February 2008 Archives

Feral Girl and I were discussing the Worst Movies We've Ever Seen over lunch today.  As a teenager in a small town in NC, all my friends and I ever DID was go to or rent movies, so I'm narrowing the field to movies I actually saw in a theater.  Here are my all time worst top 3 - and yes, I saw ALL of these in an actual theatre, and without the aid of illegal substances:

1.  Gymkata.  Thank God for all those conveniently discarded pommel horses and uneven bars in shady alleyways!  Otherwise our intrepid hero would have been unable to perform his signature fighting style:  GYMKATA!  I know, okay?  It was 1985 and this movie was the inevitable result of all that excitement over the USA men's gymnastics team from 1984.  Even though it's irrational, I totally blame Mary Lou Retton.

2.  The Stuff.  Killer antarctic Cool-Whip.  Again, I KNOW.  1985 was not a good year for me.  Or movies. Or Paul Sorvino, apparently.

3.  Grizzly!  This is what happens when you're seven years old and you BEG AND BEG AND BEG to be allowed to see a PG-rated movie, because everyone you knew had seen Jaws in the theater but you weren't allowed to go to PG movies before you turned seven, so you totally missed out on Jaws and VCRs hadn't been invented yet and you had to settle for the cheap, quickly made attempt to capitalize on the OMG KILLER BEAST! phenomenon. Description: A fifteen foot tall grizzly bear terrorizes a state park. Christopher George leaps into the carnage to stop it. Well, thank God for Christopher George!

I have more, but I think this is a nice representative sample.

How about you?  Worst movie ever seen in a movie theater?  And The English Patient doesn't count.

This post will reflect my current mental state:  scattered.  Consider yourself warned.

Attended first professional hockey game this weekend.  Had no clue what was going on, but was generally diverted enough by pale Canadians scooting hither and yon to be able to ignore how cold my feet were.  Fortunately it was a high-scoring game, so we got to see Ric Flair on the Jumbotron yelling "WOOOOOOOO!!!!" a lot.  This made The Boy--who is possibly the only 6-year-old in America who can recognize Ric Flair--absurdly happy.  Plus, it's always fun to be able to yell "WOOOOOOOOO!!" in public.  Seriously.  Try it sometime.

I have to attend the prom, because Hublet is mean and will not suffer his chaperoning duties solo.  I know.  Do not even start with me.  So I need a dress to wear, and I'm torn between this one, this one, and this one.  Yes, I am using this hateful event as an excuse to splurge a little.  Opinions?  And yes, I have been known to wear pink on occasion.  Again, do not even start with me.

Finally, I happened upon this article yesterday via Arts and Letters Daily.  Yes, I'm linking to Utne Reader.  The most troubling aspect of this article--I know, I'm only picking one, but time is short--is the writer's attitude that the fact that these folks sincerely believe that something happened, even though they aren't sure what, even though the science doesn't back them up, and even though all their theories contradict themselves, means that their ideas deserve serious consideration.  No. No, they don't.  Representative quote before article degenerates into "OMG LIES!  EVIL! AMERICA DUPED BY BADDY BAD POLITICIANS OF A PARTICULAR STRIPE!" nonsense:

Many people are quick to dismiss the Truth movement the second a Truther starts talking. This is a mistake. In many ways, Truthers represent a step forward, in part because of the high value they place on reason--nothing to sneeze at in a religious age.

Irony is holding for you on line one.  If a group of scientists were to predetermine a conclusion and then try to manipulate and cherrypick evidence to prove themselves correct, they'd be drummed out of the academy for making a mockery of the scientific method.  The entire article on "truthers" demonstrates that they've done exactly this, because apparently these folks are having trouble with the fact that superior technology doesn't protect you from everything.  This isn't science and reason, this is projection and rationalization.  Please don't confuse the two.  Love, BAW.

Also, the comments at the end of the article are fun to read.

So I've been pitiful about posting this week - my apologies.  Yesterday I took half a day off to get a leisurely cut-and-color from my hairsylist, and ended up with something that looks like a cross between Paige Davis' haircut and Katie Holmes bob.  So, it's short and razor-cut and perky and super easy to deal with, and Hublet is bummed, because he has a thing about long hair.  Not that I've actually HAD long hair since our wedding, nor will I ever have long hair again, because HELLO!  Long hair when you're pushing 40 tends to drag your face down and make you look older unless you've got a regular botox and chemical peel regimen, but whatever.

But Hublet's issues are not the point of this post.  No, the point of this post is that my darling Boy is awesome with the compliments.  Because when he saw my hair he said, "Mommy!  Your hair makes you look YOUNG!"

Which, okay.  If I were a pessimistic sort I might ask, "How old did I look before the haircut?" But I'm just going to take this at face value, because it's coming from a 6-year-old boy.

Now if I can just navigate him through the "does this make me look fat" minefield, I will feel as though he has sufficient life skills to make someone a fine husband.

Okay.  I finally had a few spare moments yesterday to devote to cleaning out my car, and I have determined that our next automotive purchase will include an all-leather interior, cows, carbon, and polar bears be damned.

Why?

Because the once-beige upholstery in the back seat of my car is purple.  Well, more of a mottled purplish/red with the occasional blotch of blackish who the hell knows, but you get the point.  Even when it's clean, it looks as though you could catch something if you sit on it without a protective barrier.

The irony, of course, is that when we purchased the car I immediately went online and ordered a seat cover.  And then The Boy immediately wedged the straw from his juice box full of grape goodness into the ONE GAP in the seatcover, and the purple monstrosity was born.  Of course, it didn't help that the seat cover prevented me from noticing the stain until it was far too late.

And I still have no idea how the OTHER side of the back seat got a similar stain.  I'm out of ideas.  The dog chewed the seatbelt, sure, but she wasn't drinking grape soda.

I'm beginning to think that this car has some sort of besmirchment attractor.  It's not quite 5 years old, and we've replaced 2 windshields AND the current one has a rock lodged in the center, had the dent caused by our father-in-law repaired, and have ignored the other divot that prevents the passenger door from opening all the way.  No, I do not know how that happened.  In addition, we have the stainage (we will not talk about the Starbucks Mocha carnage on the front seats, detritus from the Christmas Shopping Stress of Aught-Six), the dog-chewed seatbelt ($300 to replace?  Oh, I think not.  The Boy can just sit on the other side of the car), and an intriguing pen mark on the ceiling--the result of a sequence of events involving Hublet, student papers, an ill-timed yawn and a Tow Mater-adorned pen.

Plus, the cover for the fuse box just randomly flew off one day, as did the plastic doohickey that attaches to the gas cover opener lever thing.

I love this car beyond the telling of it, but it's not going to win any fashion contests.  So I've decided that the next one will at least be easy to wipe clean, since no one in my family has the ability to sit still without causing upholstery damage.

And at least I haven't gone mucking it up by putting bumper stickers all over it, so that's something...

So, The Boy's class did it:  they got postcards from ALL 50 STATES, AND they did it before any of the other first grade classes at their school!

HAH!

Not that I'm weirdly competitive, or anything.

So thank you again to all you nice folks who sent a postcard along - The Boy says he gets to bring home all the ones addressed to him, so I'll get to see them in the flesh, so to speak.  Woot!

First - Happy Valentine's Day!  This is as sappy as I get. (Thanks, Feral Girl!)

Second - Stuff White People Like.  Excerpt:

#62:  Knowing what's best for poor people.
White people spend a lot of time of worrying about poor people. It takes up a pretty significant portion of their day.

They feel guilty and sad that poor people shop at Wal*Mart instead of Whole Foods, that they vote Republican instead of Democratic, that they go to Community College/get a job instead of studying art at a University.

It is a poorly guarded secret that, deep down, white people believe if given money and education that all poor people would be EXACTLY like them. In fact, the only reason that poor people make the choices they do is because they have not been given the means to make the right choices and care about the right things...

This piece at Inside Higher Ed which calls for a more "professional" dress code for the professoriate.  The comments, as always, are where the hilarity ensues, because, you know, we're all so "over judging by externals, maaaaaaan!"

I have only my personal experience to speak from, but since I have a long and storied tradition of haranguing you people with the expertise that this experience confers, I will do it again:

Dress Like You Care.

That's it.  Because your students will look at you and make immediate assumptions about your character based on your clothing.  I know it's not cool to admit it, but it happens.  And if you're in your late 40's and you're still swanning about the classroom in "post-doc just rolled out of bed, dude, I need a blunt to get through the day" mode, your students will think one of two things about you:

1.  You're trying too hard to be cool, except you're old, and that's just lame and/or icky.

2.  You're eccentric and you probably smell bad.

Granted, neither of these opinions have any bearing on your intellect or your ability to teach, but they do have an effect on the amount of respect the students will give you.

Perhaps I'm more sensitive to this because I was both young and female when I taught, but I noticed quickly that students definitely treated you differently based on your attire.  For me, I didn't want to give them an excuse to see me as a peer.  I dressed in what I guess you could call "corporate casual" in order to reinforce the power barrier between me and the students.  Yes, I said power barrier, and yes, I said it in tones of abject approval.  All hail the power barrier!  Of course, I didn't have a deep-seated psychological need to be BFF with a bunch of callow 18 year olds, but whatever.

And it worked.  Because like it or not, young women who teach have to try a little harder to establish authority early on, and clothing helps.  I relaxed my dress code as the semester progressed, and we got into established patterns of behavior, but I still never did the whole jeans in class thing.

Again, this was in the humanities.  I probably wouldn't have worn skirts to teach in a lab environment, for practical reasons. As always, YMMV.

But let's not pretend that looks have no bearing on how others perceive you, relate to you, or how much they'll respect you. I mean, sure, people can overcome first impressions, but I guess I'm just wondering why you'd want to set up that uphill battle in the first place?

Of course, I've never been a fan of Don Quixote, so maybe that explains my attitude. 

Posting will be light today and tomorrow, as I run frantically hither and yon, fetching ice-cold Pepsis for former governors and generally riding herd on the media.

But I will leave you with this nugget of advice, in the event that any of you dear readers become famous:

If you got famous as a member of the media, and then turn around and hide in the VIP room and refuse to do media because it's just "not something you're interested in," then consider yourself warned:  then venom directed at you by current members of the media will be something to behold, and you may want to watch your back.

Of course, this is all merely a long-winded addition to my Beyonce Principle:  If your name isn't Beyonce (or Cher, or Bono--in short, if you aren't so famous that you're a verb), then you don't get to act like a diva.

Or - What, your tenured position not keeping you quite busy enough, dude?

Every campus has one.  Actually, every department probably has one or two, but at every university at least one permanently disgruntled (always tenured) faculty member manages to rise above the whining crowd and lodge him or herself permanently into the side of the university as a particularly pointless thorn.

I could spend time perfoming disparaging psychological analyses on what, exactly, is wrong with people who are miserable if they aren't miserable, but you get the picture.

In our case, the thorn is a total stereotype of the whole "fight the power, man" remnant of the 1960's, who has taken it upon himself to determine a) What the university stands for, and b) That we aren't living up to these standards.  Then he takes it upon himself on a regular basis to Send Angry Emails to the Editors of On-Campus Publications and Alert The Local and National Media to our shortcomings, which leads to conversations like this one:

Eager Newbie Reporter:  "Hi, just wanted to let you know we're sending a crew over this afternoon to talk to a faculty member about Pressing Local Hotbutton Issue X, and wanted to see if there was a member of the adminstration available to speak with us as well."

University PR Flack:  "Okay, who are you coming to see?"

Eager Newbie Reporter: "Professor Griper."

University PR Flack: (stifles giggle) "Ah.  Did the Professor contact you directly?"

Eager Newbie Reporter:  "Um.  Not sure.  Just following up."  [This is code for - a producer told me to do this, I'm looking for a juicy story, and this may just be the one!  Look out, local anchor with the helmet hair!  You're on notice!]

University PR Flack:  "Okay.  The go-to person on every aspect of this issue is actually Administrator Calm Dude.  Let me track him down for you.  What time will you be here?

Eager Newbie Reporter: "What about Professor Griper?"

University PR Flack:  (trying desperately not to let the deep sarcasm seep into her tone) "The professor is a thoughtful and committed member of the university community who feels deeply about this particular issue."

Eager Newbie Reporter: (perhaps sensing that something is not quite what it seems, but can't put his finger on it, and is seeing his helmet-hair anchor dreams evaporating) "OK.  Thanks."

University PR Flack: "No problem."  (hangs up phone and addresses office mates)  "Hey guys!  Gotta catch the six o'clock tonight!  Nutty McNutbar will be agitating against the MAN!  Live!  On camera!"

And so it goes.  I love my job - and I'm not being sarcastic.  I just have a deep and abiding appreciation for the unintentional hilarity that folks like this cause.  Perhaps one day, an hour or two after my retirement party, I will send a general email to whoever is the current Griper General and point out that they do have a job description for folks who want to be in charge of the university's direction--it's called Chancellor. 

But, you know, that would require them to be responsible for the consequences of taking constant pot-shots at people and administrators, so that's right out. 

What is it that our rabble-rouser is so fond of saying?  If you aren't part of the solution you're part of the problem?  Yeah.  Oh, by the way, Captain Disgruntled, Irony's holding for you on line two.

I know some of you had emailed to ask how the year-long project was going....

We only have 2 states left:  New Hampshire and Alaska!

And if we get those, according to The Boy, his class will be the first one finished. 

So if you have any long-lost Alaskan relatives who might be willing to send a postcard I'll be forever in your debt....

So we have a family friend who originally hails from New Jersey--like most folks around the Raleigh area, nowadays.  He used to regale us with the tale of running around his neighborhood naked after the Giants won the Superbowl back in whatever year it was (I do not know, nor do I care to know - not a sports fact buff, thanks!), in the snow, no less.

I wonder if the fine town of Apex got to see our now older but probably not much wiser--at least when it comes to sports--buddy running around naked last night? 

And that about sums up my involvement in this year's Superbowl, except to say that the highlight of my evening was Hublet pointing at the televised post-game press conference and crowing, "Suck that lemon, Belichick!  Woo!"

Yes, Hublet channels Ric Flair at opportune moments.

Now if I can just make it through the ACC tournament without Hublet or his tiny protege', The Boy, spraining something, all will be well.

So there was this Penguin Project that The Boy had to complete.  He had the Galapagos Penguin.  The instructions were to create either a poster, diorama, or shoebox that would give people facts about your penguin. Parents were allowed to help some, but the lion's share of the work was to be done by the student.

The Boy, in the great non-artistic tradition of everyone in the Big Arm family, chose a poster that he would decorate with photos from the web and facts about his penguin.  We printed pictures, he cut them out and glued them on, then I wrote what he wanted in pencil and he traced the letters, because he said his writing "wasn't big enough."

All was well.  For about five minutes, until he looked at me and said, "You know mommy, I think they'd all be more impressed if we made a penguin out of feathers."

O-KAY!

I explained that I wasn't entirely sure a) how one would do that, and b) how one would secure such a thing to a poster, and added that c) it sure would have been nice if he'd mentioned that BEFORE we FINISHED the project, but promised that I would go to Michael's the next day and see what was possible.

Happy note here:  The Boy doesn't procrastinate, so I was saved having to do this 30 minutes before the poster was due.  I must admit to being a fan of his anal-retentive tendencies in situations like this, although I am doing my best to tone that aspect of his personality down a hair before he ends up on Xanax in 3rd grade.  Seriously.  The child tends toward the stress-ball end of the spectrum and while he gets it honest, it makes me worry about him.  See?  Told you he got it honest!

ANYWAY, the next day saw me in the kid's crafts section of Michael's, trying to figure out how to craft a penguin from random art supplies.  Pom-pom penguin?  Too hard to attach.  Feathers?  Wrong color and wrong texture, unless we wanted a sunburned hooker penguin to adorn his project.  Glitter paint?  Felt?  Clay?  Sequins?  I was desperate, and then I saw it:  a sheet of black foam board with an example of a foam PENGUIN on it!  I was saved!  So I bought black and white foam, and googly eyes--because really, googly eyes are the secret weapon in any craft project--and a few more glue sticks, and headed home.

We were able to find a pattern for the penguin, and there was tracing and cutting and sticking and then the piece de resistance - Googly Eyes.  The Boy was quite excited about the googly eyes.

As were his classmates.

And so I have learned a valuable lesson that I will pass along to you, dear readers:  Googly Eyes make EVERYTHING better.

Maybe I'll stick a pair on my income tax return this year.