Lost in Austen.

On Saturday, I took a break from the rest of the world and spent the majority of the day on the couch. Judge me if you like; I'm old and tired, and I don't care what you think.

I took a few naps, but I also watched a couple of movies. The best was ITV's Lost in Austen. Originally broadcast as a four-part television series in the UK last September, it aired on the Ovation Channel here in January. Even so, I had never heard of it before Muffin's recommendation. While I may be the English major, she's the family's resident expert on all things Austen. She handed it to me with the words, "This is adorable."

It really, really is.

Jemima Rooper stars as Amanda Price, a Jane Austen fan who loves to lose herself in a book--specifically, Pride and Prejudice. She loves the love story and Elizabeth Bennet, but more than that--she craves "the manners and language and the courtesy."

One evening, Elizabeth comes through a secret door behind Amanda's bathtub, and the two switch places. Elizabeth disapears into the 21st century, and Amanda finds herself at mannerly Longburn at the beginning of the novel. Try as she might to keep everything going as written, her presence (and her cute-as-pieness) stretches Pride and Prejudice all out of whack. It's all so charmingly done that even the purists won't mind.

Rooper is the perfect everyreader, and a good choice if you are to imagine yourself inserted into the plot of a Jane Austen book. She's every bit as lovable as Elizabeth; it's easy understand the effect she has on the various Bennets, Bingleys, and Darcys. The movie takes some liberties with social custom, but if the whole fictionalized-characters-interacting-with-real-while-time-traveling doesn't get in your way, then chances are that those won't either.

They didn't bother me a bit.


Image, Jane Austen's World, but don't click through if you don't want to see spoilers of the movie.

In case you were wondering.

I haven't given up blogging, but Academic Advising Bootcamp is taking more energy than I had expected. They're still coming, but more slowly than you're used to.

Don't break up with me, and I promise that July will be better.

Image, Nothing to do with Arbroath, original source unknown.

The sweetest songs belong to lovers in the gloaming.

Early last week, the County Sheriff's Office conducted another sex sting operation in our local state park, arresting several men on charges of suspicion of public sexual indecency. The news agencies were all over it. A camera was there to document the men's arrest, and one television station followed up with the mugshots and names of those who had been rounded up. Website forums were ablaze:

Disgusting! I was going to have my son's 10th birthday party there. Not now, thanks to all the perverts.

You should be able to take your kids to the park without worrying gee how many pediophiles are here today, or turn your back for a second and they are gone. [sic]

These stings are conducted every few months, to the point that most everyone knows that the state park is a risky place for assignation. Even so, my bleeding liberal heart goes out to these men, most of whom have now been outed in a very public and destructive way, even before they have been tried for any crime.

The fact that they are conducted so frequently suggests to me that these stings don't seem to be that effective in stopping the use of state parks for these impromptu interludes. In fact, if the forum posts illustrate anything, it is that in publicizing these arrests, our local media does less to reign in the use of public parks for illicit trysts than they do to contribute to the idea that these men are a threat to our children.

According to the local newspaper, "The first arrest made at noon Wednesday was typical of the operation. A man parked his truck and sat down to eat his lunch at a picnic table near where an undercover officer was sitting. The man walked over and started a conversation with the officer that seemed normal until the man said he 'was looking for a change and wanted some male companionship,' the undercover officer said. The officer accepted the man's offer to go into a public bathroom for sex. The man dropped his trousers and the officer produced his badge."

The same article quotes Major Andy Shock of the Sheriff's Office, saying "our whole objective is to clean it up so families can come and let their children play without being at risk of seeing people engaging in this type of behavior."

If the arrest described above is typical of this type of behavior, then this phrase seems to be code for homosexual behavior. To what I am sure will be Muffin Uptown's dismay, I will admit to having engaged in the occasional al fresco liaison with her dad in the past--at least three times in a well-populated state park. Because our rendezvous were heterosexual, discovery would have been a minor embarrassment (and did, I'm sure, make it all that much more exciting). Certainly having our pictures on the 6 o'clock news was not one of the things we worried about. Even were that to be the case, though, the resulting charge--and it would, by definition, have been a charge of public sexual indecency--would most likely not have significantly impacted our jobs or our relationships with friends and family. Our lives would not be ruined. Our mothers would not be heartbroken. Our livelihoods would not be endangered. And while our church congregation would fall to their knees in prayer, they would not ask us to take our sinning souls elsewhere.

I'm not suggesting that we turn a blind eye to everything that goes on in the state parks. By all means, if the predators and pedophiles are your target, have at 'em. But if bathroom sex between two consenting adults is what has us up in arms, then maybe we should be looking for ways to make the facilities less favorable spots for hooking up. Conducting stings, arresting people, and then publicizing their identities for having acted on desires that aren't illegal in the first place won't save our children from anything.

Except for that pesky need to learn empathy for others.


Image: Mugshot of Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle, one of the most popular stars of 1910, mentor to Charlie Chaplin and discoverer of Buster Keaton. Arbuckle's film career was destroyed by allegations of sexual assault and manslaughter despite a jury acquittal and written letter of apology from same.

It always comes back to love.

It's Muffin's 23rd birthday, and as an extra special gift, I am not posting myself singing and playing my uke on the world wide wonder. She'll be so glad.

But take heed, wandering child. Once you're off to grad school, anything can happen.

Happy Birthday.

Halifax, Nova Scotia Reggae trio The Ukeladies (Katharine Langil, Selah Koile, and Mary Grace Koile). Filmed by Jeff Wheaton. Edited by Dan Buchanan.

You look like you could use 12 minutes of happiness.

I think I'm gonna be spending my writing time today, reading. In consideration of my reader who needs a post with which to eat her Cheerios, here's a little something via Swiss Miss:

Happy Friday, Lisa Haf.

Whispersync in my ear, and I'll follow you anywhere.

A little over a month ago, I proposed to the inventor of the Kindle. I'm still waiting to hear back, but I'm sure things are going to work out for us.

Because my love just keeps growing, every day.

And I don't mind that the screen is smaller on the iPhone; if a book is well-written, I'll read it tattooed around someone else's ankle. The fact that it's backlit just makes it that much easier to read in the bed without disturbing the cat, who likes to go to sleep earlier than I.

I had downloaded half a dozen free books and purchased two before discovering that Amazon Kindle books have a sample option. Just click the button, wait a few seconds, and start reading. At the end of the free sample, you're given the option to buy the whole book (which just shows up, a few seconds later).

This is so much more gratifying than reading an excerpt, ordering the book, and waiting for the mail to come. Oh wait. This is why everybody is so into instant gratification. I get it now.

Call it what you want; it's a book review.

For the first time in a long time, I spent all of the past Saturday with my nose in a book.

I took Scott Sigler's The Infected: A Novel with me to the family luxury vacation condo. Once there, I cracked it open and was instantly hooked. I toted it from room to room. I read on the back deck, on the sofa, and in the hot tub. I stood with it in the kitchen as I microwaved my lunch and read it instead of having a nap on Saturday afternoon. I've not read with such single-mindedness since studying for comps.

And yet, I just can't recommend this book. No one is more surprised than I.

Author Scott Sigler has a fairly large Internet following; in fact, his previous work was published exclusively via podcast. While I'd not read listened to his work before, I knew he was out there and that he enjoyed a measure of respect from folks who had. Ultimately, I was convinced by Amazon reader ratings averaging four-and-a-half stars and positive reviews from both the Dallas Morning News and Publishers Weekly (among others).

The premise: a mysterious disease of unknown origin is causing everyday Americans to run amok, torturing and killing friends and family members before killing themselves. Leading the effort to diagnose and contain the contagion is CDC agent Margaret Montoya. On the ground, the CIA's Dew Phillips is tasked with finding and capturing someone with the disease. By the time the reader discovers that the illness is actually a bio-engineered parasite, ex-college-football-star-turned-IT-worker Perry Dawsey becomes one of the infected.

I don't think I've ever encountered a book that so compelled me to finish reading, while simultaneously reminding me of the author's lack of artistry. While not exactly novel, there's enough promise in the premise to prompt me to spend my money. I wish I could say as much for the character development and quality of writing.

What a disappointment. Sigler's been at this long enough by now to have developed better chops.

I knew before looking him up that Sigler was a Stephen King fan, because I could see it in the dialogue. And he's really good at imitation-King dialog (No bout adout it), as opposed to King-influenced dialog. More than this, though, he lacks King's ability to flesh-out characters--particularly female ones.

And ultimately, I think that's where Sigler lost me. If a novel can be said to be masculine in nature (and I think it can), then this is a manly book. Indeed, the most horrifying portions seem designed to particularly terrify male readers. And I'll wager that they do. If Sigler really does want his work to be held in the same esteem as King's, though, he's going to have to find a way to scare the rest of us. Making us understand and care about the central characters would be a good start.

Until he can do that, he should probably stick to free downloads.

The Internet = boys.

Do you remember that boy who liked you in the fifth grade? He was so cute.

Things were less complicated back then, and it was easy to see that he was into you because of the way he hipchecked you while you both stood in the cafeteria line. Yeah, you got into trouble for breaking out of line, but what ev.

At recess there was the playful snap of your tiny bra strap. When you left your desk to sharpen a pencil, you returned to find your homework gone. And then there was the Spy vs. Spy he drew on your notebook. He liked you. It was sweet. Until it wasn't. Right about the time you had had enough pranks and shoving, just when you were wishing he would try and hold your hand or otherwise show his tender side, he went too far. He called you out in front of his friends.

"Hey, Hotlips!"

So yeah. All that attention? In the beginning, it was fun. But after a while, it was just tiresome.

The Internet can be like that.

First, there was One Friday, Without the Milk, Catherine Swinford's Amazon review for Tuscan Whole Milk. It is everything I love about the Internet--ironic social commentary combined with humor and corruption of the expected form. The idea of purchasing milk online was just too much to resist; 1060 others had a go.

But it didn't stop there. There are fake Amazon reviews for the JL421 Badonkadonk Landcruiser, Uranium Ore, and Fresh Whole Rabbit. Unfortunate clothing choices are under fire of late--the Three Wolf Moon T-Shirt, the Sea Cow T-Shirt, and Zubaz Pants are three of the most popular. The more ridiculous the item, the greater the number of fake reviews.

Unfortunately, not everyone is as creative as Ms. Swinford. If her approach to Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz represents everything I love about the Internet, then these last represent what I like the least: people who don't understand the difference between clever and mean.

That's not fun anymore. It's just tiresome.

image, found.

Who knew?

I've been chipping away at my TiVo backlog the past few evenings, staying awake until the wee hours of the morning and watching entire seasons of shows I couldn't before--not while LOST was taking up so much room in my brain.

But you can relax. I'm not winding up to rehash a bunch of shows that are over and done with. I have a much more lofty purpose in mind.

My family was never one for the latest in gadgetry, seeing as how we were what is now commonly known as the working poor; my mom was the only one who worked, and so we were poor more often than not. But we had a console Curtis Mathis television set ("The most expensive television set in America; and damn well worth it") and the very first microwave oven on the block. I think my dad may have traded one of our cars for the TV; the microwave must have fallen off a truck.

After my mother demonstrated that she could scramble eggs in only twice the time and with four times the effort it would take to cook them on top of the stove, she turned her attention to microwaving popcorn. She was well ahead of the trend, there. Many, many years later, there are at least dozen brands of popcorn specially packaged to be popped in the microwave. My own personal favorite is Pop Secret Jumbo Pop.

Which I can't find anywhere, anymore. Of course. And that's when I remembered my mom, cooking up some corn in a brown paper bag. So the last time I shopped, I picked up a bag of regular popcorn. My friend Ernie Buffalo was just talking about how surprised she was to find that in this instant age, one can still buy such a thing. In fact, it is ridiculously inexpensive, especially when compared to microwave popcorn.

Here's how I do it:

Measure 1/4 cup popcorn and add just enough oil to coat each kernel. Pour it into a lunch-sized paper bag, and fold the top of the bag down two-to-four times. Place the bag upright in the microwave and cook for the traditional 2-3 minutes. Just listen for the popping to slow down. The result kicks the legs out from under any popcorn you've ever eaten, especially if you top it with a generous helping of real melted butter.

Which I do, because I have the arteries of a 20-year-old.

related: Just Wrong. In so many ways.

Image, LIFE photo archive.

Role models.

When I was a teenager, I was certain that given enough time, pressure, and heat, I would eventually grow up to be just like my mom. And sure enough, like virtually every daughter born to every mother, everywhere--I am on occasion startled to hear her voice coming out of my mouth.

But as it turns out, I needn't have worried.

I am instead horrified to realize--as I sit at the computer in my underwear at 1:30 in the afternoon--that I grew up to be my dad. Like him, I've discovered that the world looks better when viewed on the horizontal, and that getting dressed is what one does for company.

Alas, this is not news that's going to thrill my mother.

I've complained before that the more free time I have, the less I manage to actually accomplish. If I were a savvy marketer of my own shortcomings, I would defend this by saying that I work better under deadline. In actuality, I'm slovenly and mostly just want to read and eat and watch the occasional LOST episode. When I do suffer a bout of energy, I do all three at the same time and call it work.

For the last few days, everything took a backseat to grading, which had to be completed by noon on Tuesday (see? deadline). But now that that's finished, I have a few weeks during which any incentive at all to get dressed is going to be hard to come by. Unless the fire alarm goes off, I may not open the front door until June 1.

Which would be really bad news for you. There's just not that much material in my cat.

Related (because I've been headed down this road a long time): Friday night lights (out).

image, Ramon Casas i Carbó, 1899, Jove Decadent.

Like a Supreme Court appointment, but without the fancy robe.

When I was in high school, every girl was required to take Home Economics class. For the four semesters of our junior and senior years, we learned to sew an apron, follow a recipe, manage a family budget, and differentiate between Queen Anne and Hepplewhite furniture styles. As far as the Board of Education was concerned, these were the skills we were going to need as we made our way out into the world.

And yes, I stayed in a snit for two school years straight.

Although we hit the high points of parenting in those classes, there were a lot of things about mothering that I didn't know. More than anything though, I was shocked to discover that my last moment of peace-of-mind was the one right before the doctor readied the forceps.

I thought of this last week, when a friend told me that when he visited his grandmother at the end of her life, the last thing she said to him was, "Honey, you be careful."

She was worrying about him, right up until the very end.

Almost 23 years into my motherhood gig, I'm still staying awake nights. I try to remember this when my mother and I argue because she's forgotten that I am as old as Castro's regime. And when Muffin Uptown gets irritated with me for pretty much the same reason, you needn't think that I'm above pointing it out to her.

I'm no longer baking cupcakes for homeroom, waiting in the car rider line, or reading stories at bedtime, but I'm thinking about her more minutes than I'm not. What's more, I can't imagine a future when that won't be the case. In July, she's lighting out for New York City, and it's going to be all I can do not beg her to let me go along. We've already done this--when I left her at college her freshman year and then last year when she went to LA on an internship. I was hoping it would get easier, this watching her walk away. Instead, it's Groundhog Day, over and over again.

Which is how I know that the worst part of the whole thing--for both of us--will be me trying to get in all the last minute reminders before the car rolls out of sight.

"Do you have your cell phone? Is it charged? Do you have your charger? What about money? You guys split that cash between you--don't carry it all in one place. If you run low, let me or your daddy know; don't you run completely out of money. I don't want you going without food. Don't you kids be sleeping in the car..."

There's no end to it. If I keep talking, and she keeps listening, I may happen upon something that I haven't already said to her, but that I should have. Because that's the real fear: that I've forgotten to give her something really, really important.

And this may be my last chance.

photo, Gordon Parks, 1953, Life photo archive.

Related: The city of angels plus one.

Movies for Mother's Day.

I've put together a list of my favorite mom-themed movies, just in case you aren't able to spend your day with the real thing. As you would expect, it's heavy on the heart-wrenchers.

Stella Dallas (1937) In one of her best performances, Barbara Stanwick plays Stella, a mom from the wrong side of the tracks who keeps getting it all wrong.

The Old Maid (1939) Single Bette Davis gives her daughter to Miriam Hopkins to raise, while she becomes the child's Aunt Charl0tte.

Mildred Pierce (1945) Poor Mildred can't do (or give up) enough for daughter Veda.

Imitation of Life (1959) White mom Lana Turner and black mom Juanita Moore team up to raise their girls.

Carrie (1976) Piper Laurie is Hollywood's scariest mom. Sissy Spacek's Carrie is no bed of roses, either.

Steel Magnolias (1989) This eighties tear-jerker has very possibly the best female cast ever assembled.

Terms of Endearment (1983) Shirley McClain and Debra Winger in a classic mother-daughter conflict. Another one for the tissues.

Freaky Friday (1976) Mom Barbara Harris and teen Jodie Foster trade places--and bodies. This one and the next are safe if you've already cried over your mom today.

Throw Mama from the Train (1987) In this twist on Hitchcock's Strangers on a Train, Billy Chrystal and Danny Devito strike a nasty bargain.

The Grifters (1990) Conman John Cusack is caught between mom Angelica Houston and girlfriend Annette Bening. Look this one up if you haven't seen it before. You may not cry, but you'll definitely rewind the climax to see it again.

Joy Luck Club (1993) Amy Tan's novel of four women, their histories, and their daughters. This one turns Muffin Uptown to mush. I generally start blubbering during the opening credits.

Happy Mother's Day. Now stop crying and go call your mother.

I'll have what they're having.

I have a fairly large collection of cookbooks--over 90 of them. After the last move, the only way to keep them all was to store most of them above the overhead kitchen cabinets. Taking one down to leaf through would require circus acrobatics and probably, a net.

Really, though, the Internet long ago replaced cookbooks for me when it comes to looking up a recipe. To my mind, the best use for a cookbook is to look at the pictures until you figure out what it is you want to cook to eat.

So for the time being, at least until it's no longer dangerous for me to do otherwise, I'm getting my food ideas from TasteSpotting, "a community-driven visual potluck."

TasteSpotting has page after page of hard-core food porn--all of it tantalizingly photographed, all submitted by readers. Each delectable photo links to the recipe, so you don't have to worry about the frustration of getting all worked up with no payoff. I know how much you hate that.

Wow. It's like the minute I typed the word "porn," everything became a double entendre.

Image, Life Begins at 30.

Life is easy, if you live in a house on the beach with your fishdog.

It's finals week, and posting may be sparse, but I'll do what I can. Don't break up with me, though, and I'll be a good girlfriend next week. Who knows? Maybe I'll put out.

via (obviously) Daily Beast.

You go on. I'll catch up with you later. If I'm not too depressed, that is.

This is the last weekend before the great influx of final papers I will have to grade next week. I've turned down all but the most insistent of invitations, just so I can roll around on the couch and read a good book. And I've assembled a small stack of titles that are, by several accounts, good. It wasn't until I had gathered them into a pile, though, that I realized how dark they all were:

From the New York Times Briefly Noted book review of Elizabeth Stout's book of short stories, Olive Kitteridge:

And there in every story, like a tree that’s been blackened by lightning but still leafs in the spring, stands Olive Kitteridge, a retired math teacher who loves her tulips, bullies her husband, and barks at anyone foolish enough to irritate her. You loathe this woman at the book’s beginning; you long for her at its finish.

George Stewart's post-apocalyptic Earth Abides:

This 1951 Winner of the inaugural International fantasy award is said to be the inspiration for Stephen King's The Stand.

From Publishers Weekly review of Kim Stanley Robinson's alternate history novel, The Years of Rice and Salt:

It's the 14th century, and the Black Death has swept through Europe, killing not 30% or 40% of the population but 99%. With Europeans now no more than a historical curiosity, the empires of China and Islam spread rapidly across the world.

Let's hope the fact that I've been trying to reading another Black Death fantasy novel, The Plague Tales, since 1998 isn't indicative of anything.

Cormac McCarthy's The Road:

Everyone on earth but me has read this National Book Critics Circle finalist and New York Times Notable book. I've resisted only because of McCarthy's obstinate refusal to observe any but terminal punctuation. In the past, I just wasn't able to stop noticing what isn't there. Perhaps I've become accustomed to missing punctuation, after having having read two semesters of freshman comp papers. Freshmen, alas, also have little regard for quotation marks.

I know this one is going to be a big downer, though, because Oprah chose it. Anything Oprah picks for her book club is guaranteed to make you want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over your head.

It's difficult for me to choose, when I have more than one book. So, please, if you've read one of these and enjoyed it, let me know. If one of them caused you to lose your will to live--well, that would be good to know, too.

edit: I forgot to mention that I was inspired to write about my book quandary by my Material World friend.

Here's to the gradual decline of someone else's housework.

My friend Sarah reads pretty much everything that's worth reading, and she's always been generous when it comes to sharing her interpretations on those readings with her friends. Fortunately for us, she's really smart and insightful--so her opinion adds to the conversation, instead of stopping it cold in its tracks.

It's always surprised me that Sarah didn't have a blog of her own. So when she started asking about blogging platforms, I let myself get a little hopeful. Well, it's out there now--in the great, wide blogosphere--and wow.

This is going to be one to watch.

I'm adding her to the blogroll, so you can get there from here. But if I were you, I'd bookmark it--just in case: The Adventures of Ernie Buffalo.

Image, Sophie Wellbeloved Poetry.

I think she needs a Twitter feed, too. I wanna see what she can do in 140 words.

Got a minute?

I've got two Comp I classes who are mighty sick of looking at me. In order to get them to show up for their last class today, I've promised them an in-class writing-for-credit exercise.

Actually, I sorta threatened them with it.

That seemed like a better idea when I said it in class on Monday than it did at 9:30 Tuesday night. You would think that this would be as simple as pulling a topic out of the air, throwing it at them, and saying, "Get started," but it's not. These people know when I've shown up without having done my prep work.

So I sat down and thought up a topic, along with a little something about how I got the idea. That way they know that I was thinking of them instead of sitting on the couch, eating Kettle Corn, and watching Fringe. Yeah, I've got TiVo, but they don't have to know everything.

Next semester, I'm going to incorporate The One-Minute Writer blog into my course outline, and I'm using this opportunity to recommend it to you. If you wish you could write a little something every day but don't have the incentive of a comp instructor's threats, this could be the ticket. Even if you already have your writing routine set, The One-Minute Writer is an excellent warm-up exercise.

Nothing cures writers' block like a little dose of the hair of the dog you wish would bite you.

Image, NYPL Digital Gallery.

EDIT: If you prefer to be visually nudged, try EasyStreet Prompts.

More pressure I don't need.

My world is a mess.

And I think it's because there's just no room in my life any more for chores. I'm not speaking figuratively, here. Ever since I moved into this teeny-tiny apartment, me and my stuff grapple for real estate like it was the Intervención Estadounidense en México.

Because I don't have room for the stuff I have, the stuff I need but don't have yet has to wait until there's a vacancy.

This is why my wine lives under the sink with the flower vases and ant spray, and why my empty tea pitcher can be found in the refrigerator. There's a cache of Diet Coke under the bed, and I've reached a standoff with the laundry--knowing that if I wash it, I'll just have to find a place to put it all away. It's important not to mess with the status quo--the slightest shift could tilt the whole thing on its axis, and all my crap would go tumbling out into the street.

So a couple of weeks ago, when my friend David told me that contrary to popular belief, the freezer was not really the best place to keep the vodka, I said, "Really? I had no idea!"

What I was thinking, though, was "Please don't tell me this. There's no place else to put it!"

In the fourteen days since, every time I reach for a handful of ice cubes or a sack of peas, that bottle of Smirnoff is sitting there, reminding me that I'm doin' it wrong. The clock is ticking, and I need to find another place for that bottle to live, before I ruin a perfectly good future Bloody Mary.

It's almost as bad as having lettuce in the crisper.

Image, Arkiva Tropika.

This post was written while listening to the gently falling rain.

Making cake and making do.

I had a dream this morning in which I needed a dozen eggs to bake a friend's wedding cake. Unfortunately, I only had money enough for nine. The grocer, though, agreed to give me the remaining three eggs if I would write an explanatory synthesis essay for him in exchange.

I'm not in any danger of obligating myself to bake a cake of any kind, I still have plenty of grocery money for the time being, and I don't write essays anymore--I assign them. What's important to note here, though, is that I'm so creative my mind keeps churning out ideas, even when I'm slobbering all over my pillowcase. Not everybody can pull that off and make it look so easy.

There are lots of stories about these types of transactions back during the Great Depression. In fact, bartering kept lots of people from doing completely without when nobody had any money.

I'm a big fan of the barter system, having spent a goodly portion of my life without any discernible discretionary income. In fact, working a trade is as old and comfortable a maneuver to me as is brushing my teeth. I once paid a friend to install new kitchen tile in exchange for a case of beer. Times were lean for him, and he didn't feel like he could justify spending the little money he had on beer. But he had a Saturday afternoon to kill, and I had a case of beer and a box of tile. By 4 pm, everybody was happy--although, I suspect he was happier still by 8 or 9 o'clock that night.

Now that lean times has become sort of a universal theme, I predict that a great many more people will be stretching their resources by swapping kind-for-kind among themselves. Creative-types do this kind of thing all the time, but there's nothing to say that the less artistic of us can't also get in on the action. This system works well any time you know how to do something your friend does not, and vice versa.

But it won't work if what you need is to have your interview suit dry-cleaned. And when my car needs new tires, I'm going to have to pony up the cash. I'm fairly certain Wal-Mart has all their explanatory synthesis essays written for them in a factory in China.

Image, Noreen's Cake Studio.

This post was written while listening to Robin Thicke's 2007 release, The Evolution of Robin Thicke.

Every bit as glorious as I remember.

I haven't written anything hilarious or moving for you to read today because my creative juices are blocked. And I have no one but myself to blame.

Not long ago, an acquaintance asked if I would be game to attend a mock prom as his date. And although I can't be sure, here's what I think may have happened next.

I heard the word "date," and associated it with "dinner"--the extra special kind that I don't have to cook or pay for, and that's when I said, "Sure. I'm up for that."

What was I thinking?

I've had a chance to eat since then, and so the idea of a free meal has lost some of its appeal. In fact, having had time for some clear-headed reflection, I can see now that this may very well be the stupidest thing I've done all year.

It's my teen nightmare come true--it's time for the big dance, and I don't have anything to wear.

Six months ago, I had several of Muffin Uptown's old prom dresses, a couple of bridesmaid's dresses, and an incredibly trashy rhinestone getup that I once wore to sing with the ATU jazz band. But part of the big move was to divest myself of things I would never, ever need again, and so it all went into the donation bin.

And it must have been pretty good stuff, because it's gone already. In fact, it looks as though all the middle-aged sized teenagers have already done their resale prom shopping; there's just nothing left.

But that's not the only problem. Because my skin heard me say "prom," it immediately began production on a yes-I-know-we-just-had-menopause-but-I'm-not-done-with-you-yet pimple, conveniently and prominently located directly between my eyes. It's going to be huge and unattractive by Saturday, and I know this because it has sent out a press release. This Saturday, I'm virtually guaranteed to be the only inappropriately-dressed, 49-year-old woman at the prom with a big Cyclops pimple on her head.

Who knows if the possibilities for disaster end there? Even if I could manage everything else, the fact remains that I don't know this guy very well. This could be one of those Charlie Brown situations--you know what I'm talking about--where you're counting on him having all the information, but then you show up and find that it's some sort of serious thing that requires actual couture and an updo? I just can't get away from this nagging feeling that it's only Nancy Allen and a bucket of pig's blood away from full-out disaster.

So that's why I can't blog today. I gotta find a way out of this mess, and I need to do it now, while he still has time to find another date.

And before he picks up the corsage.

Image, Square America.