Robots 1, Humanity 0

My friend Cathy named her blog after robots - she's what I'd call a robot sympathizer.  When our metal masters finally make their move, Cathy and I will have one of those tense, emotional face-off scenes, like in 'The Sound of Music' when Liesl and her family are escaping and they come face to face with Rolf and there's that moment of silence...where he might do anything...where he might tap into his humanity and let them go...but then Rolf blows his whistle and sh*t goes down.

Now, I love Cathy, and she's funnier in her offhanded comments than I am when I try really hard, and she also named her blog after tea, which is the perfect beverage, and I am in NO WAY comparing one of my dearest friends to a Nazi.  I'm just saying that if Wall-E and that creepy little kid from A.I. had me cornered in an Austrian nunnery and Cathy stumbled across my hiding spot, the next thing you'd hear would be the piercing digital activation of her robo-whistle.

But it turns out that Ray Bradbury was on Cathy's side.

"I am not afraid of robots.  I am afraid of people."

Back in the 1970's (or as the metal ones will call it, during the Era of Flesh), author Brian Sibley wrote to Ray Bradbury to say how much he admired his books, and also to comment on how insanely creepy those animatronic Disney robots are.  Brian Sibley is clearly a right-thinking fellow.  Bradbury responded with a nice little note, followed by a lengthy P.S. in which he compares robots to books, says humanity is the true threat, and suggests we let robots teach our children.

I share some of Mr. Bradbury's doubts about people.  But much like my dear Catherine, he has been blinded by the shiny metal promise of robots - blinded to the sad, inevitable truth.  *sigh*  I'm sure their robo-ganda posters will have Ray Bradbury's face plastered on them.

Vive la Robo-sistance!

In which I pay a stranger to hurt me

I’ve been in a terrible mood lately, which makes writing anything interesting a challenge.  Like:

“We saw Wall Street 2 tonight.  It was… I don’t know, it was fine.  Whatever.”

Did you enjoy reading that?  I didn’t enjoy writing it.  It felt like pulling a tooth. 

In an attempt to turn this bitch-train around, I got a massage last night.  I joined a chain massage place a while ago, where they charge you every month for a session, but they charge you less than a normal one hour session would cost.  In exhibit #847 that I’m not great at relaxing, I now have four sessions banked, which means that in the five months I’ve been a member, I’ve gotten one massage.  

So last night was my second one, with Nick.  Give Nick credit – I went in for a deep-tissue massage on my shoulders and he TOOK THEM APART.  My neck and shoulders still hurt to the touch 24 hours later.  It was excruciating.  I’m going back next Monday and I can’t wait.  

Recommended: @DalaiLama

Twitter is by and large a superficial place where I get my news headlines, read amusing bon mots, and become vaguely familiar with celebrities.  The Dalai Lama also tweets, though, and provides actual ideas and concepts to think about during the day.  I didn't realize the 140-character format was so good for meditations, but...

http://twitter.com/DalaiLama

TAR is back!!

Ah, it’s Amazing Race time again!  It’s a new season, and yet there’s so much that seems familiar….

Hello, passive-aggressive couple where the guy has a superiority complex and the girl seems to both enable it and bitch about it! I look forward to hating both of you.

Hello, over-confident dorks!  It’s nice to see you’re Ivy League this time.  And it’s VERY nice to see you feel your a capella singing skills will be an asset when communicating with foreign cab drivers… (wha?)

Hello, beauty queen!  You have a formidable list of beauty queens and former beauty queens who have been appalling and clueless in some pretty spectacular ways, so I hope you brought your A game.  And some Vaseline.  

Hello, long-distance couple just meeting for the first time!  You’re a mother-daughter pair with an adoption twist this time – nice. The producers are expecting you to work out your issues on-camera, so please oblige.

Hello, pair of doctors!  So…they’re young, and they’re surgeons… how on earth do they have the time to go racing around the world on a game show for six weeks?  Are they super-doctors, or really bad doctors?

Couple taking things too quickly, I think you’re my favorites so far for the sole reasons that a) you’re from Florida, and b) you swear a lot... oh my lord, in the time it took me to type this sentence, Chad revealed himself to be a total asshat.  OK, never mind that.  

Yay!  I'm so excited!

Exactly.

From Kelly Oxford:

“If you’ve been socializing online since 02’ or earlier 1. You’re a loser like me. 2. Like me, you’ve already figured out the twist in Catfish and you know at least 5 ‘online based’ stories that are much, much worse."

—

No one needs to tell me. I figured it out.

...look at them boots!

I went through a few stages with country music. 

Stage 1: I did not listen to country music.  At all.

Stage 2: I listened to all of the country music all the time and loved it!  Nothing but country all the time woo hoo yeah country!

Stage 3: I stopped listening to country music because, whoa, easy there. 

Stage 4:  I like country.  But only certain country.  And I define it a certain way, and I mix country in with all my other music. 

The music I like now is not the country/pop crossover artists I used to listen to, because honestly, they’re not country.  I still like some of them.  I mean, who hasn’t had Taylor Swift Dance Night with their Scottish Terrier and a bottle of wine?  Amiright?

No?

Well, either way...

Taylor Swift?  Not Country Music. 

I don’t have a technical definition that excludes her.  I just know that she is mostly pop music, and while there may be a wee bit of country flavor in there, it’s not enough – she’s just pop.  Because.  Other things I just know?

Faith Hill?  Not Country Anymore. 

Rascal Flatts?  I don’t know if you’re a person or a band or what, but you’re more of a girl than I am, and you’re not country.

Keith Urban?  Ha.  NOT Country.  Also, from Australia.*

Real country music is Johnny Cash.  Obviously.  George Strait.  Without question.  And you don’t have to be old school to be real country - the Dixie Chicks are country.  Heidi Newfield wailing out “Knocked up/ shame shame/ Imma gonna ruin my family name” is more country than Carrie Underwood has ever seen in her lifetime.  Brooks & Dunn?  Hell yes, they’re country.  Julie Roberts is country, and she’s even MORE country because Taylor Swift shamelessly ripped her off.  Ryan Bingham is country because my heart aches a little when he sings.

To paraphrase the distinguished Justice Potter Stewart, I may not be able to define country, but I know it when I see it.  And it’s good stuff.

*This doesn’t disqualify him automatically, but it adds a little oomph to my disdain.

Ok, Thursday.

If I was a character on Mad Men, today would be the day I b*tchslap my neighbor in the grocery store, then give the kids a dryer bag to play with while I mix vodka with whatever is in the fridge.

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The Illusion of Dog Training

What I Think Happens

Jenn: “Good morning, Charlie!  Time to wake up!”

Charlie hears this, knows it’s time to get up, and hops out of bed.

Jenn: “You hungry?  Ready for breakfast?”

Charlie knows ‘breakfast’ and trots into the kitchen.

Jenn: “Ok.  Sit.  Wait.”

Charlie obeys these commands.

Jenn: “Good boy!  Go ahead and eat!”

Charlie eats.

What Probably Happens

Jenn: “Good morning, Charlie!  Time to wake up!”

Charlie: (sees that some lady who looks familiar is talking to him) Was she here yesterday?  I think so…. Oh, well, she’s excited about something.  Do I lick myself or follow her?  She seems pretty excited – I’ll follow her!

Jenn: “You hungry?  Ready for breakfast?”

Charlie: She’s making more noises… ohhhhhhhmigod, she’s going to the Food Room!  I LOVE THE FOOD ROOM!  I’m with you, lady-who-looks-familiar!!

Jenn: “Ok.  Sit.  Wait.”

Charlie: (not sure what the delay is) I’m just going to sit down and wait right here until she finds the food.  Can’t leave – might not get food.  I’ll be right here.

Jenn: “Good boy!  Go ahead and eat!”

Charlie: FOOOODMGILOVEYOUCHOMPCHOMPFOOD and WAAAAATER!!! SO THIRSTY!!!  ILOVEYOUWATER!!  HEY FOOD!  WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?!?!? CHOMPCHOMPCHOMP...

Morning Lake

If you don't know who the village idiot is...

Living in Florida can be seen as a series of trade-offs. For example, we have mild winters and lots of sunshine. We also have a lot of animals that should only be seen on the Discovery Channel. In the past year, while walking Charlie in my highly-populated suburban condo neighborhood, we have seen:

• several large turtles (cool)
• two bunnies (aww!)
• an otter (awwwwwww!)
• an alligator (….oh), and
• a cottonmouth snake (ACK and also Charlie tried to fight it)

Recently, a lot of spiders have been in the area. I know a few things about these spiders. I know they’re about the size of a silver dollar, and I know they like to spin big-ass webs from low tree branches to the ground. I also know…now…that when Charlie takes off after a lizard, he will not hesitate to drag me the hell through one of those webs.

It was ok, though. I handled it with dignity and grace and screaming.

I dropped his leash, clawed at my hair, ripped off my hoodie and (I’m not sure about this part) kind of smacked myself all over my face and shoulders. It seemed like I was clear, but I still had the creepy-crawlies all over, so I stopped at the next SUV I passed to check myself out in the window

After about 20 seconds, I realized there was nothing crawling on me.

At the same time, I ALSO realized there was a man sitting in the car. Staring back. At what was clearly a crazy person who had a Flashdance fit in the parking lot, then ran over to stare creepily at him through his window.

I’m lucky I didn’t get smacked with a car door.

THE PRESSURE! THERE'S SO MUCH PRESSURE!

I feel actual stress that the Fall TV season starts this week.

Things I have considered doing:

- making a spreadsheet of all shows I want to watch

- ranking existing shows in order of favorites, then ranking new shows in order of potential

- putting all decent shows on my calendar to help me keep track of when they air

- using one of three (3) tv apps I downloaded to my phone

- quitting my job to stay abreast of all television related events, both network and cable

- running and hiding

- just reading books

Not on the list? Remembering that this is supposed to be purely for entertainment.

*sigh*

What I did instead of sleeping like a normal person last night

I had, of course, been drinking.

Whenever you find yourself staring out a window and thinking about your inescapable mortality while Jack’s Mannequin is plaintively wailing through the speakers – you have, of course, been drinking.

(You are also the same person who has spent six hours clicking through StumbleUpon while a ‘Real Housewives of Orange County’ marathon was on in the background, so frankly, your profound thoughts on the precious value of our fleeting moments lack a certain credibility.)

This is the contradiction that was bothering me:

On one hand, we have a world full of the most constant and shallow stream of information that humans have been able to invent. Twitter, Facebook, HuffPo, YouTube, texting, email on your smartphone, Tivo, Netflix, On Demand, Hulu…. The whole world seems designed to keep us from thinking about anything in depth, or from thinking about much at all.

On the other hand, thanks to cable news, websites and the 24-hour news cycle, there are constant reminders all around you that life is fragile and ends randomly and violently and suddenly with no forgiveness. Actually… maybe it’s not surprising we’d rather go back and look at more Lolcatz.

There are dozens of clichés about this: Live like you were dying. Live like it’s your last day on earth. Every moment could be your last. Like a lot of clichés, though, they’re also true.

Sometimes, it depresses me in the strangest ways. “My time here is so limited, and I have to spend most of it cleaning my house or drudging away at work. Why do I have to waste my few moments of life doing laundry when my mortality is staring me in the face?!?!” Of course, the answer is that even Mother Teresa had to wear a clean habit, so put your whites in the dryer, St. Francis.

Sometimes, it just overwhelms me, because I don’t know what it is I feel I SHOULD be doing instead of… you know, what I’m doing now. I just think it should be more grand and meaningful and memorable. I’m like an existential Underpants Gnome.

I didn't reach any conclusions. Well... that's not completely true. I reached plenty of conclusions last night about how I was going to make the most of every moment and do something that truly made a difference every single day and not live so pointlessly or cautiously.

And then this morning, I walked Charlie and cleaned the kitchen.

Because even Ghandi had to drink from a clean cup.

Bottle of Pinot Grigio last night, half a pot of coffee this morning... I should buy my liver flowers or something.

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Do I need a reason?

Deciding to blog every day smacks of hubris in some ways – why should I assume that this is a decision of note, or that anyone else would give up two seconds of their time to see what I’ve decided to spray all over the internet this morning?

However, there are some reasons that are good enough for me:

1. It’s time to contribute. Between reading blogs and tumblr and Twitter and news sites and TV sites and magazine sites, I consume a preposterous amount of material on line. One day it struck me that I’m not contributing to this in any way – I only consume. I’m not under any illusion that the web needs another blogger. It doesn’t. In fact, having one more random person writing about why shoelaces are so weird might finally crash the network and we’ll all be doomed.

But still, I felt like it was time to be a contributor. Sorry about that, future civilizations.

2. I miss writing. I like writing. I like writing every day, as it presents a façade of discipline. (…she says as she is still unshowered, the pets need to be fed, and there’s no coffee brewing yet.)

3. Now my friends are doing it, too, and I LOVE that.

4. I love reading my friends’ blogs, so maybe they like mine, which is good enough for me, because…

5. …it doesn’t really matter if this gets read or not. I don’t know if that sounds cynical or pitiful or what, but it’s true. I just want to write. Obviously, I want to share what I write, or I’d leave this in the Word document where it starts, but still – writing is the primary point.

(If you ARE reading this, and I hope you are because I'm a total hypocrite, why do you blog?)

We do it every day

Ever since an ill-advised moment of weakness in a pet store 3.5 years ago, my day has started the same way. Like this.

We live on the third floor, so every morning, Charlie and I trot down three sets of stairs in varying stages of awake. We get to the bottom, and...

...we begin our walk.

I dress like a homeless person.

Charlie takes a business meeting, then runs around like a lunatic while I pick up his waste, because apparently that's what you do as a species after you develop opposable thumbs: you find an animal without them and say, "Hey, I'll give you food and handle your poop!"

Finally, after about 30 minutes of neighborhood inspection, we go home and start the day.

Endorsed: This Wedding

I don't know Nick & Surya, but Amy Moss at Eat Drink Chic endorsed their color palette, and I LOVE their wedding pictures.

http://jonaspeterson.com/wedding/wedding-nick-surya-basalt-colorado/

Dustbuster

I have a dustbuster problem.

Not with the actual dustbuster – the actual dustbuster is four years old and still going strong. (I have a Black & Decker 15.6V Cordless Cyclonic Hand Vac Model # CHV1568 and I give it two thumbs up – you’re welcome for the endorsement, B&D.)

The problem is that, while my dustbuster looks like this…



…when Mike looks into a perfectly clean, well-organized room and sees the dustbuster plugged in somewhere, like in the corner or under the desk, he sees this:



He has a deep and abiding hatred for the sight of this little cordless handvac that I can’t begin to fathom. “WHY is that thing just OUT there? It looks terrible. TERRIBLE.” Mike is pretty sure that every person on Hoarders started with a dustbuster charging in a visible spot.

I can’t complain too much, though, because Mike is also the only reason our entire house doesn’t look like a dorm room. Some people have a true gift for interior design; some people decorate their homes and hope for the best; and some people have changed addresses once a year for the past 30 years, so her idea of moving in is having a couch and a bed and a table, unpacking some of the boxes (definitely the ones with clothes in them and some of the books), putting a picture on the table, and having most of the kitchen utensils in drawers. My therapist calls it a detachment disorder. I call it convenient.

Either way, Mike’s actually got a talent for making this place look like adults with jobs live here.

At first, he’d ask me questions about this ottoman or that painting. I’d grunt and shrug, then go back to digging through the boxes in the closet looking for a flashlight or a deck of cards or my social security card or whatever. Then he’d go online and a few weeks later – boom! Dining room table! Boom! Rug in the living room!

I finally started getting in on the game. I try to look at a room now and think, “If I wanted to put something in here and not think about moving it again….what would I buy?” I had a large photograph and my diploma framed and they’re both actually hanging on the walls. I was a key player in deciding which rug we got for the office. Also, the gnome that’s on top of one of the kitchen cabinets? ALL ME. This is really becoming somewhere that I’m proud of, because I’m helping it look the way it does.

But I’m also the one who bought the dustbuster.

...everyone needs a project

Jenn: I've decided I'm going to blog at least once every day for the next month.
Mike: Why?
Jenn: Because.

-----------

Mike: Are you going to drink this wine? It's still good, you know.

He points to a bottle of wine that was $4 at Publix, was opened three weeks ago, has a screwtop, and has been sitting next to the stove.

Jenn: Um, no.
Mike: Why? It's still good! It's just been, you know, decanting.
Jenn: Yeah, it decanted past drinkable and straight into Sh*ttown about two weeks ago.
Mike: Well, maybe you just don't appreciate fine things, like delicious decanted wine, huh? Blog about THAT.

----------

So. Day 1 - DONE.

NAILED IT.

It's amazing I can walk, much less run...

I ran 3.5 miles, which I have done several times before in recent memory. However, tonight was just Not A Good Run Night. I got a shin splint; my right knee started throbbing; I think my heart skipped a few beats at one point. I was just glad to get home and ice my shins.

So I drank water and ate applesauce, we ate dinner, and then were sitting on the couch.

That's when my foot cramp started. At first, it was one of those "Oweeeeee my toe is going into a strange muscle spasm and looks shriveled" spasms. Then it turned into "my foot looks like a dried mango" cramp and I started howling. Mike was slightly alarmed, and said, "OK, drink water, stand up, and stand on your tiptoes."

So I did.

And THAT'S when the calf cramp kicked in. So with great presence of mind, I dropped to the floor.

Mike was all take-charge-I-worked-in-a-GNC-in-college guy at this point, and said, "Just lay down flat on the couch!" So I'm lying on the couch with Charlie's ass RIGHT in my face, and Mike's stretching out my foot and leg, but every time he let go of my toes, the cramp kicked right back in.

I've been hobbling around for a few minutes, pounding water, and it seems to be subsiding. I am so feeble. Gawd.


I was at least a 4 on the Allie scale:
http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/02/boyfriend-doesnt-have-ebola-probably.html