It's like a metaphor, see? Because after a while, it's not about Matt anymore.

Everybody knows, I'm a crusty old cynic. But I'm not dead. There are still some things that inexplicably make me go all mushy inside--like cats who run and cry at the same time (meow-wow-wow-wow-wow), spontaneous standing ovations, the last scene of You've Got Mail, and Veterans' Day parades.

So yeah, I know--we've all seen Matt, wherever the hell he is. But this?

This is lovely.

My favorite moment comes at 2:37.

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

Making time.

It's the working women's creed. You hear and read it everywhere--the admonition that, no matter how long the list of things you must do for the other people in your life (your boss, your kids, your husband), it's important to remember to take time for yourself.

This must rank as one of the top five things every grown woman has to learn to do. How else to explain the inclusion of this tiny, four-word mandate in every Website, television network, and print publication devoted to women's interests? And Oprah? Girl, you know Oprah is all about finding time for herself.

And I am, too. In fact, making time for myself is one of the ways I ended up with pants I can't fasten.

I've noticed, though, that when the experts are talking, making time for one's self almost always translates into, "do something about the size of that gigantic ass," or "enrich your mushy mind." Read a book, take a class, join the gym or take up Yoga. They never say anything about piling up on the couch with a huge bowl of Orville Redenbacher Buttered Popcorn in front of a Tori and Dean marathon. I've never seen, "sleep all day Saturday," or "drink lunch Mojitos until you're too stupid to go back to work" as any of the suggested ways to carve a little time for yourself out of your busy day.

Why is that, do you suppose?

Do we imagine that we'll be able to lay around in our pajamas all day after the kids are grown and out of the house? Are we waiting for retirement to take up drinking in the afternoon? I've given this a lot of thought, and I've determined that if I'm ever going to give myself over to sloth and overindulgence, I'd best do it before someone else has power of attorney.

And you should too. Go ahead. Have yourself a little 508 calorie mocha latte. Eat a whole pie for lunch. Sleep all weekend in the clothes you wore to work on Friday.

You deserve it. And in a few more years, nobody's going to let you. They're going to want you to go to water aerobics class.

Oh and one more thing.

If you're waiting for the traffic to die down enough for you to get to see the first installment of Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog--well, don't.

Wait, that is.

You can download it from iTunes. Best couple dollars you'll spend today.

Especially for Muffin Uptown.

the one that i like best from Jessica Bigarel on Vimeo.

Why have a blog at all--if not to send extra-secret messages to extra-special people who are being missed an extra-awful lot?

Why indeed?

It's all in the planning.

Here's what I've learned from having a high-pressure, do-or-die career in the fast lane: you gotta have a plan. When thinking of my plan, I like to think of it as (you guessed it), Plan A. This is because there must be a way to differentiate the main plan from the auxiliary back-up contingency plan that you will almost certainly also need.

This plan, I most generally designate as Plan B.

On Saturday, however, I had no plan at all. I rolled around on my couch all day under Friday's hair, wearing Friday night's pajamas, watching movies on the intertubes and eating whatever I could find in my kitchen that didn't require the use of a pan, plate, or utensils. By the time I crawled into bed at 3 am on Sunday morning, I realized that unless I meant to show up at work on Monday covered in bedsores, it would be a good idea to hatch myself one of those plans.

And that was the situation on Sunday morning, when I loaded my iPod with Moth podcasts, put on my first pair of shorts for the summer, and somehow managed to find and squeeze my way into a sports bra. I put on my walking shoes, loaded my pockets with cell phone, nasal spray, and house key, and poked my puny pony-tail through the back of my cap. With remarkably little fanfare, Plan A was thus initiated.

I reasoned that if I could walk as far away from my house as half an hour would get me, by the time I turned around and made it back home, I would have traversed roughly three miles. Although I could have gotten a more precise measurement of the distance by driving the route by car first, this would have required an additional level of planning to the planning of my plan.

As I locked the front door, I had it in mind that I would listen to two moth podcasts before turning around. These podcasts usually last between 10 and 15 minutes each, so the combined total for two episodes would be close enough to half an hour for my purposes. I would be so engrossed in the hilarity coming from my earbuds that the mile and a half would seem to fly from beneath my feet, and being completely engrossed in the podcast would keep me from looking at my watch every four minutes or so. Because really--when was the last time you saw a dedicated runner or walker checking his or her watch?

As you can no doubt see, I had planned it all very carefully.

Twelve minutes into my walk, just as the first Moth podcast was ending, I realized that I really, really needed to pee. Unbelievably--even though I am a woman of a certain age whose bladder fills to bursting about twice every hour--I had neglected to take the idiosyncrasies of my middle-aged internal organs into consideration while developing my plan.

Alas, short of squatting behind a tree, I had no choice but to proceed as planned. So, I clenched my teeth (and other things) and continued my trek away from home. Moth podcast two began. Not very long into this podcast, I was becoming aware of developing blisters on each of my feet. By now, two unforeseen complications had arisen that were seriously threatening the successful completion of Plan A.

This might be a good place to tell you that I didn't choose the secluded streets of my immediate neighborhood for my walk--because I had in mind that I wanted a real sidewalk beneath me, I walked a block up from the house to one of the more heavily traveled main roads on my side of town. And so, at 9:40 am on Sunday morning, one-fourth of the town's church-going population was zinging past me at speeds that made me frightened for life and limb--even from my position in the center of the sidewalk. Although it did not feel as though it offered much in the realm of safety, my position on this sidewalk did afford fortunate passers-by with a keen view of me as I limped, shuffled, and scuttled in the opposite direction of my home, my band-aids, and my bathroom. By then, I could no more have told you what I was listening to on my iPod than I could have taken wing and flown my way back home.

Not quite fourteen minutes had elapsed since I had left my front stoop.

Despite all my careful planning, my walk was not turning out the way I had hoped. Less than half an hour from home, and I was on the Bataan Death March. Drawing on all my many years' experience in situational evaluation and subsequent decision-making, I chose to then institute the all-important Plan B: Turn around and get my ass back to the house before one of my feet fell off or I peed in my pants.

I'm happy to report to you now that I do still have both feet.

photo, Old Pictures.com

About The Moth Podcast: "The Moth, a not-for-profit storytelling organization, was founded in New York in 1997 by poet and novelist George Dawes Green, who wanted to recreate in New York the feeling of sultry summer evenings on his native St. Simon's Island, Georgia, where he and a small circle of friends would gather to spin spellbinding tales on his friend Wanda's porch." Listen here.

Just because I can't play, doesn't mean you shouldn't have fun.

I've got some very important, can't-be-mangled-by-anyone-else -but-me stuff going on at the office, so I don't have time to make up lies about the people I know today.

I did enjoy this story that someone else made the time to tell, though. It concerns the fact that Walmart has changed their logo, for the first time in 16 years. Please note: Mr. Constant occasionally curses in print.

Paul Constant's Slog article.

Well, thanks a lot, TCM.

The NPR affiliate in my part of the world carries KCRW's The Treatment. I like it a lot. Elvis Mitchell is so smart; he's forgotten more things about movies and popular culture than I will ever know. This doesn't represent a huge self-disclosure on my part. Mitchell's on NPR, I'm an NPR junkie, and anyone who cares enough to think about it for a second could deduce that I am, therefore, a big-ole Mitchell fan.

But what you might not know about me is that I don't like my intellectual programming mixing it up. I don't want the juice from my radio green peas running into and interfering with the taste of my television potatoes. It makes me uncomfortable when NPR fraternizes with CBS. Radio is for listening. I don't need to know that Michael Feldman looks like the guy who lives next door to me and sits in his driveway every afternoon in a folding lawn chair. I enjoyed Garrison Keillor's writing much more when he looked like the picture in my head, instead of--well--Garrison Keillor. And I don't care how much you beg, I'm not looking at pictures of Nina Totenberg or Michelle Norris. Just put those away, you sick bastard.

And just so you know--I'm not the first person who has written of this. Lots of us don't want a good look at the people we depend on to tell us what we think of each day's pressing issues and news-worthy events. Most of the time, this is not a problem. Until everybody else discovered Ira Glass and David Sedaris, you pretty much had to go to NPR to find them.

But Elvis Mitchell represented something more to me. Listening to his voice--marveling at all the knowledge this young man seemed to have right there at his fingertips--for years, Mitchell filled me with hope for the future of humankind. I was no longer overcome with dismay when I considered the rapid aging and decline of our country's cultural scholars. Why worry? When this batch of smart folks done shuffled off this mortal coil, Elvis Mitchell will still be here. He'll help see to the perpetuation of rational thought for the new times.

And then on Sunday, I caught him (and all his gray hair) on his new show on TCM.

Turns out the dude is a year older than I am.

Do-gooder. Or just do better.

I spent a bit of time in self-reflection this past weekend. And by a bit, I mean a precious little--just about the time it takes to find my way home in Saturday afternoon traffic from the grocery store.

"Why is it," I wondered, "that I'm only able to use my compulsive powers for evil--never for good?"

Later, as I was squeezing 24-count cartons of Diet Coke under the bed and behind the couch, I realized that I had never once brought home more fresh vegetables than I had room for. Once opened, I can't walk away from a bag of candy, but I've never walked around the block and then felt compelled to walk two or three more miles. I sometimes sleep so late on Saturday that I awake all worn out and have to take a nap before I can face getting dressed, but I've never worked so hard during the day that my drowsy thoughts on the pillow are, "Wow. Can't wait to do that again."

And those are the more innocuous examples. My immoderation with regard to the sin-tax vices are greater than a normal person would judge as--well, normal.

It's true what they say--anything in excess can be a bad thing. But when the thing in which you are intemperate isn't that great for you in the first place, it becomes a problem. And let's face it, if the things that were good for you felt or tasted as wonderful as the things that would kill you, most of us would live forever.

Well, maybe one more.

It was a dilemma--should I just give up my calorie- and fat-laden Starbucks Mocha cold turkey, or indulge in one more for the road? After all, I hadn't said a proper good-bye to my Barista, Nichole. After seeing me every workday morning for so long, she might really worry that something had happened to me. I could imagine her, truly frantic by 7:30. "Where's my regular Venti Mocha?" she might ask. Really, the last thing I wanted to do was to cause undue alarm.

But Nichole had the day off, it seems, because an adorable young man took my last coffee order. Like all the very best Baristas, he was warm and friendly, making eye contact and making sure I didn't need a scone or muffin to round out my coffee experience.

And me? I was all sweet and flirty--jacking up my dimples and asking him if he was aware that he looked just like John Mayer. After all, I could afford to be expansive. I was getting my coffee that day. My inevitable misery would be postponed for another morning. My motto: Not now? Not a problem.

It wasn't until I was well on my way--half my delicious, rejuvenating, and extremely satisfying (last) coffee gone, gone, gone--that I spared a thought for the poor kid.

When I was 20, if some old poop who was twice my age had said to me, "You know, you look just like Cyndy Lauper" (or someone else from my generation the old creep had no business knowing anything about), I would barely have been able to wait until he was out of earshot to say, "Ewwww." (Actually, back then I would have said, "Gross," but it's the same general idea.)

But if he had said instead, "You look just like Julie London," I would have said to myself, "Aw! That sweet old guy has me mixed up with somebody from back in olden times!"

And then I would have thought, "Who the hell is Julie London?"

It's a national holiday, y'all.

Enjoy your picnic/fish fry/cook out. Get up from the computer, go out in the stinky heat, and spend some time with people you like.

See you on Monday.

Why I'm cross and inattentive this morning. More so than usual, I mean.

I had a checkup a couple weeks ago. As it turns out, all those orange circus peanuts, potato chips, and peanut M&Ms I've been eating at my desk are not as low fat as I had assumed. That--right there--is why I don't cotton to going to the doctor.

The fact that I've been wearing my slacks unbuttoned should have given me fair warning. There's just nothing quite like stepping up on the scale, however, and watching the nurse slide the balance even further to the right to bring home the significance of all your bad habits.

But none of this hurts as bad as discovering yesterday that Venti Mochas--my whole incentive to get out of the house and on the road to work every morning--contain 508 calories and 27 fat grams. I mean, really! I had no idea that that a little chocolate syrup, whole milk, and whipped cream could wreak such havoc.

I'm heartbroken.

A million little pieces to fact check.

I guess I'm a little out of touch, because I only just heard about the scrutiny being given to David Sedaris' stories. Last year, Alex Heard got a bee in his bonnet and wrote a piece for the New Republic that got some people all worked up about whether or not Sedaris' autobiographical stories are factual enough to be considered proper nonfiction. Now that Sedaris has a new book out, it's all being recycled into the intertubular conversation. (I'm not linking to it. Google it yourself, if you just have to know.)

But that's how it is. Once burned, twice shy. Reporter Stephen Glass was fired for making stuff up under the guise of investigative journalism. Janet Cooke's fake Washington Post story won a Pulitzer. (Oh sure. Make up one 8-year-old heroin addict, and ruin things for everyone else.) And then, of course, James Frey had the temerity to go and lie to Oprah, of all people.

And you know what? I don't care. You can shelve a Sedaris book anywhere in the store you like. Prop him up right next to the Garfield and Family Circus books, for all I care. Just let me know where you decide, so I can find him when I have my book money on me. Speaking as a reader, David Sedaris' books are as factual as I need them to be.

And as a writer--well, I wouldn't satisfy Alex Heard, either. Word up--I lie all the time. Just ask any of the people I've written about.

Oprah can just deal with it.

Not there yet.

I didn't set out to make it so, but all this bellyaching about my age has become a part of my shtick.

Listen. Truth be told, I'm not that old. Despite the gray hair in my eyebrows, I still can't get a discount on my meals or movie admission. I don't own a single pair of SAS shoes, and I can't get anybody interested in the idea of me going home and drawing a check from social security instead of working my ass into the ground everyday.

But really. I would have thought that by now I would be finished with the trials and tribulations of the inglorious pimple. Can somebody, anybody, tell me--how grown up do you have to be? I'm beginning to wonder if anyone ever outlives the occasional outbreak. Will I eventually reach the point when my shopping list includes denture adhesive, adult diapers, and benzoyl peroxide?

It's embarrassing. When I was 13, it didn't bother me a bit to stand in line to buy tampons--not even if the checkout guy was smokin' hot. But try standing in the aisle alongside a couple teenagers, trying to read the back of the Oxy5 tube under florescent lighting through your bifocals. It takes me forever to decide what product to buy. I typically go through three sets of teenagers on an average buy.

The rest of the world must really think that people my age don't get pimples anymore. Because of this, sometimes I just pretend that something else entirely is going on. "This giant thing on the side of my nose? It's a spider bite! Yeah, I know--the doctor says I may need some corrective surgery. She says those tiny brown ones can be the most dangerous. I'm just glad my nose didn't fall off!"

All this work, just because I've got big pores. You can see how it all just makes me feel older than ever. The face wash, the astringent, the medicated makeup. The lies.

God willing, some day I really will be old. I'll stay home all day. I'll sweep my porch every morning. I'll plant plastic flowers in the yard, and I'll cut the toes out of my tennis shoes. I'll crochet granny square purses and hats for my grandchildren, who will not wear them.

When I really am an old lady, I probably won't wear purple, and unless someone pokes me in my ribs with a gun, I won't be wearing a red hat. But when I get an enormous pimple on my face, I will be wearing a Band-Aid, and don't you dare say a thing about it.

Practically verbatim.

I sat with my mother yesterday morning in the last restaurant in town that still serves a decent Sunday breakfast. It's sort of a dive, but they get the eggs right most of the time. Eating there is less of a problem for me now than it might have been five years ago. Unless I put my face right up against the windows or drag my finger along the crumb-dusted floorboards, most of what I can't see won't hurt me.

We were waiting for our waitress to return from her Mars landing trip, and Mom was telling me that peanut M&Ms should not be considered an acceptable meal substitute. Those kinds of calories can really add up, she tells me, and that--in and of itself--might go a long way toward explaining the inexplicable weight gain I've been complaining about of late.

"Do you think that guy is too old for me?" I asked.

"What?"

"That guy--in the corner booth. Do you think he's too old for me? Cause I can't tell anymore. I get all flirty while waiting in the Starbucks line, and then the guy calls me Ma'am. But that guy wouldn't call me Ma'am. I just wonder if he's too old?"

"I don't know. He's in his fifties"

"I could go out with a guy in his fifties. Don'cha think?"

He may be older, even. I'm not sure."

And neither one of us was taking any pains to disguise the fact that we were talking about him. If he had bothered to look, he would have seen us. This occurred to me at the very same moment that I remembered I was sitting there under my weekend hair, without makeup, and wearing my favorite manpants and see-through black t-shirt.

"Nevermind," I said. "You gonna eat that bacon?"

image, mtcspike's photostream.

I saw you there, HL, as you were leaving. But as I said, I am reticent to get too close to the glass, so I didn't rap on the window to wave hello/goodbye.

Marketing. I still don't get it.

Tennis champion and feminist icon Billie Jean King has become a spokesperson for NutriSystem's Silver Program. I saw the commercial for the first time this past weekend.

Get ready, cause you're gonna hear it everywhere. I've already seen one blog bemoaning the idea that this would be the world's lasting image of Billie Jean King. Sort of, my, how the mighty have fallen, only way more snarky.

By the time we hit 64, few of us will have had the kind of impact or influence as Billie Jean King--founder of the Women's Tennis Association and the Women's Sports Association, co-founder of the World TeamTennis league--she won 20 titles at Wimbledon and the U.S. Open 4 times. If you happen to be one of the talented female players to take a prize at either one of those contests, you will receive equal prize money as the male players, largely because of her efforts. Donna Lopiano, CEO of the Women's Sports Foundation, has said that "Billie Jean King made Title IX real." She battled a buffoon in 1973's Battle of the Sexes and in winning, also won celebrity for women's rights--not just in the areas of sport--but in all sorts of arenas.

So I'm thinking that if Ms. King wants to make a little money with a product endorsement, more power to her. Nobody trashes Tiger Woods for touting a giant-ass SUV. And while I'm no fan of NutriSystem, I'm thinking that they're the ones with all the smarts. They're damn lucky to have gotten her.

But I'm also thinking, "Where's Nike? Where are American Express, General Motors, Coca-Cola and McDonald's? Frankly, I'm amazed she doesn't have to fight them all off with a racket.

Read Anthony Holden's very well done piece on The Battle of the Sexes here.

Image, copyright 2001 Rick Chapman.

You want me to take my heartache, put it away and forget?

"They say bread is life. And I bake bread, bread, bread. And I sweat and shovel this stinkin' dough in and out of this hot hole in the wall, and I should be so happy! Huh, sweetie? I'm no friggin' monument to justice! I lost my hand! I lost my bride! Johnny has his hand! Johnny has his bride!"

Edit: Every time I watch this (and I've watched it a few), I think about the masturbatory scene in Moby Dick in which the crew kneads all that whale blubber. Fun times.

From kottke, via madame lamb

Please stand by.

My nine-to-five done spilled over.

Happy Watergate Day!

Don't forget to find time today to celebrate one of the most historic instances of the felonious behavior of a sitting president and the roots of such dubious label coinage as Iran-Contragate, Whitewatergate, and Britneygate.

Wow. Everything you could possibly want in a non-holiday.

I'd like this in a size 2008, but I only want to pay the 1980 price, please.

Nothing in the world will make you feel older than half an hour wandering around in an Old Navy store.

I recently spent an afternoon shopping with Muffin Uptown for her birthday, and even though she's my shopping partner of choice (because when I'm with her, I get to be in charge of saying when we're through), I came away from the day with the very clear conclusion that shopping is not my bag. I'm not sure that it ever was.

I just don't like letting go of my money. Unfortunately, that exchange seems to be an integral component of the shopping experience.

But more than this, I'm unhappy with the selection. I have to find a way to make last year's clothes work for me until the world's designers come to their senses. The last time these clothes were in fashion, I was 17 years old and could have worn anything and gotten away with it. I frequently did. The peasant blouse? Wore it. Ruffled granny skirts that dragged the ground and were horribly stained two hours after leaving the house? Damn near burned up in them. The halter dress? Stopped traffic in it.

But, come on. That ship has sailed. Away.

I know, I know--designers have always loved revisiting the passé. That's how we all ended up under shoulder pads (from the 40s) all through the 1980s, and the reason I wear a pair of bell-bottomed jeans (ala 1975) on those days when jeans are deemed appropriate. And I can go along in order to get along, up to a point.

But I will not wear a damned puffed sleeve. Do you hear me? I'm not doing it.

Image, Godey's Lady's Book, October 1859 via Vintage Victorian.

If you've seen one juke joint...

I think I mentioned that I was joining my mother in Hot Springs for vacation last week.

While driving about and seeing all that there was to see, I pointed out a bar on the side of the road.

"Oooh, I've been there! They have this great setup in the yard out back, where you can hear live blues music on the weekend! Really good barbecue, too."

"Really?" she said. "I wouldn't have thought so to look at it. I'll have to find it on the weekend and give it a try."

It wasn't until I thought about it later at home that I realized the bar I was thinking about probably wasn't in Hot Springs, but was instead located in Fort Smith. I'll have to email the guy I was with before I can say with certainty, but already I'm pretty sure that I've never been to the bar I pointed out to my mother.

Now I can't decide whether to tell my mom that I was mistaken, or just wait until she calls to tell me about her Saturday night at the biker bar.

I'm leaning pretty heavily toward the latter.

Although this image looks very much like the bar discussed above, it is almost certainly not the same bar. The picture of this bar is via Lana aka badgrl's flickr photostream.

I like it when Madison Avenue goes all artsy.

This ad for the VW Golf uses sounds recorded in and around the car.
via Laughing Squid, via TMBLG.

Read at work.

No boss alarm? This collection of classics looks like your windows desktop, and opens power point versions of Orwell, Dickinson, and Twain--among others.

(It opens in full screen, so just hit escape to come "back" to the intertubes.)

via Quipsologies.

Still in the podcasting biz.

Exclusively You Nature Framed Pieces from Leisure Arts on Vimeo.

I can see where it might be hard to be content in your job, if you are one of those people with boundless imagination but no real creative outlet. Most of the time, it's 8 hours a day making somebody else happy, their way.

I worked in that world for a long time before I found this job. Outlet? I haz it. Whether I'm picking designs or picking at editorial writers, I get to make my mark on countless publications every year. Who gets to do that? For money?

On top of all the other cool stuff I get to do, my crew and I are still making podcasts. This is the latest one and one of my favs so far (partly because I don't appear on camera).

Buck up.

Sometimes, when I've been working really hard and am feeling sort of tired and low, I start thinking about how Lost won't be back for another 8 months, and about how the one part of my anatomy that still looks great doesn't look so great clad in a gladiator sandal, and about how this season they're all gladiator sandals. On days like that, I have to make myself stop for a moment and take stock.

No matter how down I get, I always start to feel better when I remember that I am a small part of something bigger. Whatever else I do, wherever I may roam, I can always count myself as a member of the generation who put Eddie Murphy, John Travolta, David Soul, and Bruce Willis on the Billboard Hot 100.

Snap.

Staycation

My mother has rented a big place in Hot Springs for the month, and my cat and I will be joining her for the next week. The cat doesn't know about this yet; she's seen all the packing activity, but she thinks she's going to have the run of the house again. She threw a kegger last year while I was in Chicago, and it's going to be some time before she earns my trust again.

The last time my mother tried to travel with her cats loose in the car, one of them decided to drive and landed the entire company in the ditch. I believe my pet will be more reasonable.

Because I'm going to tranquilize the hell out of her.

So while you're toiling and busting the grind all next week, think of me, relaxing in the hot springs and maybe even getting a massage--hopefully from some guy named Otto.

And I'll be thinking of you. I'll even post some little something here for the faithful each day.

Somebody grab my purse, I'm changing my seat.

An excerpt from Senator Clinton's speech on Saturday--

The way to continue our fight now--to accomplish the goals for which we stand--is to take our energy, our passion, our strength and do all we can to help elect Barack Obama the next President of the United States.

Today, as I suspend my campaign, I congratulate him on the victory he has won and the extraordinary race he has run. I endorse him, and throw my full support behind him. And I ask all of you to join me in working as hard for Barack Obama as you have for me.

So today, I am standing with Senator Obama to say: Yes we can.

If only.

Interesting exercise in optimism. Found on reddit. Click the pic.

True places never are.

One might suppose that someone who is almost always lost (someone like me) would be a big believer in maps.

And I do believe in Web site maps. I like maps that show which states are red, and which are blue. Brain mapping is almost always interesting to read about, and DNA mapping is helping science understand why some of us will get Alzheimer's, and why some of us will not.

A real map--one that helps its owner successfully navigate from point A to point B--sounds like a smart idea, until you present such a map to someone with absolutely no sense of direction. For that person (someone like me), a map just serves to postpone the inevitable. When armed with a map, an average of 45 minutes must pass before I will admit to being hopelessly and irredeemably lost and call back to the settlement for a search party.

I don't need a map; I need a driver.

Unless and until I find someone who is prepared to take responsibility for getting me where I need to go, I will continue to be the last one to the party. Which explains why I'm probably the last person trolling the intertubes to land at the blog Strange Maps.

I lost all kinds of time yesterday exploring the floor plan of 221B Baker Street, a Swiss Airlines North American Route map that is just wrong-wrong-wrong, a map of Stephen King's Maine indicating where among the real towns his fictional towns are located, a map of Heaven, a map of the United Shapes of America and way more.

And the very best part? Nobody had to come get me.

Star gazing.

Add my mail carrier to the list of people with whom I can no longer make eye-contact.

I ordered an internet service that came with a free magazine subscription. I was so ambivalent about the choices I was given that I didn't bother selecting a preference.

So the internet service made a selection for me; they decided to send me Us Weekly. It's a fairly lowbrow approach to photojournalism, and it embarrasses me every time I find it in the mailbox.

Then there's that other thing.

Before now, I would have said that I was pretty savvy--culturally speaking. But I don't know who any of these people are. Yes, there are the occasional shots of Madonna in her work-out clothes, and Jennifer Aniston, poolside in a bikini. Almost every issue has at least one picture of Angelina Jolie in a huge gauze caftan.

But mostly, I don't know 'em.

Yesterday I went through last week's issue with a fine toothed comb, and the only people I managed to identify with certainty were the older ones whose cellulite and turkey necks the photographers had captured via infrared telephoto lenses. What a waste of time, money, and resources.

I don't need a magazine and horde of paparazzi to see that.

Get out!

I'm so excited, I probably won't be able to sleep until September.

I've just discovered that Diane English, creator of Murphy Brown, is directing a remake of George Cukor's 1939 wonder, The Women. It's scheduled for release in September, 2008.

I love Cukor's version. It made me fall in love with Norma Shearer. And English's version stars people I don't see enough of lately (possibly because they are female actors of a certain age).

Meg Ryan, 47; Annette Bening, 50; Carrie Fisher, 51; Candice Bergen, 62; Jada Pinkette Smith, 36; Debra Messing, 39; Cloris Leachman, 82; Bette Midler, 62; and Joanna Gleason, 58.

Eh. The baby of the group, Eva Mendes (34), reprises Joan Crawford's home-wrecker role. No way can she be as bad as Joan, though.

Here's a link to the trailer. And a link to the 1939 version.

Note to Diane English: Hurry!

The Originator.

Bo Diddley, 1938-2008

Made his mark here, here, and here. Among others.

Watch the skies.

We Southerners are known for our slow and easy ways.

We talk slowly. Otherwise, we would never be able to understand one another. We don't like to get into too big a hurry when there's a big decision on the table. And during the warm weather months, which stretch from April well into October, it's important to try to navigate as slowly as possible. If you've ever tried to cross the street when the temperature is 98 degrees at the same time that the air around your head is 90 percent water, then you understand why. Breathing takes priority over hurrying in the South.

Unless there's a big storm cloud brewing. When the National Weather Service issues a tornado advisory, we all know to get the lead out. You just can't be dragging your feet once the tornado siren starts to blare--unless it's your lifelong ambition to fly through the air alongside your hot water heater and the neighbor's satellite dish.

Everybody knows this--even the littlest of little bitty children. Certainly, by the time I was old enough for school, I'd been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to beat it to the root cellar plenty often. It bears remembering that this was decades before anyone had even thought to install a weather siren and our early warning system consisted solely of the men standing on the porch, smoking and watching the skies.

And if, once or twice a season, one of them called through the screen door to "Get the kids," even the smallest of us knew to check our hearts to be sure we were right with God before taking that first step into the yard--even if our destination was a trap door around the end of the house. The sight of an approaching funnel cloud has been known to make believers of many a forsaken reprobate.

All of which sets the scene for Sunday afternoon, when I was sitting and working my way through almost a week's worth of TiVo, and--as we say in the South--it came a cloud. The sky turned dark as night, and the rain was coming down in sheets. My sole concession to the storm was to reach over and turn on a lamp. As long as the satellite was still up and receiving a signal, I wasn't too concerned.

Until lightening hit a transformer just down the block. It sounded like it was smack in the middle of my living room. The hairs in my nose stood up.

You might hear people tell about how they may be old, but that they can still move when the situation calls for it. I am not one of those people. I injured myself in all kinds of ways, just trying to get up off the couch and away from the windows.

And I stepped on the cat.

For Muffin on her corndog day.

Happy birthday, MU.



Wish I had a nickel for every time...

Sister, your slip is showing.

Last weekend, I went to brunch with Muffin Uptown, my ex-husband, and my wife-in-law. It was mostly just an excuse for everyone to spend a little time with MU before she embarks on her big LA adventure.

We don't exactly hang out, but we've spent a goodly amount of time together in the interest of parenting this (now grown up) child. We all went to the parent-teacher conferences, the music recitals, graduations, and art shows. They've come to my house for Christmas, and I've been to theirs for Thanksgiving. We've eaten out together. We collaboratively celebrate her birthday. We have a lot in common.

And we are very, very, civilized people.

Driving back from the restaurant, her dad was telling me of their plans to remodel their ten-year-old kitchen. The plan is to knock out a wall and extend the cooking area into the space that is now the garage. Their kitchen is already the size of a football field.

So I said, "Oh-my-gawd, Vickie! It's going to be HUGE!"

Muffin Uptown put her face into her hands. Then she looked up and shrugged at her stepmother, who held up her hands like, "What can you do?"

"What?" I said. "What?"

Then it hit me. My ex-husband's wife's name is Jackie. Vickie was the name of wife number two.

photo, Vintage Pulchritude.

Ease yourself back into the grind.

Here's just the thing for that first day back at work after a three-day weekend. It's called Music Catch, and it's my favorite sort of game: no guns, no apparent skill or strategy required, lovely soundtrack, and lots of positive feedback.

I've sacrificed hours of personal time to be sure this game meets the high standards I know you expect in your own procrastination activities. Now that it's properly vetted, knock yerself out.

Go for the yellow and purple shapes; stay away from the red.

And in case you're wondering, the music is Before Dawn by Isaac Shepard. E-mail me if you can't live without the link for the free music download.

The city of angels plus one.

Muffin Uptown is headed to LA.

She's only there for a couple months--just long enough to complete a 300 hour internship. This internship is all that stands between her and a future as professional grad student.

Talk to her dad, though, and you might think she were headed for Mogadishu. He's scared to pieces.

It's hard not to worry. It's not a paying gig, and who knows if she has enough money? She has an apartment, but no furniture. She's 22, but she looks 16. Weirdos, Bloods and Crips, and actors live in LA. What about the LA Freeway? Earthquakes? Paula Abdul?

All kinds of things could happen.

But if he thinks it through, I suspect MU's dad might find that his biggest fear is really the same one that wakes me up at night--that this may be just the first step of many that will take her further and further away from us.

And it is. If we've done our part right, it has to be.

Yes. Lovin' that three-day weekend.

I'm celebrating a three-day weekend by learning the fishstick--which is THE dance move to do, if doing a dance move is on your list for the holiday.

via Chris Glass as proposed by You Look Nice Today.


Dance Move: The Fishstick from Jenna Fox on Vimeo.

Seriously, everybody's doin' it.

By the way, it's the happy one-year anniversary for mundanejane.com. Thanks for reading.

At the Idol party.

After the third aging pop singer showed up on stage, Muffin Uptown remarked how cool it would be to see American Idol get RickRolled.

All I could think about for the rest of the program was, "That really would be cool." And then I got all excited, expecting it at any moment.

She ruined the whole thing for me.

Not missing; just really, really late.

I've been having some difficulty showing up in two places at once this week. I can't get it together enough to write you a new post, but I can share this clip.

After finding it on Saturday, I was happy all day. So happy Wednesday.



Doesn't he know that all that key jangling is gonna wake up Grandfather Clock?

Geezer fun.

The jigsaw puzzle.

It's hard to me for imagine an activity better suited for the Retirement Home.

Other than stooping to retrieve the occasional fallen piece from the floor, there's no physical activity involved, and therefore, no real reason to have to ratchet up the oxygen feed. As a matter of fact, it is entirely acceptable to just sit and stare at an unassembled puzzle for hours on end.

Any activity that includes sitting and staring must have been invented just for me. As far as I'm concerned, economy of movement is key when choosing a new leisurely pursuit.

And, unlike a crossword puzzle, which might increase my vocabulary, or a Suduku designed to improve logical thinking, there don't seem to be any particular intellectual benefits to jigsaw puzzle solving.

Which is also fine by me.

So that's where I've been lately--ignoring all forms of self-improvement, neglecting my writing and eschewing physical exercise--parked in front of a partially completed picture of black and white milk cows making their way back to the barn by way of a rustic covered bridge.

Completely lost in spots and udders.

For the text of James Merrill's Lost in Translation, a puzzle hidden in a poem about a puzzle, click here.

Photo by Arvydas.

Here's to the fulfillment of a life's ambition.

"When I was young, my ambition was to be one of the people who made a difference in this world. My hope still is to leave the world a little bit better for my having been here. It's a wonderful life and I love it."

Jim Henson
1936-1990

powered by ODEO

Susan Cheever loves her for that. And so do I.

You see this picture of Senator Clinton? If you lived under a rock and didn't know who she was, you might think that she was a middle-aged business woman, taking care of business.

She's well-groomed, if slightly gray. She's wearing her glasses (the better to see you with, my dear), and she doesn't seem to be all that into smiling pretty for the camera.

This is because she's wearing her thinking face.

Which is not a bad expression to see on the President of the United States, in case you've forgotten.

Susan Cheever's Why I Love Hillary as heard on All Things Considered Wednesday.

Ms. Cheever probably has a thinking face, too.

What you've been seeing on I-40 (that is, if you weren't too engrossed in that phone call).

On the way to work one day last week I watched as the driver in front of me tossed a bit of crumpled paper out the window and onto the side of I-40. Although I've seen litter on the side of the road, I haven't actually witnessed it landing there since I was a child.

Most people who feel they just can't live with that piece of trash in their car one more moment are a bit more surreptitious about the whole thing. And it's a shame, too. Because something wonderful has happened to the interstate highway.

They've broken out all over in wildflowers.

It's part of the State Highway Department's efforts to beautify my daily drive by maintaining existing wildflower populations and planting new ones.

And I--for one--really appreciate it.

Crybaby.

There are a lot of parts of me that I miss, now that they've gone.

Like my waist. I miss that. It was lovely.

My ovaries are making for the door now, too--and that's okay, I guess. I was finished with them anyway. If I have any regrets about that particular parting, it's that they're being so damned sneaky about it--like I can't tell that they're trying to put a fork in it and beat it. I wish they would just get their hat and get on with it already. Who needs a long, drawn-out good-bye?

But my ego-boundary? I needed that.

As it turns out, it's really important to be able to tell where I leave off and someone else begins--otherwise, every awful thing that happens to my next door neighbor may as well happen to me. Without the ability to differentiate between me and thee, I'm a mess.

Which is why it's so common these days to sail around the corner in the grocery store and run ashore of a weeping, middle aged woman standing in the freezer section. No doubt something in the heat-and-eat case set me off.

It took all of two StoryCorps episodes to teach me to avoid listening to that particular show, but lots of stories on NPR seem innocuous until they twist your heart out. Standing ovations make me cry. Veteran's Day parades break my heart, and I'm not known as a great patriot. I don't even know any veterans. John Lennon's music on the radio hurts me. Last year, Kelli Pickler and her grandpa nearly landed me in therapy.

So do me a favor. If you see me sobbing in the crunchy and delicious drive-through taco lane, just look away. There's no real reason to make it into a big, hairy deal. And hey--don't feel like you have to share with me the story of dropping your toast, butter side down, on the floor at breakfast this morning.

There's only so much I can take.

photo, Piotr Ciuchta.

For every hipster wanna-be.

Learn How to Speak Hip. Del Close and John Brent, 1959, Mercury Records.

Click on the album cover to listen.

Spring is here. Go outside. Do something.

Converted from vinyl to digital by Skeyelab Music.

For Mother's Day--The Mom Song.

If that sounds like your mom, maybe you should her this e-card.

Sexual anarchy.

On today's date in 1960, the FDA announced it would approve Enovid 10 mg for contraceptive use.

It would not be available to married women in all states until Griswold v. Connecticut in 1965 and not available to unmarried women in all states until Eisenstadt v. Baird in 1972.

In 1975, country singer Loretta Lynn released this song. It rose to number 5 on the country charts, despite its (then) scandalous subject matter.

I am astounded that it all unfolded in my lifetime.

But sadly, not so terribly surprised by these ridiculous people, who don't believe that oral contraception should be available to young girls and unmarried women.

Edit: And then there are the Duggars, announcing today their 18th pregnancy. (I don't think I had sex 18 times with either husband.)

Live Nude Bugs!

Isabella Rossellini, I love you. Your accent. Your self-assurance. Your smarts.

You are splendid.

And you know some really interesting things about insects.

Ms. Rossellini's project Green Porno examines the birds-and-bees aspect of the lowly creepy-crawler. This set of very, very short films about the sex lives of very, very small creatures was produced especially for the very, very small screen.

And you'll get a huge kick out of it.

Helpful things.

I recently spent some time cleaning up and organizing my Google Bookmarks. And, just like cleaning out the closet--I found all kinds of things I'd forgotten I had. I don't know about you, but when I have more stuff than I know what to do with, I give some of it away:

1. Don't oversleep, even when you're away from home with a DIY cell phone amplifier.

2. Fall asleep before the closing credits? Find out how it ended on Ruined Endings.

3. Maybe you need an audio book for your vacation travels. iTunes has em, but they can be difficult to find. Instead, browse and download from a large listing of free MP3 recordings at Open Culture. Also worth exploring on this site, their Ideas and Culture podcast downloads.

4. Maybe you've been sitting there wondering what in the world the rest of the world is sitting there wondering about. Google has Hot Trends app that lets you see "what's on the public's collective mind" at any given date or time. Updated hourly.

5. Catalog, organize, and show off your books online, read reviews (or write your own), get a peek at the books most often cataloged, see who has the largest libraries (and what books make up those libraries) at Library Thing. Just the thing for you super organized, list-loving, reader types. (Note: The first 200 are free; $10/year or $25/life after that.)

6. Or maybe you don't think you have enough stuff to read already. If you are worried that you're missing the premier of everyone's favorite new magazine, keep up with the newest rags hitting the stands each month at Mr. Magazine.

7. Perhaps the only thing worse than having a song stuck in your head is having one playing on continuous loop for which you only partially remember the lyrics:

My baby something-something-something,
He something nine till five and then
He something-something-something-something
to find me waitin' for him.

Search any portion of the lyrics on Ultimate '80s Songs to find out the title, the rest of the lyrics, the recording artist, and on which albums the song can be found. Sorry, they only have songs from the 1980s. Turns out that's the only kind of song I know.

8. Have the perfect sampler sentiment but alas, no pattern? Make a charted design in cross-stitch or back stitch by simply selecting a font and entering your text. Automatic chart generator at StitchPoint lets you choose your favorite of six fonts. Perfect for those extra fancy, holiday curse words that are so hard to find in the stores.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.

I didn't, really. But this remains--for me--one of the best opening lines of any novel ever written.

I've read Du Maurier's Rebecca (and seen the movie, which begins the same way) so many times, that it's impossible any more for me to tell if I love it so much because it's a great line, or because I'm happily anticipating the story that follows.

Perhaps because Rebecca ranks in my top five favorite reads of all time, I long ago hunted down and read Du Maurier's other works. And me being, well--me, I have over the years freely and generously given my opinion of her work to those who asked and those who did not.

So maybe you can imagine my dismay late Saturday night after the conclusion of TCM's The Essentials (Rebecca, Jamaica Inn, and The Scapegoat), to learn from Robert Osborne that I have been mispronouncing my favorite author's name.

For years.

Posting about it now, before the damn thing shows up in her mailbox.

My mother is not going to be very happy with me come Mother's Day.

But that's not entirely my fault.

I purchased a gift for her a couple weeks ago that I was convinced was absolutely perfect. Muffin Uptown agreed. We were really excited about it; we spent hours scouring the intertubes to find just the perfect variation. For the first time in decades, shopping for Mother's Day did not have me in a spin.

And then I had a couple conversations with her that convinced me we had chosen very probably the lamest gift possible. So there I was, once again shopping at the last minute. I needed to find another gift that communicated how much I appreciated my mom, and it had to be good enough to make up for the wrong gift that was already on its way to her.

It didn't work out quite as I had hoped.

Finding her something new to wear was too difficult. I have a fairly hard time finding clothing for myself that doesn't make me look as though I were dressed for Bette Davis' part in "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane." I just don't think my mother, who is mumble-mumble (no point in making her even more irritated with me) years older than I, would appreciate a short sleeved jacket and cuffed short combo, or a silk giraffe print halter dress. With matching hat.

Many times, I've given her a nice new handbag for her birthday or for Mother's day. I don't know when it happened, but if you've had occasion to price a new handbag lately you know that a new purse these days could literally put you out on the street. It's a scandal. A Kooba Nelli brown leather handbag retails for approximately $635.00. It's expensive, it's ugly, and it's not big enough to live in. Aren't we killing cows every second of every day to keep up with our insatiable beef craving? That being the case, I don't understand why a nice leather handbag should cost almost as much as an entire cow.

I expect I'll get all sorts of emails and comments with clever and affordable suggestions, NOW, when it's really too late. But please--don't suggest that I click over to Etsy for a clever little tote made of Day of the Dead hand-printed fabric or sewn together from two place mats. Even if I were the one making it--my mom is not going to be into carrying a bag made of table linen.

So it looks like Mom's getting the not-so-perfect gift, a Hallmark card, and this blog post.

My poor mother--who sacrificed and went without and sat up into the wee hours of the morning waiting for us to come home after breaking curfew and worried about our grades and our complexions and our dating choices--my poor, darling, long-suffering mother is going to shuffle to the mailbox and back later this week, open the disappointing gift I've chosen, hang her head, and weep.

Sorry, Mom.

Image, Banana Republic.