyte. Though it was just luck of time and place, I am proud to have been confirmed by Bishop John Shelby Spong, of whom Wikipedia says "his views are so radical that some more conservative Christians consider him not Christian at all." That is to say, he believes that women and gay people and people of color are as fully human as straight white men. He believes a lot else about Christian theology that I'm unqualified to discuss, and in fairness it is probably more that kind of thing, rather than feminism, that makes him a radical. In essence, he seems to be saying that much Christian doctrine is rooted in a world that no longer exists (pre-Newton, pre-Copernicus), and that we could use another Reformation. Sounds good to me -- sign me up. Or to put it bluntly, "well, duh."

But I digress, about Spong. Point is: my religious foundation is Episcopalian, so we had our girls baptized in the local Episcopal church, and that's where we go on the three or four Sundays a year that I get the urge. Now that Bean is Sunday school age, we'll probably go more often. Maybe. Or not.

Because I went so often as a child and teenager, the rhythms and cadence of the service, the music, the language, and the social church experience all have made an imprint that is at once irksome, comforting, and amusing.

The stuff that ranges from irksome (church busybodies) to infuriating (institutionalized condescension) is a whole other essay. Today -- possibly because our regular priest is on vacation! -- I noticed positives.

There is comfort in confession, in asking for forgiveness for unspecified (Episcopalians don't have to visit a priest and come clean individually) things done and left undone, for not having loved our neighbor with our whole heart. There is comfort in the exchange of "peace be with you" with those seated nearby. There is comfort in watching the priest blessing the Bean at communion, and in the blessing delivered to all at the end of the service.

In the amusing category, I've found there is always one person in the congregation... you could plop me in any church in the world and this would happen... invariably seated one or two rows behind me, who insists on singing harmony to all the hymns. She can't quite manage it, but she'll never stop trying. Loudly.

"Off the Map"

Off the Map (2003) is an odd little drama about an odd little family. It's a coming of age story for precocious, homeschooled 11 year-old Bo ("my real name is Cecilia Rose"), and a "finding oneself" story for several of the other characters.

Bo and her parents live in the New Mexico desert without phone or electricity. They grow and kill their own food, and whatever else they need they barter for or find at the dump. Her father Charley (Sam Neill -- one of those seen-him-before, can't-remember-where actors, very good, wonderful voice) is suffering from debilitating depression. He barely speaks or moves. Her mother Arlene (Joan Allen) is holding up as best she can doing everything that needs to be done, which in a self-sufficient household is a ton. There is both depth and simplicity in Arlene's character, which Allen plays masterfully. Bo's godfather, George, is around a lot but doesn't say much himself.

One day a hapless IRS agent arrives at their door filthy, sweaty and on foot -- his car long since abandoned as he got lost and disoriented trying to find the place. His mission was to track down unpaid taxes, but he is stung by an insect and collapses, feverish, on the couch. He recovers in a few days; he stays for eight years.

New Mexico itself -- Land of Enchantment -- plays a strong role in the film.

I squirmed a bit at the slow pace of this movie, but strongly recommend it overall. I enjoyed all the literal and figurative meanings of its title and how they played out in the characters' lives. In retrospect there are some loose ends, some bits that didn't quite fit, but no fatal flaws.

See it, tell me what you think.

Musical Abuse

I have been suffering, my friends.

Two days ago I had the refrain from that Depeche Mode song "Blasphemous Rumors" stuck in my head like chewing gum underfoot.

Yesterday, it was "Edelweiss." I tried to spread the misery to Mr. Sandy, who, (although German!) professed never to have heard it before.

This morning I went to church to confess my sins, just in case it'll help.

...for God's sake, grease your shingles.

Apologies to everyone who has cable and already watches the Daily Show, but when I come across stuff like this, I gotta share:



Now excuse me, I'm going to go hide the Advil.

Grail movies.

This weekend ended up being Holy Grail themed (movie-wise, that is, unless sand art is the Holy Grail of birthday party crafts). It had been far too long since we asked the eternal question, "how do you know so much about swallows?" so Friday night brought a viewing of Monty Python and the Holy Grail while frosting the Bean's birthday cake. Genius, as ever. Of course it's a good idea!

Saturday we revisited Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, which I'd forgotten is also a grail movie, and not bad at that (and quite a relief when it came out, because Temple of Doom sucked eggs). Best line: "I said no camels, Sallah. That's five camels. Can't you count?"

Too bad we didn't have The DaVinci Code for the trifecta, though that movie always makes me want to give Tom Hanks a haircut.

Homogenization

There is a new-ish radio station on Cape Cod called "Frank FM." They have a good playlist, for commercial pop radio, and relatively few ads. I'd found myself listening pretty often, in the car. Until I realized: they have no DJs. It's just this prerecorded growl of a voice that makes generic transitions between tunes, touting the station in a few canned phrases that they rotate through, or randomly generate, or something. However they do it, it's kind of creepy, and now that I've noticed it I don't like the station anymore.

It reminds me of box restaurants. Chili's, Uno, Friday's, Tuesday's, Olive Garden, Outback Steakhouse, Applebee's... not that any one of them is particularly bad (though I'd rather have a day-old vending machine sandwich than set foot in a Hooters), but must every flat, numbered state highway business district in America look exactly the same? Cape Cod is truly lovely in so many ways. But if you were driving down Route 132 in Hyannis and suddenly went into a fugue or something, you'd have no immediately obvious way to tell if you were in Cape Cod, Massachusetts or, say, greater Kansas City. Which is sad for both places.

Another Dunkin' Donuts just opened in my little town. That makes FIVE.

How many is enough?

Sad Girl, II

I saw Sad Girl again this evening, at a sub shop with her brother and father. She was... sad. I smiled and said hi, but didn't stop to chat, as the father looked straight at the floor, and Sad Girl doesn't seem to remember who I am (no reason she should; she and my Bean went to the same preschool, but Bean wouldn't recognize her mother, either). Sitting down with my dinner (ALONE! with a BOOK!), another family passed my table on their way out, and the mother was saying to her husband, "I decided to get it to go because that man with the two kids is INTOXICATED..." Hm. Maybe Sad Girl really has something to be sad about.

When I had a cat and no kids, I used to read the cat shelter column in the local paper, every kitty story in the news would catch my attention, and every cat in a parking lot made me wonder if she had a place to go home to. I used to have a recurring dream about abandoned kittens following me home. Now, of course, it's little girls that pull my heartstrings.

Happy Birthday Bean!

Our Bean is 5 years old! We had her party on Saturday though, because, you know, the hottest, most humid, least pleasant day of the summer seemed like a good time to grill a ton and a half of marinated chicken for a thousand sweaty kids and their wilting parents. (Sunday, of course, was stunningly beautiful -- a lovely, comfortable temperature with a perfect breeze, yet not a cloud in the sky. Sigh. You get what you get, weather-wise.)

Luckily, since most of the responses I had to chase down were regrets, we were able to move the party indoors to air conditioned comfort. Mr. Sandy was a good sport about manning the grill. He noted later that although the only part of the food prep I did NOT do was the actual grilling, and that all the rest of it took hours and hours, he got all the atta boys for the 20 minutes he spent cooking the chicken. I'm OK with that. I'd have passed out.

Shameless self-congratulation for the most excellent birthday party activity ever... not that it was an original idea, but it was a big hit: SAND ART. You need baby food jars, spray paint, art sand in a bunch of colors (2.5 lb bags for $2.50 at craft store), cups and spoons, table, drop cloth if it'll be indoors. In advance (at least a day ahead, to let things air out and dry) clean the jars and get the labels off 'em (mineral spirits work great). Spray paint the lids (I used white, but something sparkly would've been cooler). On party day, put colored sand into different (clear is best so they can see the colors) cups, spoons into each cup, cups on table. Use enough cups so that everyone can get to all the colors. Kiddos then spoon layers of different colored sand into their jars to make pretty patterns. As long as they don't shake the jars, they can't go wrong. Have them fill the jars all the way to the top so there isn't room for the sand to tip and mix after you put the lid on. Make sure they put an initial or something on the jars, they're easy to mix up when they're all done. Ribbons around the jar would make a cute final touch but of course I didn't think of it till afterward, so whatever.

I had boys and girls aged 2 to 7, and either they all loved this or their parents were discreetly jabbing them with sticks and telling them to fake it or else. Everyone made birthday presents for unsuspecting grandparents who will end up with jars of sand they have to keep forever. But that's not my problem :).

So yeah, the Bean is 5. And she starts kindergarten in a month... and when I think about that I cry, so this post was about sand art instead.

I'm so proud of her.

The 40 Year-Old Virgin

Briefly: A comedy not as bad as I'd feared, not as good as I'd hoped.

The title character works in the stock room at [insert generic name for Best Buy], the secret to his dorkishness gets out, and his coworkers spend the rest of the movie working on getting him laid -- until he starts working on it in his own way, on his own terms, with a predictable happy ending (and a not-so-predictable, bizarre musical sequence that should've been cut, cut, cut).

It starts out just bad (awkward loner keeps action figures, plays video games... we get it. Clumsy attempts at hooking him up with drunk women... not funny). But it does become kind of cute, and there are some amusing exchanges. Jane Lynch (of Best in Show and A Mighty Wind, both MUST SEE movies... really, get those right now if you haven't seen them, don't bother with crap like Virgin) is pretty funny as the store manager. The cute guy who played Phoebe's boyfriend on Friends plays a cute guy here too. Catherine Keener is charming as the Love Interest.

That said... it's easily 45 minutes too long, and while I am willing to subject myself to that kind of fluff once in a while, I can't accept responsibility for letting anyone else do it. So here, sign this waiver. Now turn off your brain and watch this on cable if you feel like it, but don't come whining to me about all those minutes of your life you'll never get back. I tried to tell you.

RSVP. Please, please, PLEASE!!!!

Does anyone have any suggestions as to how to politely encourage people to respond to an invitation? I ask because a simple "R.S.V.P., [phone number]" appears to be completely ineffectual.

Pick up the damn phone, people, and give your hapless, well-intentioned, would-be hostess a frickin' clue. How hard can it be.

That is all.

Basic Instinct 2

In case anyone was left wondering... yes, Basic Instinct 2 is every bit as bad as everyone said it was.

Sharon Stone as novelist Catherine Tramell, this time in London, and in trouble with the law again, this time for the death of a football player who she might perhaps have saved from a watery grave were he not paralyzed by an illegal drug, and were his paralyzed fingers not in, ahem, use, while Ms. Tramell was driving through London in a snazzy sportscar at a hundred miles an hour. She's evaluated by a shrink who proceeds to go where Michael Douglas has gone before.

They should've kept more sex in the film and accepted an NC-17 rating. If they'd been honest about the premise, then it wouldn't have mattered that the plot was so campy, and those of us with some remaining allegiance to its purported "thriller" aspects wouldn't have had to strain to accept that everyone in Tramell's evil presence falls under her Sublime Spell o'Sexiness so that things can proceed exactly as she has forseen them, mwah-hahahaaa.

And, because this is what it was all about, really: Sharon Stone looked alternately ghoulish and great.

In short: an embarrassing film, hopefully more excusable for those with careers on the rise (are we ever going to see any of those British actors again?) than for those with careers in decline.

I just couldn't help myself.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Every night at bedtime, I ask the Bean "what was your favorite part of today?" Tonight, lying on her bed between her Daddy (home from his trip, hooray!) and me, she thought for a long beat before answering, "well, some days are so special that it's hard to choose a favorite part, because the whole day was my favorite."

Our hearts swelled. Daddy's first day home was so special. She missed him so much! She's so happy he's home!

"Was today one of those special days, Bean?" I ask, smiling.

"Mmmm... no." (cracks up laughing)

Where does she get it.

Because I'm boring.

Someone asked why my blog doesn't have a cute name. I know what they mean. I've been surfing blogs, and a lot of them have very cute names. Puns. Witty plays on words. Excellent little gems of phrases I wish I'd thought of myself.

But I have no imagination, is why.

There's an old Star Trek episode called The Trouble With Tribbles in which Captain Kirk is being harangued over the intercom by an intolerably annoying person with a lot of complaints, and he signs off with something like, "as for [your concerns], they have been...(exasperated pause, Shatner style, and I type it rather than let you infer it because that's what he would do, no?)... noted and logged." At least that's how I remember it. Captain Kirk doesn't have time for that shit. The Enterprise is knee deep in tribbles, for cryin' out loud.

So, not knowing what kind of blog I'd be writing (it isn't a mommy blog, it isn't an issue or place blog, it isn't a hobby blog...), I went with Noted and Blogged, rather than be forever paralyzed because I didn't know what to call it.

There ya go... dull as dirt.

But I was a sedimentologist, in another life. Dirt is fascinating stuff.

Everyone talks about the weather, but...

...you know what I think? After years of quiet suspicion, I'm going to type it out loud: I think the summer weather forecasts here on Cape Cod are fucking LIES. I don't think they just get it wrong, I think they deliberately lie, to make people think summer on Cape Cod is constantly delightful. (In fairness, it is even worse everywhere else.)

Today for instance. A high temperature of 81F -- lovely, right? -- was forecast on the local news station (more rants about that bunch of morons are forthcoming) this morning. Well it was over 90 in the shade before noon, folks. And that happens routinely, every summer. I know, because my mood turns to poison (yes, I'm aware) when the temperature is over 90 in the shade and the humidity is so high that merely breathing outdoors is unpleasant. So I keep an ear out for forecasts like that. And they NEVER HAPPEN. Yet winter forecasts don't have that problem... when they say it's going to be in the 20s, it generally is.

It's a conspiracy, I tell you.

Must I do my own weather forecasting, too? Is there NOTHING IN THIS WORLD I can reliably leave to other people to do properly?

Signed,
Hot and Bothered, with Control Issues

Sad Girl

You don't have to live in a small town for long before everyone looks familiar. Took me a while to get used to that (let's just say I'm much more careful about, say, gesturing at other drivers than when I lived in slightly more crowded places, such as Los Angeles). With the girls' activities our circle of acquaintances has become huge and I'm rarely out and about without running into a friendly face. I spend a lot of time in the car trying to figure out how I know the person I was just talking to, and what the heck her name is, again.

Anyway, one of the girls we see pretty often gives me pause. She's four. In the two and a half years since we met, I've never seen her smile. Not at preschool, the gym, the library, the children's museum. Now, anyone who's run into us has a decent chance of witnessing an exchange that ends in "I don't listen to whining. Please stop it. Now. WHAT DID I JUST SAY?!" We are not all giggles. But this little one... shoot. I've never seen her scolded, she just always looks so profoundly miserable it takes me aback. It would be less unsettling if I saw her crying all the time (then she'd be merely annoying. KIDDING! sort of). But she doesn't make a peep, or change her expression. It makes me wonder what's up. I don't get the same sad vibe from her older brother. Poor little one. Cheer up, kiddo! It's not that bad. I hope.

Words I Love

nifty
snorkel
peplum
hypotenuse
noodle

LA LA LA I DON'T HEAR YOU

Wait! Don't go! This isn't a hissy fit like the compost thing yesterday. (Sorry 'bout that. I am myself once more. Not quite cheerfully tending the compost, but no longer swearing at it.)

This post is to confess that I am living in fear. Not because the Secretary of Homeland Security has a tummy ache. Oh no. This is serious. I am treading carefully online, skittishly avoiding certain conversations in person, because:

I am afraid someone will tell me what happens in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Why don't I just get my eager paws on a copy and plow through it? One sleepless night ought to do it, and the tots can make their own dang breakfast, right? Well no, but that's not why. Why is because I promised Mr. Sandy I wouldn't. Years ago, reading Chamber of Secrets, I could tell he'd love these stories, and knew he'd never read them. So I backtracked to Sorcerer's Stone and read a chapter a night aloud to him, and that's how we've read all the subsequent ones. (Evidently I do a good Hagrid voice.)

I was right -- he's hooked. Now not only do I have to wait till he gets home from Far Far Away to get Hallows, but I will then have to read it one chapter a night. That's a long time to avoid spoilers. I'm surprised and pleased at how considerate everyone's been about it, but it can't last, it can't last.

I'm not listening, though. I'm brushing up my Hagrid voice.

OK, I'll consider it: Ummm... no.

Your Mind is 86% Cluttered

Your mind is incredibly cluttered. You have so much going on in there, it's hard to think straight.Consider talking to a therapist. It's a good idea to sort through your thoughts, if only to see which ones are worth hanging on to.

Another title I considered for this post: No Shit, Sherlock.

Take this silly quiz and find out how cluttered your mind is.

Where the (sorta) Wild Things Are

We get the usual mix of suburban "wild"life at our house. Racoons eat the girls' playground balls if we don't bring them in overnight, and skunks do their stinky thing every so often. We've had a half dozen deer in the yard more than a few times. I'm sure that coyotes see us, whether or not we see them, although one day a big one loped down the driveway casual as anything, right as I was unloading the groceries. I yelled at it to scram and it just stared at me like "uh, you and what army?" Yikes.

Yesterday during breakfast, the Bean hollered that she saw a REALLY BIG BIRD! ON THE CAR! Given that she hollers like that when she sees so much as a moth on the screen door, my first thought was "sparrow." But sure enough, there was a big ol' bird of prey just hanging out on top of the car. Quick, to the window! We stood very still watching it for a while. The novelty of a hawk chillaxn (heh) on the sunroof a few feet from the house warranted a few moments of video (Mr. Sandy is away with the still camera, dang it! I can't post a pic!). It stood, sat, stood, sat, shifted its weight around, and settled in for a while. So long that the girls went back to their raisin toast and told me to alert them if something interesting happened.

People just don't say about me, "now there's someone who knows her raptors," and that's probably not going to change any time soon. Paging through my Peterson's guide to Eastern Birds, I now see that I noticed all the wrong things, if I want to be able to tell hawks apart. It had bright yellow legs! Yah. They all do. It had brown and white flecked belly and brown upper parts! Yah... all the immature ones do. It had a banded tail! Yah... they mostly all do. I failed to notice whether it had yellow or red eyes, a notched or rounded tail, a stripe over its eye, or any other critical identifying characteristic. I'm quite sure it was a young 'un, and I hope it was an endangered species, cause we have a family of four of them thriving right in our woods and it would be especially cool to see that. But it's probably the Exceedingly Common Cape Cod Woodland Hawk, or equivalent.

We are always glad though to see anything in our yard... hawks, snakes, owls, anything... that eats mice. Mice carry deer ticks, which carry Lyme disease, and if you live on Cape Cod, your risk of getting Lyme is many times what it would be if you lived most anywhere else -- greater even, I think, than if you lived in Lyme itself. Also, mice nest in the cars' air vents, then proceed to die a gruesome death there when the fan is turned on, then proceed to smell awful, then proceed to cost us $35 to get the air vent cleaned out. (Loathe to spend the $35 yet again, Mr. Sandy did this job himself once, and said it was the most disgusting task he ever did, no contest. Mike Rowe he ain't, but still.)

So bon appetit, birdie, whatever you are. But dude, no pooping on the car, I just waxed it.

The post that wasn't

I think Life in Hell was probably the funniest comic ever. OK, The Far Side was pretty damn funny. OK OK, Dilbert is also very good, though context matters. Once you leave the cube farm it loses some of its ooomph. I know a lot of people adore Calvin and Hobbes. It just never grabbed me.

This was going to be a longish post about "the culture wars," but I got distracted... hey look, something shiny!


BTW today's stuck-in-the-head song is Bob Marley's "Stir it Up."

Eeek! Socks!

After seeing the Bean off to day camp this morning, my Peanut headed down to the playroom for some quality time alone with her trains. I sat down to drink my usual 2/3 cup of tea (I swear one of these days I'll finish a cup of tea without having to reheat it). After about ten minutes silence, I got a frantic, near-tears summons: "MOMMY! There are some SOCKS in the playroom that are SOMEONE ELSE'S!" Hmmm, thinks I. Sometimes we get a spider, but invasive socks are definitely unusual. I shall investigate.

Sure enough! There is a pair of socks in the middle of the room, not even trying to hide. They look harmless, but one can't be too careful. I pick them up to examine more closely.

"Peanut," I say to my barefoot little one. "These are YOUR socks. Did you take them off when you got downstairs?"

Confused silence. "But they're big," she says.

Evidently she can't keep up with how fast she's growing, either.

Frangipani

So I joined another book group. Optimistic of me to think I might have time to read two novels a month, but what the heck. This group is a bunch of moms who like to read, and like even more to hang out at the beach (knocking back a few) discussing what they've read, and watching the sun set as the tide rolls in. Let's just say it's an easy fit for yours truly. (For any of my new friends who happen across this blog, this will explain why I took a picture of my shoes...)

We read Frangipani, by Celestine Vaite. It's the story of Materena, a strong, proud and wise Tahitian woman, and her smart, lively and challenging daughter Leilani. The novel explores themes of personal growth, conflict and love in mother-daughter relationships, family, change across generations both in Tahitian culture and for women in general. Its subject plops it squarely in the chick lit market, which I'm loathe to even acknowledge as such. Still, I found Materena an engaging character and Frangipani a charming if undemanding story. It made a lovely excuse to spend an evening on the beach talking (ultimately of other things). A teacher of English in the group recoiled in mock horror when I said it reminded me thematically of The Red Tent, so much a women's book group favorite that it essentially defines the genre. Red Tent is certainly a more literary, more ambitious work; Frangipani is maybe more suited for mature young adults. What do I know, I majored in rocks.

At any rate, as a mother of girls, it is always heartening to read strong mother-daughter relationship stories. I'll find it again in ten years and ask the Bean and Peanut what they think. Here's hoping they're still speaking to me.

"This-is-my-favorite-chicken" Chicken

I didn't intend to do back to back recipe posts, but evidently I'm batting a thousand with dinner this week. The Bean raved about tonight's chicken so much ("I love this! I would like to have it tomorrow night, too!*") that I wondered if she could be entirely sincere. Surely she's too young (4) to be playing me so masterfully ;). In any case this dish earned astonishingly high praise from her, so maybe you and yours will dig it too.

My Bean's Favorite Chicken
1/4 c. packed dark brown sugar
1/4 c. low-sodium soy sauce
1 T. lime juice
1/4 t. curry powder
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 lb. boneless skinless chicken thighs

Put everything together in a big ziploc bag and marinate for however long you've got.

Aside: I heard somewhere (NPR?) that someone (a chef?) experimented to see if marinating overnight really makes meat taste better than marinating it for much less time. If I remember right, the point of diminishing returns was something like 20 minutes. That made me feel better about all the times I'm "supposed" to have marinated something for most of the week or whatever, but didn't defrost it in time, so settled for an hour-ish and couldn't tell the difference.

Now that you're done marinating, empty the ziploc into a 13x9 dish and bake at 425 for 40 minutes.

Or grill the chicken, but if you do, boil the marinade on the stove for at least a minute, then use it to baste.

I served this with wild rice and peas, but I think it'd be better with mashed potatoes and carrots.

*I fully intend to call her bluff. Tomorrow night is Leftover Clearinghouse chez SandyShoes.

Black Bean Lasagna

Well, Noted and Blogged is going to have something for everyone. I've decided to post recipes for dishes that 1) are at least sort of Good For You, and 2) have gone over well with both kids and adults in the SandyShoes household. If the Peanut clears her plate without being told to Take Another Bite, then woo hoo! we have a winner.

The inaugural entry:
Black Bean Lasagna (modified from a Cooking Light recipe*)
2 c. chopped onion
2 c. chopped bell peppers; I like to use 2 different colors but it doesn't matter which ones.
4 garlic cloves, minced
1 t ground coriander
1.5 t ground cumin
2 c. chopped tomato
2 cans black beans, rinsed and drained (I use low salt beans)
3 T chopped fresh cilantro
8 oz. lowfat sour cream
1 egg, lightly beaten
1 16 oz. bottle salsa (I use mild so the kids will eat it)
1 8 oz can no-salt added tomato sauce
12 oven ready lasagna noodles
8 oz. Montery Jack cheese, shredded

Preheat oven to 375 F.
In a large deep skillet (or small Dutch oven), saute onion, peppers and garlic 5-6 minutes.
Add coriander, cumin and tomato, cook 3 minutes.
Add beans, cook 3 minutes.
Remove from heat, cool 10 minutes.
Stir in cilantro, sour cream, and egg.
Spread 1/4 of the salsa and half the can of tomato sauce in the bottom of a 13x9" dish.
Put in 4 lasagna noodles.
Top with 1/2 of the bean mixture, 1/3 of the cheese, and another 1/4 of the salsa.
4 more noodles.
Rest of the bean mixture, 1/3 of the cheese, another 1/4 of the salsa.
4 more noodles.
Top with the rest of the tomato sauce, salsa and cheese.
Cover, bake 30 minutes.
Uncover, bake 15 minutes.
Let stand 5 minutes.
Voila.

Not super quick, but easy, tasty, and loaded with vegetables. Bonus: Mr. SandyShoes gets a couple days' lunches out of the leftovers.

*Modifications:
1) Rather than follow the elaborate procedure for including jalapenos (cut, seed, flatten, broil, seal in plastic bag, let stand, peel, chop...I have time for this?), I eliminated them. But if you like jalapenos a lot, then do all that to 4 of 'em, then add them to the pot with the beans.
2) I added the little can of tomato sauce to ensure there's enough moisture to use the oven ready lasagna. Why cook lasagna noodles? Really.

A Tale of Two Jurors

This morning on the local radio news I heard that our Senator and fellow Cape Cod resident Edward M. Kennedy had jury duty today, and reported to the Barnstable County Courthouse accordingly. The news report said that Sen. Kennedy and others were excused, as enough jurors were empanelled before their numbers were called. All this prompted me to shake my head, half baffled and half grateful at what passes for news in these parts, and then forget about it.

Until: this afternoon on ABC national radio news, I heard that "a Cape Cod resident" angered a judge today by trying to get out of jury duty. Evidently he wrote of himself on the prospective juror questionnaire that he's a "racist, homophobe, and habitual liar."

Probably just a coincidence.


Edit: 1) CNN says that the racist homophobe juror thing happened yesterday, not today; 2) just in case I'm being horribly misinterpreted and need to type this out loud, I'm not calling Kennedy a racist homophobe liar. How I heard these stories today just struck me funny.

Word Wars (2004)

Some of my most favorite movies ever are the Christopher Guest "mockumentaries" This is Spinal Tap, Best in Show, Waiting for Guffman, and A Mighty Wind. (For Your Consideration, the sad exception, fell completely flat.)

Had I not known better I might've mistaken tonight's laundry-folding movie (Monday is wash day, dontcha know) for one of Guest's masterpieces.

Word Wars is a documentary about Scrabble competitions. Yes. The movie follows four players through some preliminary tournaments and to the 2002 nationals at a San Diego hotel. Apparently filmed without irony, it is wonderfully rich with phrases like "the Tiger Woods of Scrabble," and some excellent footage of players guzzling antacids, getting high, and practicing elaborate pre-game rituals. A gem: players burst out of the tournament room with a finished Scrabble board and plop down on the floor to conduct an animated "post mortem" of the match. A few yards away, a lovely bride, clearly waiting to make an entrance on her own big day, looks on in confusion. You can all but hear her say "wtf, Daddy?!" Whoever neglected to mention the Scrabble tournament being held the same day as her wedding is clearly going to pay. Other gems include a player showing the custom board he brought for "after hours action." Hoo boy.

The movie follows four competitors in particular. Joel is the acid reflux (among other things) guy. It is clear he has difficulty in social situations. It is unclear what he does in life besides play Scrabble. Marlon is from a tough East Baltimore neighborhood. He's rough around the edges and seems the unlikeliest entrant until you meet his grandmother, who takes no prisoners. Marlon spends time teaching elementary schools kids to play Scrabble, and takes a side trip to Tijuana during the tournament. Matt is a word fiend who also does stand up comedy. He takes fistfuls of supplements and talks about himself an awful lot. Joe is the defending champion and pregame Tai Chi enthusiast. He once took a job as a night watchman for time to read the dictionary, but these days only has time to study notecards while driving to and from work.

If you like Scrabble, you still might not like this movie. But if you like Scrabble and you liked Best in Show, don't miss it. Don't worry, I won't tell you who wins.

Today's Musical Menace

Lord help me, the song of the day is One, from A Chorus Line (click at your own risk).

Why, why? I've never even seen the damn show.

Gaaaaah, I hate musicals.

blog, blog, blog

Since I started this wee blog, such as it is, I've been reading more of others', just to see what's out there.

Some conclusions:

There's a tremendous amount of badly written crap out there. But we knew that. The good news is that there are also more funny, sharp people typing away than I could ever get to read. So, cool.

However. No matter how intriguing the author profile, I won't read blogs with white type on a black background. Just won't. Even the ones that aren't in a tiny font, though a surprising number are, make my head hurt. Me, I'm delighted to have readers at all, and consider it common courtesy not to give you migraines if I can help it.

I'm disappointed at the number of blogs with the same templates. I like this one well enough (despite some formatting quibbles), but so do approximately 839,712 other bloggers. I'll be looking for something less commonplace as soon as I figure out how to do that.

Blogs seem to be either subject oriented or whatever-the-author-is-thinking oriented. Although this one is the latter, I think subject blogs are more accessible (unless the author comes complete with fan base). Readers already know whether they've an interest in cake decorating/caribou migrations/parasailing/politics/physiology (ahem), but how do you know if you like a person, unless you've invested too much time reading her various yammerings? So I expect my readership will be limited.

S'okay. I'll still do my part to be sure that if you have a headache, it won't be my fault.

Independence Day

Happy Independence Day, fellow Americans!

This year's 4th of July brought the SandyShoes family a bit of everything: picnic, fireworks, small town parade, birthday party bbq, the whole nine yards. We have one tired Bean and one tired Peanut, long since fallen asleep to the distant strains of the neighborhood party band playing "I'm a Believer." From here it sounded like the version at the end of "Shrek," but hey, it's all good.

Part-serious person that I am, I do take a moment on the Fourth to revisit the Declaration of Independence, and consider the risk the men took who put their names to it. Had Britain laid hands on them (and at the time, it often looked more likely than not) they'd have surely been hung. It must've been terrifying, but exhilarating. Can you imagine?

What would you be willing to die for?

Syriana (2005)

(First of all, who *cares* that George Clooney gained 30 pounds for this movie? Yay George and all, but big deal. We give more respect to actors who gain weight for their jobs than to... well, I don't know to whom, but people who would deserve it more. Not that he didn't do good work in the role (though I have to say I wish Harrison Ford hadn't turned it down). But still.)
ANYhoo.

Syriana is an ambitious movie about a complex question: What Is The Price Of Oil? The film follows several major characters whose storylines eventually become entwined. It can be hard to follow, especially in the first hour or so. That's OK. I don't need to be spoonfed. But it's important to pay attention. No fair running upstairs for more wine and then asking "what happened?" ;). Here's the setup:

An American energy market analyst (Matt Damon) becomes the emir's elder son (Alexander Siddig)'s primary advisor, a role maybe more dangerous than he thought. Meanwhile, a CIA agent (He of the Hyped Heft), just home from a mission in Iran during which a missile got into unknown hands, is assigned to arrange the elder son's assassination. Meanwhile, a D.C. attorney (Jeffrey Wright) works to perform due diligence on the proposed merger of two American oil companies, one of whom just lost a contract awarded to the Chinese by the emir's eldest son. Meanwhile, the emir's younger son, with the discreet help of another powerful American attorney (Christopher Plummer -- is it me, or is he appearing more and more often in these sinister roles?), is angling to become the next emir. Meanwhile, Pakistani oil field workers lose their jobs when the Chinese take over. Frustrated, demoralized and unable to find work, they are drawn to an Islamic fundamentalist group.

The plot is complicated, tense, intriguing. If you didn't think so already, you will certainly come away seeing that there are more layers, dangers, consequences and agendas involved with The Oil Problem than it might at first seem.

But you did think so already, didn't you? As interesting as Syriana was, and as good a movie as I think it is -- do see it if you haven't -- I just don't think it's quite the Important Film it believes itself to be.

climate vs. weather

A micro-rant, if I may. In understated, civil language, even.


I'm very tired of hearing people scoff at global warming just because it's a relatively cool day outside. Must we make fun of Al Gore every time the temperature dips below 90?

Similarly, a hot summer day does not climate change make.

Also: Michael Crichton is a novelist. Novels = fiction. Fiction = MADE UP.


Thank you. That is all.

Happy Canada Day

The Dominion of Canada was created by the British Parliament on 1 July 1867.

Happy anniversary, neighbors!

Here's something I thought was interesting: In Quebec, July 1 is also called "Moving Day," because most leases there begin and end on that day, and lots of folks are moving. Wikipedia says that "Federalist Quebec residents who oppose the popular sovereigntist campaign for an independent Quebec joke that Moving Day is scheduled to ensure Quebecers are too busy moving house to celebrate Canada Day." Heh.

I wonder if ibuprofen sales in Quebec spike on July 2, what with all the Moving Day mal au dos. Zut!