Thirty-three

It's Friday night and this is the most activity I will attempt tonight. It's tragic. Most Friday nights I'm too exhausted to get any take-out, it's either Chinese delivery or lots of microwave popcorn for dinner followed by spoons of peanut butter. There was a time back in the swinging 70's that I wouldn't even leave the house until this time, but that sounds so pathetic and needy to harken back to my twenties to assure you that I wasn't always this resoundingly sad and tired. But in my defense, I know those younger than me that are this haggard on a Friday night. Most are teachers, so there's that.
I think this points to a need, a need for traveling entertainment. Yes, I know there are movies galore at the touch of a button, but real live entertainment is another matter. I love the theater and concerts, the the trouble is that I have to get out of my jammies, holster up the girls and put on some shoes, not to mention deal with the hair and some make-up administered to appear less pod-like. Wouldn't it be lovely to have a small troup of singers or dancers, jugglers or actors to arrive at your home, do a little something for you, you pay them and maybe give them something to eat and send them on their way. It would have made my night to have a group of actors do a little something from Vagina Monologues or Twelth Night. Maybe a few tunes, a little Cole Porter medley, maybe something from Elvis Costello with a little Luther Vandross thrown in towards the end.
Okay Eastside Scribes, what kind of show would you like to see performed in your very own living room?

Thirty-two

It's late so this is going to be short. I had a late night doing a couple of family blogging sessions for PTA this evening. Trying to get families hip to the blognation. I had a little down time between sessions so I checked my school e-mail. Barnes and Noble is promoting an educator's special Saturday this weekend. For the lucky first 15 teachers that come in, those fortunate frisky lot will receive (drum roll please) a free tote bag! Yes, goodness gracious, let me just take my sleeping bag and some low glycemic snacks and camp out so I can be the first in line for my very own free tote bag. Would I enjoy a 25% discount or a free tote bag? Tote bag me up, baby! I just don't have enough tote bags with an giant red apple in the middle and the alphabet in blocks drawn to the side. Don't have enough of those. And while you're add it, Barnes and Noble, would you pretty please give me a free denim jumper, something that makes me look as frumpy and Jaba the Hut-like as possible but before you hand it to me, could you please embroider it with a short school bus with multi-cultural faces sticking out of each window all saying hello (Bonjour! Hola! Bite me!) in their native language. Throw in some earrings that look like little tiny pencils and a necklace with tiny erasers, and kickballs, and that crystal apple the size of a honeydew melon because that's always useful in case I have to overpower a 98 pound crack addict breaking into my house. Yeah, put it all in that canvas tote bag and I will be in frackin' teacher heaven.

Thirty-one

Coming home from Wal-Mart tonight (it was an emergency, I had to get new printer cartridges), I noticed the first wave of holiday lights. Let me say this, Christmas is not my favorite holiday. It's rather like a night out at a Chippendale's bar. It's a lot of prep and planning, you get there and it's loud, really expensive and over with quickly. Afterwards, you wonder why you even bothered. If you're a parent with little kids, I've heard it's different because you relive the holiday through the wonder and joy of your child's eyes. Yeah, whatever.
Here's what I enjoy about the season: time off from work which I shouldn't have to explain because I work for the public schools. Also because lots of my friends are teachers, I get to see them a little more and that's never a bad thing because they are a witty and urbane lot and many times they bring me wine. Most of the time, it's cooler and I have an opportunity to wear socks and sweaters. People wear pants more, something I'm grateful for because let's face it, not everyone looks good in shorts, no matter how warm it is.
So it's the lights that delight me and the neighborhood light tours we take all during December are one of the few traditions of the season. Already off Penman Ave, there's a house in full Mother Ship light allure. I'm certain this house can be seen from the Hubble Telescope. Now, some would offer the words gaudy, overdone or tasteless for this kind of lighting design and that is a matter of opinion. I find those inflatable things you see on lawns to be pretty tasteless. I find them to be creepy which may go back to multiple viewings of that old Twilight Zone episode where the people were in that glass bubble city. My neurosis, but I stand by it.
What I admire about the Mother Ship house is their focus and their work ethic. It took a village to erect that kind of startling illumination and a vision to see it through. Sure, it may take your breath away and perhaps cause permanent damage to your retinas, but commitment like that is rare and refreshing especially during the holidays.

Thirty

This past summer when we got back from Ireland, we brought with us a newly acquired taste for Irish Breakfast Tea. Rich, robust with a malt dreaminess, it is deliciously dark and soothing. We had it at least twice a day for two weeks while we were away. Caffeine of the gods, it became our new addiction. Upon our first few days home, it became painfully obvious that Lipton, my former light-hearted pal couldn't compete with our darker, edgier import. So we found Twinings Irish Breakfast Tea in Publix (oh relief! ecstacy!), ordered Lyons (the tea of Ireland) by the box over the internet and invested in a sturdy tea strainer from Williams Sonoma and made tea time (not high tea because lordy, my butt is still recovering from all the potatoes of that trip) a regular feature in the afternoon. It's a bit of trouble, but once you lay everything out, let the tea steep in the teapot, give it good sniff before you pour, and sip ever so slowly, it becomes something you count on to help you sort the day out and relax. Yes, there's a cookie involved.
Here's what I didn't count on after 30 days of blogging: that I would love it. I'm a decent writer but I lack a work ethic when it comes to writing because it's hard. Being a lazyass, I tend to shy away from things that are a challenge. But this is what has come of it. It's easier. Who knew that what I'd been preaching to my students year after year about writing, that the more you write, the easier it gets would actually be true? I thought that was a teacher urban legend like the importance of your permanent record and making a difference with your students.
I never thought I would actually do it for 30 days and if I did, I thought I would come to the last day the way you feel after doing 10 sets of lunges: thank God that's over!
So I feel changed in a way that I can't describe so maybe 30 or 300 more days won't hurt me. I can tell you this, that I couldn't have arrived at this new addiction without MJ and JSG pulling me into the technological freezone, and then encouraging me without the guilt to post. And as I've said in that pre-blogvow post, Pinky Swear, it was the lack of nagging, so sublimely and effectively subtle and their own regular blogging that inspired me. Then LJ, my brother from a different mother, he came along to keep me honest and true to my word. God love him and JSG because their blogs were my compass. EG joined us as did KV and now we have something unique, something I cannot do without and not just writing mine but also peering into everyone else's head. It's become something that connects us in a way I couldn't have predicted. I feel a little like Susan Lucci when she finally won that Daytime Emmy after 23 consecutive noms. Like I want to thank everyone because you've given me such a gift: you've read what I had to say and you were kind and gracious. You honored me with your time and your voice. Talk about a sweet cookie.

Twenty-nine

High school football season is over and I'm always a little sad about that. It's not that I'm a fan of young men knocking each other down on a lush green field while others around them cheer. Nor am I nostalgic for my own high school days when the young men of my day would knock each other down in a brownish green field because after all it was a Catholic school and they couldn't afford lush for the field. Too busy filling the coffers for future litagation I suppose. But I digress. The reason for my mournful state is that after football season, I can no longer hear the band. The local high school sits a mere quarter mile from my house and starting in the mid summer and all through the fall, it's all tubas in the moonlight and big drum solos. Sometimes they go all 70's and they do the theme from Hawaii Five-O which brings a tear to my eye because of the memory of the cheesy coiffed area code that was Jack Lord's hair.
It's funny what seals the deal when you buy your house. For me, way back in 1988, it was being able to hear the high school band practice. Over the years, I'm sure some bands have been better than others but I really wouldn't know the difference. I do know that those days in the fall when I'm returning the trashcans from the curb, or taking a walk around the block or just standing in my yard wishing for fireflies, I hear them in all their teenage angst, marching and keeping a rhythm while they are all worried about their Algebra test,or their facebook profile or their best friend, still playing, not knowing they are serenading me.

Twenty-eight

I just finished watching Battlestar Galactica Razor and besides being overwhelmed by the quality of the writing and the performances, once again this show leaves me considering the nature of honor, bravery and survival. Which pisses me off. Not anything the show did, but the thing that infuriates me is how much sci-fi is either ignored or maligned when it comes to being recognized for classic storytelling. (Jump back, filmfans, I know The Return of the King pulled down the Best Picture Oscar for 2004, but I consider that fantasy not so much sci-fi)They are always overlooked during awards time, not that awards are everything, they aren't, but attention should be paid. The Emmy people are the worst---only a few ever get nominated or ever win. The mini-series Taken a few years back is a great exception. We've got it on DVD if anyone wants to borrow it. One of my favorites, Blade Runner, turns 25 this year. In 1982, it turned a few heads, was critically acclaimed in the sci-fi circles. The Academy only nominated it for Best Visual Effects and Best Art Direction, it lost to E.T. which was nominated for fracking everything. Yes, I know E.T. is a sci-fi movie, so that makes 2 in Oscarland that year, but honestly, you can't compare them when it comes to the weight of the writing and the themes explored. It's like comparing Benji with The Unforgiven.
In one at the end, you've got everyone crying saying goodbye to E.T. and he says, "I'll be right here," and points to Elliot's chest and off he goes. In Blade Runner, the pivotal scene between Harrison Ford's Decker and the android Roy Batty (the mesmerizing Rutger Hauer) culminates in these last words of Batty's as he realizes his inner workings are failing. He sits in the rain and speaks of his love of life, even as short as it was: "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the darkness at Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time like tears in rain.Time to die."
Blade Runner made me think about what it is to be alive and how we negotiate those experiences into our humanity. Good science fiction has the ability to do that because it can play with how we see our future selves, what will be lost and what will remain.
And I didn't mean to go on about Blade Runner because I really wanted to go on about the role of strong women in great science fiction, but I guess that will be for another time.

Twenty-seven

My hall of fame gal pal, KV, has joined the Blognation thanks to my noodge (I learned all my blog noodges from MJ) and I encourage one and all to check out her blog:  imaginaryplanet.blogspot.com  and comment because without comments all of this is just lonely semantic self-pleasuring, sure nice for a time, but after a while you just want someone there either giving you a hand or cheering you on.  As metaphors go, not one of my best, my apologies.

I've known KV since 9th grade and so we have logged a lot of miles in the teenage angst department, in the clueless twenties, threadbare thirties, flailing forties and now in our fabulous fifties, we are making good on the promise we made when we were 18 to write to each other regularly.  She is the coolest of the cool, smart and funny, still slim too which I try not to hate her too much for.  She is a gardening savant. Those with that passion are in for a treat because she will likely share a great deal of her knowledge of how things grow. Giant beanstalk?  Yeah, she could do it.  Her husband MD is the kindest and calmest man I've ever met. He is also freakishly unwrinkled for a middle aged man.  I fear he has made a deal with Satan or with a representative of Clinique.  I'm sure you'll get to know more about her as you read her posts and welcome another smart voice into our blogtown.

My internet woes are still in repair but Cal just nabbed himself a tasty morsel from the folks from Apple.  Yeah, I'm sitting here with the Shaft of all desktops, the iMac.  Oh baby, oh baby, oh baby, saaa-moooooooooooooth.  Really.  Very few electronic devices give me this kind of satisfying shudder (ahhh, college days, alone with Dark Side of the Moon, extra D batteries...and I'm back) but this thing is so fine.  Very sleek, user friendly and without lots of baggage.  The processor is in the monitor, so it came with just the keyboard, mouse and monitor. That's it.  Wouldn't it be lovely if everything we bought came with such ease?

Twenty-six

I've been in a panic for most of the evening because we've been having Internet router type snafus and there was uncertainty about being able to post tonight. You would think that knowing that I would try to post early because it would be the sensible thing to do, but no. The 30 day blogvow is now a big deal and not just because of the vow in front of small yet devoted readership of four. It's a big deal because now it's a habit, a strange habit that allows me a feeling of expression, accomplishment and closure all in one nifty act of writing. My devoted gang of four read and comment, and that is a gift, one of the best, the gift of listening. I'm glad it all worked out this evening, although we're not out of the woods yet and so maybe an early posting might be wise. Nah, that would make too much sense.

We've been watching Elf tonight, one of the holiday movies I will agree to sit through. Will Ferrell is a genius as Buddy and the whole story is silly and sweet, but in the right proportions. My favorite thing about Elf is the soundtrack, one of the great film soundtracks. My favorite track is not even a Christmas tune, it's Louie Prima's, Pennies From Heaven, the best version of that song ever recorded, no lie. The Christmas movies are out in full force and I can only watch a few, along with Elf, I do adore A Christmas Story, A Charlie Brown Christmas, also mostly for the music, a little known Bogart film called We're No Angels which we also used to watch with Cal's Mom, Nancy and Aunt Myrtice, Scrooged, and what I hope becomes a modern holiday classic, Bad Santa. I've left out the usual suspects: It's a Wonderful Life which is so depressing you end up grabbing a handful of Darvocet before the five minute lift at the very end. Sorry, Frank Capra, for a lot of us, it was too little too late. I know I'm leaving out many and so, you know it was coming the minute I mentioned movies, but I got to ask: what are your favorites and which ones do you loathe?

Twenty-five

Today is my 21st anniversary and Thanksgiving, two occasions that intersect gratitude, love and family but in ways not seen in a made for television Hallmark special feature. I am grateful to the reality that my mother doesn't live farther than a two hour drive to Georgia. That's a lot of time and gas to get that much crazy for a traditional holiday. I'm also grateful that Cal sees the whole picture and never runs screaming from the room no matter how Pedro Almodovar surreal it gets whether we're talking about the impossibility of Castro's eventual demise or my horrendous error in forgetting the banana leaves for the tamales. That is a kind of love no one sings about and I'm one lucky broad to have it for so long.
My family is a lot like the trees lining US 23 going up to Waycross. Always the same green, green, green. A peripheral landscape that is relentless in its sameness. You know what to expect on the ride. But then there is this unexpected stream of trees and you would swear you've been instantly transported to North Carolina, because you see a burst of yellow, and some crimson, some burnt orange. It happens every 30 or 40 miles or so, all that green then about 10 trees that go all Wizard of Oz on you. My family is like that relentless green, they worry or obsess for eternal distances not yet measured, but then sometimes they crack every so often and have genuine faith that my plane will not crash, or the doctor's prognosis will not be fatal, a chunk of satellite won't fall on my house, a parent will not come and shoot me or the sushi we might be eating will not give us food poisoning. These are small, unexpected treasures on the side of the road but because it's family I marvel that they were able to take root after so many miles.

Twenty-four

Today was a weather day, better than a holiday, like a get out of jail free card and a day playing hookey all rolled into one. I had a few highlights. Sleeping late was the first and upon waking, staying in my jammies instead of racing into the shower and then going through my closet trying to remember what I've already worn to work.
Another highpoint was lunch at an authentic Cuban restaurant. The worse the English spoken by the staff, the better the food is always a good rule of thumb for any ethnic eatery. This did not disappoint. The Medianoche (Cuban sandwich on egg bread) and tostones were stellar and it was topped off by a flawless cafe con leche. Plus, someone else paid. As lunches go, it was pretty perfect.
Today I also got to call someone out. A friend of a friend (someone I just met) during lunch was going on and on about the frickin' Cubans in Miami, truly not a flattering picture of a people known for their cigars and their ability to flatten a sandwich. Upon taking a breath, he turned to me and asked, "You aren't Cuban, are you?" I answered, "No, but my mother is, asshole."
I got to put a leetle somsing somsing on the delivery of "asshole" which was most satisfying. The fact that I didn't care about being diplomatic in the least was even more gratifying. Like the cafe con leche, pretty sweet.
The rest of my day was a series of errands and phone calls to my family. Then there was this moment after I was home. Nestled on the couch with a book in my lap, my reading glasses on my nose, I found myself in comfort and peace digging into a new tale. Not a bad day at all.

Twenty-three

Oprah's Favorite Things Show was on today. She surprised the town of Macon, GA in their municipal auditorium with that announcement. They all thought the theme of that taping was going to be something else. You should have seen the reaction. Men were weeping, women were fainting, collectively everyone went out of their minds. It was fabulous to watch because La Oprah always gives away some fierce stuff and this year was no exception. I especially loved that after she gave everyone a $3000 refrigerator with the built in LCD screen TV that the crowd went even nuttier when they found out they were each getting a $250 gift card from Target. Folks were praising Jesus for the Target gift card more than they were praising our Lord and savior for the Terminator-like fridge. Writers' strike or no writers' strike, now that's good television.
It was a lot of fun watching so many people in full on jubilation. Getting presents, and really great presents, well, hell, there's no downside except during tax time. Feh, what the heck, it's good to just enjoy it. And the best thing was to watch all the faces--astonishment, excitement, awe, and happy intoxication of the room's energy, it was all there. It was a fine change of pace.
In the big picture, there really hasn't been anything to be that joyful about: Iraq is still a mess, gas prices are going up and a recession is looming. And, yes, Buddhist monks everywhere, I know there are plenty of gifts that don't cost anything--the gift of my health which I never take for granted, the gift of friends who come with you to the strangest places, the gift of a happy marriage and well adjusted and talented children. Those everyday gifts should never be overlooked, ignored or taken for granted. But there is something about a material thing, a gift not just during the excess of the winter holiday, but any occasion where you see something that connects and know it's going to put this goofy grin on a loved one's face if they had it. It's not about the money or the occasion, but all about what you know and the miles you had within someone's life to know it. It's like knowing a secret about the perfect gift and then pouncing on it when we finally see it. My favorite gifts have run the gamut from a Wonder Woman Pez Dispenser to earrings with my birthstone in it, not because of their cost but because of the knowledge that both were a perfect fit.
So you know I've got to ask: what were some perfect gifts in your life?

Twenty-two

I have never been one of those people who feel compelled to shop that day after Thanksgiving. People fresh from venomous family confrontations nursing formidable hangovers placed in overcrowded settings motivated to overspend on useless items for those in their lives that warrant disdainful obligation. Yeah, baby, there's a Hallmark card for that. But this caught my attention today: on Friday at 4am, yes that's AM, Kohl's department store is opening its doors to begin the shopping melee. How do you dress for that kind of pre-dawn excursion? Captain America tee shirt, periwinkle yoga pants and night vision goggles? Do you stretch? Carb load? Or is the strategy to be as offensive as possible hygenically speaking, hoarding some flatulent simmerings for a trump card to give the wide berth advantage?
I admit it though, I feel drawn to such an event. I can't explain it rationally, only to say that at 4am there must be treasures beyond imagination at unbeatable prices especially at the onset of the coming recession. What's worth going to Kohl's at that hour? Cashmere socks? Maybe. My feet form the foundation of my comfort zone. If my feet are content, then all is right with the rest of me. Perhaps the illusive perfect purse? (I looked last week, it's not there) Jeans that take off six inches from my waist. Hell yeah. I would shop in the middle of the night for that the Grand Puhba of indigo perfection. So, in truth, it would come down to anything that would make my ass look smaller and more petite, my motivation for being a shopping lemming on the most psychotic consumer circus of the year.

Twenty-one

I am very particular about my purses. Usually, I like the long shoulder strap and a big bag. I am not a small purse gal. I need my stuff , all kinds of it, because I never know when I'm going to be in emergency situation that requires me to build a combustion engine with nothing more than a scrunchie, lip gloss, airline headphones, a NY Metro pass and a tampon. The problem is that the accessory trend in purses right now is a large bag and a shorter strap. Even if I slung any of these bags over my shoulder, the bag would rest somewhere under my arm pit, which is uncomfortable. Also the bag of my dreams needs to be stylish, a rich brown yet affordable leather (sorry Elsies) or something in croc, hopefully an old croc who had a long and fulfilling life thrashing poachers and died of natural causes because I have nothing in crocodile. It also needs compartments. At least two inside with zippers, three is preferable, with smaller pockets for phone, glasses, pens, wallet, keys, glasses, notebook and camera. That way, everything has their particular place and in case of alien invasion and subsequent blackout, I could find what I needed to build the laser cannon without a sliver of light.
The search today for such a purse was met with utter failure. Granted I confined my search to the beach, so I still have malls to plunder. I remain optimistic. I did give the local venues a thorough perusal and at the third store found myself quite annoyed. According to my calendar, it's not Thanksgiving yet, so what is the deal with the Christmas carols being piped in to the department stores? I know Thanksgiving is four days away, I know. I know holiday crap has been going up since before Halloween. But the songs, the songs should be forbidden until Black Friday, that should be law or Constitutional amendment or something binding like a pinky swear. It's not that I don't like holiday tunes, I happen to enjoy most of them. But from the day after Thanksgiving to New Year's Eve, that's a lot of Yuletide melody overload and I don't need an extra four days of it. Sure, I'm singing along to Johnny Mathis's, "Have Yourself a Very Merry Christmas" now with a smile on my face, but on December 27th, after having heard it 3,452 times, it will have the same effect as anything Mariah Carey sings: dry heaving and a need for a Silkwood shower.
My holiday music, like the things in my purse, needs a specific space and time and the retail industry disappoints on both fronts.

Twenty

My mother called me today. It always starts this way: (Note to readers, my mother's part should be read with a Spanish accent but with heavy guilt on the side, like if you crossed Charo's delivery with Rhoda Morgenstern's mother's disappointment.)
"Mary?"
"Mom?"
"Mary?"
"Mom?"
"Mary?"
"Mom?"
And then she speaks. Today it was to fill me in on the details of my brother's move back to Florida, and to tell me what to bring to her house for Thanksgiving.
"Remember that time we ate at that place and we had that good cornbread? Bring that."
"Which restaurant?"
"I don't know, you took me there."
"When?"
"I don't know, but the cornbread there was very good. You bring that on Thursday."
Now, in my younger days I would have pressed my mother for more information, which would end up in pissing her off and frustrating myself to the point where a big vein in my temple would pop out and slap me in the face. In the end, I still wouldn't have the name of the restaurant and I would have to ice down a facial tic from the whole episode.
I am older, and neurologically, not as sturdy therefore, I am forced to be wiser. So, of course I said, "No problem, I'll bring it."
It's cornbread right? What's the big deal? I'll buy the mix and there we have it, done and done. But then one of my more fastidious personalities chatted me up: A mix? Really? Why not cornbread from scratch? It'll be more homey and way tastier and afterall, it's for your family, why not spend the extra time? It's Thanksgiving.
I am the official bad daughter and that kind of reign has taken its toll on my sense of guilt, so I've spent the last hour looking at cornbread recipes on the internet. I did not know there were two kinds of cornbread, sweet or savory. That's a decision. Then, there's cornbread you have to make in a cast iron skillet. I'd have to buy one for that or just avoid those recipes. Then the decision whether to put fresh corn, canned corn or creamed corn in the recipe. Plus there's other stuff that can go in like onion, squash, bacon, jalapeno peppers, sour cream, buttermilk, lard. I did find a recipe that had raisins and nuts in the cornbread, interesting choice, but yugh. I think I'm on cornbread overload, a vertible corn maze (ohhh, couldn't resist!!) and that's when I told Consuela, the Senora Cleaver of my psyche, to shut up and replay an episode of Dos Mujeres Un Camino in my subconscious because the mix was back on the table.
So one of the many things I am thankful for this year, especially as I make the big trek to Waycross on Thursday is Martha White's Cotton Pickin' Cornbread Mix (just add water).

Nineteen

What is it about the cooler weather that makes you want to stay in and eat? Stay in and eat under a flannel blanket watching something useless on TV like Green Acres. I remember when I used to watch it growing up, I could never understand why Ava didn't leave Eddie Albert's ass on the farm and go back to New York City. I would have definitely stayed on Park Avenue in that penthouse. Watching Green Acres just confused me about marriage and relationships so I suppose I didn't get the surrealistic themes and the threads of rural magical realism that ran through many of the episodes. Growing up, I just thought those people were on drugs.
But I digress. I've been trying to think about the best thing to have on a chilly day without having to fuss too much because then that defeats the purpose of staying in under a blanket if you are cranking up your Julia Child vibe and deboning pheasants for stock. In the category of simple yet satisfying, I think the time honored favorite grilled cheese and tomato soup ranks right up there for easy fixing and never disappointing. And somehow, it's not as tasty during the summer, really, when it's warm, not so much. During the winter, oh man, it's gold foil star good and it has many great variations. Sure American cheese slices, they're the go-to guy when no cheese is available. I know it seems a little unpatriotic to say, but American cheese always weirds me out a little because of its ability to melt and react like a petroleum product. This is not Greenland or some region around Russia that causes a pile up of consonants up around the roof of my mouth as I try to pronounce it where there is only one cheese from a feral alley cat with one eye. Cheese abounds here and my favorites for grilled cheese is Brie, no, Havarti, make that an arterial clogging combination of both. On a multi-grain baguette because I am not a young woman. The soup is a different matter. I suppose homemade tomato soup from tomatoes grown and harvested in a garden from natural spring waters with piped in Sarah MacLaughlin ballads would be a suitable substitute. But I have to go old school on this one for personal preference, it's got to be Campbell's.
So let's hear from the gallery. What chases away the cold for you?

Eighteen

Whenever I dye my hair, the color usually holds fast for about 6-7 weeks until this patch of gray towards the front of my hairline comes peeking out, boasting its natural superiority to Preferance of L'Oreal's Dark Brown concoction. The men I know always, and I mean always, compliment me on the patch, and it's sincere too. I always smile, and say something meaningful and eloquent like, "Bite me." I am a tad cranky concerning my gray because of several irrefutable truths. The first one is that I am vain, yes indeedy and getting vainer by the minute on account of my body embarking on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride of aging. Things are moving south faster than horny Jersey frat boys barreling towards Ft. Lauderdale spring break. I have spoken of the Ninja joint ailments and then there's the Raiders of the Lost Ark-like discovery of hair in the most unlikely places and gray hair in places that will make you weep soundly in a fetal position under your bed. My hair is the only thing I can control and will control because let's face it, gray on a woman ages her profoundly. I don't care what the magazines say, it does and that's that. So this peak of gray, this patch of rebel follicles, mocking the measures that I take to keep it in line, well, that was the reason for my trip to Target this afternoon. I picked up the Clairol Root Touch Up, the best thing created since fudge covered Oreos.
As I am making my way to the cashier, I noticed lots of moms pushing shopping carts with kids inside. I'm not talking toddlers. I'm talking 4, 5 and 6 year olds. Getting wheeled around like they were Hef giving a tour of the Playboy Mansion. I nearly lost my mind, I did, because I've had a couple of weeks of dealing with really lazy kids at school. It's bad enough that most people are too stupid to live but now they are raising their children to be so lazy they can't even bear to walk around a discount store. And so I hit a new level of crankiness. As I passed these witless mothers, I muttered an audible, "Stupid" as I strolled by them. I'm probably out of line here, but honestly I feel exactly like the way LJ feels about little kids with Crocs on. How hard is their life that they can't possibly have on sneakers? Is the tying of the shoes a little too rigorous? It's the pervasive laziness that rattles me. And so I fear for the hair coloring industry of the future because with a demographic this lazy, who is going to go to the trouble of lifting their arms to color their hair?

Seventeen

I am a big ole book slut. My idea of a big night is to have dinner at home and then go out to a bookstore and spend the money we would have dropped on dinner on shiny new books. I am lucky enough to be married to someone who understands this addiction. Many times I have been known to lure Cal to the dark consumerist side of mass book buying, but he does have a semblance of control. I would rather spend 10 hours in a book store than 30 minutes in a bar, any bar and that includes vintage Trader Vick's in the former Plaza Hotel in New York City. So the invention of Amazon books has tested my financial and emotional self-restraint. I mean, come on, is there anything as satisfying than that final "click" to complete your on-line order?(Insert Homer Simpson drooling sound effect here) At least twice a week, I browse the Amazon site. I don't always buy and the only reason for that is because I'm an immediate gratification gal but too cheap for overnight shipping. I am also too lazy to put on my bra under my black tee shirt, take off my new fuzzy slippers, comb my hair so I don't scare the children and get in my car to go to the bookstore. In a way, I am the Sybil of book buying. Where and when I buy depends on the personality that is bubbling to the surface.
Tonight the girls are loose, the slippers are on and I feel way too fat to go out in public. Amazon, here I come. Of course, Oprah's new pick, Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett has rocketed to the top of the list, lucky bastard. But I noticed this other title on the best seller list, something I hadn't heard of: Soul Communication--Opening your Spiritual Channels for Success and Fulfillment. Only $14.97. Damn, that's cheap for success and fulfillment. In the blurb it says the book strives to show the reader how to allow the inner essence of our souls to express itself through our bodies, our voices and in our communication with others. And for an added bonus, it reveals ancient secrets for accessing that power all in a conversational language.
Well sha-zam and yippee kie yae, let's get to it. That book had 23 reader reviews and all of them gave the book 5 stars. Either the author has a large family or a large therapy group, sometimes they are one in the same. Still, I'm a bit curious. My spiritual path needs some weeding and tending. It often gets overlooked in favor of napping or reading a trashy novel.
Does my soul have the communication skills of Marcel Marceau? Could than ancient secret told to me in a conversational style lead me to more success and deeper fulfillment? I need to watch my tone because this is the kind of thing that comes back to bite me in the ass. This is the kind of thing the universe uses to teach me a lesson, having a book I mock become the foundation of my spiritual enlightenment.
Well, it's going to have to wait until I holster up the girls and put on my shoes and it's not going to be tonight, that's for sure.

Sixteen

I've been thinking a lot about writing lately. The 30 day blogfest vow has to be one of the more moronic things I've ever tried to do, but then again, it's been illuminating. I should make up my frackin' mind, shouldn't I? Part of it is the process. My mind is a blank slate when I come to my laptop. Most of the time, I've got nothing and most of the time, when I finish posting, I still got nothing, but occasionally, something unexpected happens in the writing. A great phrase or a finely tuned sentence, something E.B. White wouldn't puke on if he read it. It's been good discipline especially in an area where I am the queen of sloth. It's true, I'm one lazy writer.
Yesterday we were watching the History Channel and they had a program on called Band of Bloggers. It was a documentary on all the blogging that has been going on during the Iraq War. It was fascinating how the soldiers were blogging to show the reality of their days. The internet hook up was installed to keep the soldiers connected to their families and friends at home. But after a while, it became something else. It became a way to tell the truth about their experiences in a way that wasn't being covered by journalists. These soldiers weren't writers at the start of their tours and most of them started their blogs out of sheer boredom. But many of them said that the writing became addictive. You'd think all the blogs would be the same, but they weren't. Some were optimistic and downright triumphant, speaking of the victories in battle and rebuilding that was going on for the Iraqi people. Others were bitter, declaring disaster and hopelessness on a daily basis. Who is right? Who is telling the truth? It's the holy grail of writing isn't it? Who speaks the truth without prejudice? I know I don't have the answer to any of it, but I know that is why we write. We write to make sense of whatever is happening to us, to share it with others so we don't feel so alone. We write to surprise others and if we're lucky, to surprise ourselves. We write to stay connected even when we agree to do moronic things like blog for 30 straight days.

Fifteen

Somehow, without doing a thing to strain or wrench it, I have managed to pull my left shoulder. One moment it was fine and the next thing you know, bam, it hurts to rotate it or to do a motion that resembles a reverse arm curl. I know I mention the middle age issues quite a bit, but it's a perplexing time. My body is changing and yes, I am all confused about it. I have even become emotional about it even though these changes are natural and all about becoming a woman, only older. What I loathe is that these odd assortment of ailments have a kind of Ninja quality to them. You can't see or hear them coming, but all of a sudden, OW! What tha $#@%!! I can't move my frackin' shoulder.
Which led me to reorganizing the clothes in my closet. That's always my natural reaction to the reality that I am not in control of one damn thing. Going through my clothes, categorizing them, colorizing their order from earthtones to neutrals, and then sequencing them according to use during a work week, well, it was darned exhilarating. It gave me security that my wardrobe has meaning because now it has order and it also gave me the illusion that there are some things that are still in my control. You know, like voting.

Fourteen

On the way home, traveling on I-4, making our way past the Orlando exits, there was a curious one marked Holy Land Experience this exit. Holy Land Experience? My knowledge of the Holy Land is through the Bible and my knowledge of the Bible is sketchy at best, but I do believe the highlights were tales of clan infighting, government corruption, environmental disasters and religious conflict. I do believe there is already a Holy Land Experience. It's called the Middle East. Honestly, who thinks of these things?
It makes me think that maybe I should create my own Orlando attraction like the Middle Age Experience where you gain weight rapidly despite regular exercise, have fits of forgetfulness, become invisible to those younger than yourself, pull muscles while sleeping and find gray hairs in places that will make you cry. I could also design the Public School Teacher Experience where you go to college for 4 sometimes 5 years to earn a degree, then make a starting salary that falls just below the poverty line, work 7-10 hours a day at a job where you are held responsible for those areas completely out of your control and are blamed repeatedly for society's ills.
Okay, my peeps, what Orlando attraction would you design?

Thirteen

There's something to be said about getting away. Even though the rhythm of our day hasn't been dramatically different than being at home, there's a decadent quality about being in plush surroundings that gives you license to slow down everything. Being at home is always about looking at a never ending list of things that have to get done and even when I completely ignore that list, there's still a domestic agenda vibe, this relentless humming I can't quite escape which might be the guilt of ignoring that to-do list.
So today we took a long walk around the town, great walking trails around some ponds (big honkin' alligator alert), got my hair trimmed, had a Japenese lunch, another walk, stopped for a proper pot of tea and a raspberry creme brulee cheesecake (OMG!!), napped, checked out the tasting festival in the town square and had dinner at the hotel restaurant.
Around 9pm while we were finishing dinner, the fireworks started. We were done with dinner about ten minutes later and told the host we would be back. We were going to watch the show.
The sad thing is, we were the only ones who left the dining room. There were two other tables, both parties of four, at the end of their meals, and they didn't leave. How can you get to a point in your life where you can miss a fireworks display? A Disney sponsored one at that. Cal and stood outside, arm in arm, looking up at the sky. I have to say now that I have nothing, absolutely nothing in my descriptive toolbag to offer when talking about fireworks. I suppose it's what happens when laughter and pyrotechnics converge. But what I love the most is that everyone always has the same expression, a mixture of awe and envy because we're all thinking, "Man, I wish I had that job!"

Twelve

Right smack in the greedy excess that is (Wh)Orlando is a Disney designed town off 192 called Celebration. You'd swear you were a million miles away. It reminds me of the homebase of SDE in Peterborough, NH. Small town USA yet fairly diverse as I noticed the international workforce and not just grunt workers, but owners of businesses. Yes, I walked around and I chatted with folks. There is a pleasant array of merchants, restaurants, a theater, a bookstore, with a lake smack in the middle to stroll around with the kiddies. It's clean, fairly quiet and feels a bit like Pleasantville, which if you haven't seen it, then I don't even want to know you. Cal and I are spending two nights in the Celebration Hotel for a romantic anniversary weekend, trying to re-enact The Irish Nookie Tour of Summer '07 (see my surgical team for details).
The room is comfortable, great linens on the bed, a working television and free wi-fi. A view of the lake. So right now Cal is in the hotel named bathrobe (cue Barry White), comfy in bed watching the Wizard of Oz. And as soon as I finish these last sentences, I'll join him because there isn't anything more romantic than watching the Wizard of Oz with the man I love in a room warm as the arms that surround me.

Eleven

There's something about working in the schools today that makes you lunge towards the things that are comforting when you get home. I find that to be true, some days more than others. I do have a daily comfort ritual: Irish breakfast tea and cookie. Yes, that's singular. One Walker's shortbread cookie, the best tea cookie ever. It's butter dusted with flour and sugar that's perfect for dunking in hot tea. It comes to your mouth all warm and soft, and then the combination of the butter and the sugar takes hold right at the middle of your palate and all is right with the world. The shortbread cookie could bring peace to the Middle East, I'm certain of it but I think that about porn and barbecue too, so the whole stabilization of that area is something I am giving lots of thought to.
Most of my comfort rituals have to do with food. I'm not sure if that's a growing up in poverty thing or just the fact that food is genuinely comforting and I shouldn't over analyze it. My too much tequila comfort ritual is getting a sack full of Krystal cheeseburgers, fries and real Coke. My friend Vera believes that is the best pre-hangover meal because the extra fat and salt in that tasty repast has the ability to replace the lost electrolytes from tequila madness. It's an explanation Bill Nye the Science Guy would be proud of.
My other favorite comfort food is a breakfast or brunch selection, something from Doc Silver's old breakfast menu called the Pat Special. Going to Doc Silver's on a Saturday morning was the best place to see who was having that awkward "I-can't-believe-I-slept-with-you" consolation breakfast. The place had great charm and served breakfast all through the day. In my single days, this was my favorite Saturday morning choice especially if I was constipated. I'll explain. The Pat Special was country fried potatoes, topped with 2 pieces of American cheese and two eggs, usually fried over medium. Served with coffee. Notice there were no low fat substitutions on this. Eggs were not poached. No fat free cheese. Nope, everything was full force including that coffee which had the suction force of a Boeing Jetliner. The Pat Special followed by 2 cups of coffee was a poor man's high colonic and yet, darned tasty. Occasionally I make the Pat Special here at home, alas with not as many potatoes and with fat free cheese and, sigh, with poached eggs. Ironically, it is not followed by running man coffee even though this is the time in my life when I need that the most. But it does remain a comfort food staple, equal parts delicious and nostalgic.

Ten

It's a bit chilly so I'm sitting here typing with a afghan-throw-shawl thing over my shoulders to keep me warm and toasty. Made last year with three different colors of chenile yarn, a nice burnt orange, a burgundy and a chocolate brown, I didn't really plan on those colors. They were the only chenile yarn skeins I had and so in they went. I learned to knit, thanks to the never ending patience of my retired pal, Norma, so I could have a bit of active comfort. A way to de-stress after a long day with unreasonable parents and petulant children and the ever present landmines of high stakes testing. It is comforting. The rhythm of the needles, the soft feel of the yarn, the occasional gently worded stream of cursing when I drop a stitch. The click of the needles and the pulling of the yarn, over and over, repetitive and swift. It's a bit hypnotic and meditative at the same time.
Frankly, I think this is the kind of thing Enya does right before she records. She cranks out a nice pullover in a periwinkle cashmere and then in the studio she goes to lay down those first tracks. Sips some camomile tea and reads a little Beatrix Potter. Of course the twisted and perverse side of me would like it better if I knew that Enya comes in to the studio reeking of Stoli, fresh from a threesome involving Ross Perrot and someone from the Facts of Life wearing a Juicy Couture halter, Daisy Duke cut-offs and thigh high black patent leather stripper boots. I wouldn't mind knowing that any part of that was true.
That would be comforting, I'm not sure why.

Nine

Oprah had the guys who invented You Tube on her show today. They have recently sold it for $1.6 billion. I don't think these guys are even 30 yet, I'm not sure and I don't want to think about it for fear of sobbing without end. She had the most popular YouTubers on: the skateboarding bulldog, the English ex-cellphone salesman now turned opera singer, and the English couple who did the Dirty Dancing number for their wedding were among my favorites. The English couple performed the dance for the audience and halfway through Patrick Swayze came out to surprise them, which was fun and for some reason brought tears to my eyes and not just because I saw the amount of plastic surgery Swayze had done. The couple was genuinely surprised. Later listening to the opera singer, again some tears came, something about the music and his voice was just too emotional. I suppose that's why opera is hardly ever done with the banjo.
I'm not overly emotional, and I don't think I cry at the drop of a hat, but certain things can wring out a few tears in me. I'm not talking about things like losing loved ones, getting good or bad news at the doctor's, you know, life. I'm talking books or movies or television or plays. Art (yes, sometimes television is art; you just have to know where to look). What is it about art or entertainment that brings us to tears? Why do we cry? Is it just emotional flotsam and jetsam or is it an embedded image in our past that's tripped by a line of dialogue or a camera angle?
I don't know, but I do know what makes me cry genuinely, supremely and most profoundly at the movies even at repeated viewings.
Here's the list:
1. Glory-This Civil War feature starring Morgan Freeman and Denzel Washington holds the record for a personal crying jag. I do believe it's the last 15 minutes of the film. I've only seen it once.
2. The Color Purple- I've seen this thing about a thousand times. I cry all through the film and it's a fabulous cleansing weeping. Good for cold and flu season.
3. E.T.--Yeah, I know, everyone always cries at the end. I don't. But I always, and I do mean always cry the very first time Eliot and E.T. take flight on that bike. To this day, I have no idea why.
4. Defending Your Life--Love this movie about the afterlife, love it and the end is so tender and so lovely that it does make me weep with a little joy.
5. The Shawshank Redemption- the end, what a great ending, again it's a happy cry.
Some new entries:
Dreamgirls--when Effie sings THAT song. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I cried for every man that ever treated me like crap even though that was over 21 years ago and counting. That song and the way she sang it broke my heart.
Million Dollar Baby--Holy crap. That last scene. Just Clint and Hillary Swank. Lordy, lordy, lordy. I could not catch my breath. The scene doesn't last long, but it was like a granade to the heart. Ohh.
And for LJ, especially, I have only one more feature to add, even though it was a made for TV movie. The original Brian's Song.
So to my peeps, and I'm not talking the little yellow and sometimes pink or blue marshmallow chicks, what are the movies that make you cry like a little girl?

Eight

Today was a perfect weather day. I realize it's Florida and we get our fair share of great weather, but today was perfect. Just a hint of breeze. Not a cloud in a cornflower blue sky. Just the right amount of sun. Enough to be comforting, but not enough to make you break a sweat. Even the air had a tinge of fall, which feels a lot like spring because it is Florida and we don't get normal autumn, but we get perfect days like this which is a pleasant enough trade off.
I managed to have a brisk power walk after work, not on the beach as I would have liked because it was high tide, but along First Street. But afterwards, we strolled out just to watch the water. Living close to the ocean for this long, I admit it, it makes you take the view for granted. I don't always come down here, a mere 11 minute walk from my house across the death trap that is now Third Street so it has becomes a kind of local Fear Factor mini-event. Still, I don't make the trip often during the summer. Part of it is because I hate people. Not everyone, mind you, just people in crowds that come to the beach with every thing they own and park by the water's edge and carry on their dysfunctional family spewage in a natural setting. It's upsetting to me to see the beauty of the beach smeared by such Judge Judy /Jerry Springer energy. So I tend to avoid the beach like the plague during the summer.
In the late fall and winter, though, it's a different story. Like today. The water was a steel gray and blue with the sunshine laced between layers of waves. On the sand were piles of seaweed in brown sienna, perfect for a clambake. Where's friggin' Frankie Avalon when you need him? That guy could always put together a clambake in a New York second and the band would appear out of nowhere. There were a few surfers in the water, a couple of guys on shore with their rods and reels trying to outwit the fish. I sat there and took it all in. Looked at the expanse of ocean which is a miracle in itself how it hangs with this planet. I breathed in the air, with just the right amount of salt, and each image lingered even when I shut my eyes. No revelation emerged, only a little peace and beauty on a Monday.

Seven

Oh my. How lame can I be? I thought it would be at least a double digit day that I would come to the table with nothing, absolutely nothing, but here I am at day 7 and I have zip. Nada. Nothing. The big goose egg. Crap. I did try stream of consciousness typing but it all turned out to be a giant rant about work and I can't have work frustration mucking up the blog. It serves no real purpose because nothing changes. Then I decided to make a list: 10 things I would make into law if I were queen of the universe. As I started to make the list, it seemed like most of the items had to do with electrically shocking certain segments of the population into modifying their behavior. Republicans, teenagers that roll their eyes, parents who are habitually late picking their kids up from school, any female who wears low cut tight jeans so that stray flesh oozes out in unflattering ways, Kenny G. Up the voltage on that. That list, very one dimensional. Perhaps recording the day---lovely stroll through the UNF nature trails that was only interrupted once by a three year old bossing his parents around (another one to add to the high voltage list). The sunlight was making the all those fantail scrub palms look absolutely exotic. Although the trail right by the lake made me nervous because it's just like me not to enjoy such a scenic little vista. No, I was scanning the water closest to us, trying to plan for the swiftest escape if one, most likely a mutant sized alligator with a four foot vertical leap should choose that moment to make an abrupt appearance. Our ride home from our daylong self exile was uneventful. No one flying a little American flag was camped on our front yard as I had feared. There were some late afternoon flyovers by the Blue Angels and I could have sworn I saw one of those guys giving me the finger as the windows in the living room rattled. There was nothing to do except put the kettle on for tea, wait for the whistling, pour and steep and eat with a cookie. Truth be told, the tea and cookie time at home soothes all ills, calms the any fear and leaves me with a good taste in my mouth. And for today, that was enough.

Six

We bugged out of the beach today and booked a hotel room in town. Airshow nonsense had all roads around us clogged and sluggish and I was no mood to negotiate the streets because the military thinks it's a good idea to use my tax dollars on this collective penis waving venture than to buy the decent body armor to keep one more soldier from getting his or her arm or leg blown off in Iraq. This crap pisses me off on a deeper level than just being inconvenienced about excessive noise and traffic jams. We have limited tax dollars----this is the most productive way of spending it? Step off.
The hotel is having an anime convention, something I did not know when we booksed the room. This is God's way of giving me a cosmic wedgie. It's a lot of teenagers, early twenty-somethings and round girthed men in their late 30's still trying to coax in facial hair all in very strange costumes, some that defy description. As Cal and I were walking to our room, we saw a tall Black guy in a diaper with a painted Snidely Whiplash mustache wearing pink boxing gloves strolling past us. I'm not imaginative enough to make that up. Lots of diminutive Asian teens with magenta hair with outfits held together with a series of two inch safety pins. Studded dog collars. Plaid Catholic school skirts. Leather halters. That's just one kind of outfit. I wanted to take pictures but I feel it would be rude, like a parent taking photos of kids playing spin the bottle. I'm not sure of the whole point of anime, it's cartoons basically and people are fans of certains ones and they get dressed up as homage and a way of escape which I understand. Escape is healthy as long as it's temporary, as long as you come as a tourist. I gotta say, some of those outfits looked as if they had been on certain folks a very long time, some of the guys in their 30's for instance. Ah, unfortunate. But everyone here seems to be connected, lots of hugging and laughing at familiar referenced codes. It's quite strange but sweet, despite the bizarre wardrobe choices.
There's no way I could ever cast a judgment here having gone to my share to Trek conventions, although never ever in costume even though I have a perfectly good Uhura outfit hanging in my closet, unworn and mocking my lack of conviction. Everyone needs to feel like they belong, like people around them understand their passions, relate to their frustrations and laugh at their jokes. It's human need and it is unbending in this regard. We go where we are wanted, where ,when we arrive in a diaper and pink boxing gloves, we are greeted with open arms.

Five

The Blue Angels have been practicing in our airspace here at the beach. They represent the military well for they are gratuitously noisy, as in sonic boom noisy, not a pleasant sensation for the last two days. They are flashy and not in the manner in which I would prefer my tax dollars to be flashy. The government building flying cars, now that's flash and I would gleefully hand over and bendover my hard earned dollars to the IRS for. But guys trying to break the sound barrier just to put on a show on my dime, well, hell, why don't you crank up the banjos, lube up your step-sister and have another tall boy Bud because that's how useful it rates with me. I also have no faith in their talents. Any moment as they zoom overhead I expect one of those badboys to careen into a neighborhood and level someone's house into flame and ash. And I'm just fatalistic enough to think it will be mine.
People flock to the airshow. Flock. I don't understand why but I also don't understand the mystery and allure of NASCAR racing and watching the America's Cup. I suppose folks who are fans of those things would not comprehend the things I find fascinating to watch.
My top five things to watch: (in no particular order and just for today; tomorrow's list would probably be different)
1. Tommy Emmanuel play guitar. Honestly, this guy is not of this earth. When he plays you would swear there are at least 5 other guys playing with him, and yet it's just him and his guitar and hands that blur across the strings.
2. My friend Norma knit socks. Okay, jump back and don't judge because the minute you read knit you thought, "Can peeking in on paint drying be far behind?" I love knitting because you're taking one long piece of yarn and turning it into something useful. Socks are intricate and have angles and Norma can knit a pair in about an hour. It's awesome to watch.
3. First grader B. P. at my school cracking the code of reading after weeks and weeks of struggle. Now he runs to me with a book and he can't wait to read. That's wicked cool to watch.
4. Siguorney Weaver in Aliens.
5. Bad cats being bad. That's for you, Hansel.

Four

My new antidote for an unsatisfying day at work is to read through my Useless Information book. I'm not sure why it soothes me so, it just does in the way that popping bubble wrap satisfies. There are a lot of things in there that make me giggle, some just stop me in my tracks in wonder like this: A third of Tawainese funeral processions include a stripper. Melting pot that we are, how come we haven't absorbed this particular custom into our collective culture? A stripper. Excellent. Of course, the minute I read it I was lining up a bevy of celebrity strippers for my funeral procession: (in no particular order) Viggo Mortensen, Matthew McConnaghey, Taye Diggs (that shower scene in How Stella Got Her Groove remains lodged in my long term memory), and Antonio Banderas but only if I kick in the next 5 years because if I live to my 90's as I am genetically predisposed to on the Cuban side of the family, those guys as strippers will be a moot point. But if I go in the next 5, if someone could get a hold of their agents, I would appreciate it. It would be nice to have my passing be eternally linked with A-list manflesh bumping and grinding to a little Earth Wind and Fire and the best of Tom Jones.
I do wonder if those funeral processions have a particular type of stripper---are there funeral strippers as a category? Do they resemble Demi Moore in Striptease? I'm not sure any stripper looks like Demi----no stripper can afford that much plastic surgery even back then when she made that movie. And while her muscle tone was commendable, it just wasn't sexy. Athletic, yes, watching her shames you into running back to the gym and staying there until nothing jiggles anywhere on your body. But talk about sexy and you are talking about Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot. You can't teach what she does on screen and in the dresses they have her in, honestly, I have no idea how this movie got past the censors in the 50's. She looks absolutely naked in the one dress where she is singing, "I Want To Be Loved By You." I'm swearing to you that dress was nothing but a reflection of the light. But even past Marilyn's charms and sex appeal, the movie holds up as a classic comedy even 50 years later. Jack Lemmon is a revelation in heels and is the funniest man in drag, sorry Dustin Hoffman, it's true. Come to think of it, cancel those celebrity strippers for my funeral, and just show Some Like It Hot. Shed one or two tears and then break out the tequila, and make sure it's the good stuff.