We all know that we don't stay young and spritely forever - insert LA/plastic surgery joke here - but it's a constant reminder of what's coming down the pike when you have old parents. My father now suffers from dementia, which is probably something I wished he suffered from during my teen years, and he can't be left alone. My mother is quite understanding of the fact that he doesn't remember whether he got dressed. Sometimes he dresses himself at nighttime after he has put on his pajamas, which means he looks quite beefy, if overheated, in bed.
Other times, my father cannot remember what he did a few minutes ago, so consequently if you pay a visit home, you'll be offered a cup of coffee, receive it, and then two minutes later when you are sipping a steaming cup of java, be treated to my father asking politely if you'd like some coffee.
My sister - she seemingly suffering dementia about my father's dementia - recently took my parents on an overseas trip. They had a glorious time, visiting lakes and hills, enjoying cow milking demonstrations and other bucolic pursuits; really it was a month's worth of fun packed into week. When they got home, my dad commented that a week wasn't long enough. Five minutes later he came by the hallway and saw the suitcases from their vacation and inquired whether he was going on a trip. It's like deja vu all over again.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
The Sound of House Prices Crashing All Around
Hey, hey. I just took at trip to the edge of suburban sprawl - you know, the sort of place that was home to working farms half a dozen years ago - and was prompted to write about the current suburban passion for "for sale" signs. Yeah, yeah, you say, house prices slipping is nothing new. But today, on a hot Sunday in late August, game day for open houses, there was a distinct chill in the air.
I drove out on one of those new toll roads, the sort with exits to nowhere. Some of the road signs were in place, but covered up because the communities they were intended to exit to, weren't quite there. Really, there was no there, there.
Along the speedy highway were a number of "Be kind to turtles" signs, yellow diamonds with pictograms of kindly turtles meandering across the landscape, the message being that you should stop if you saw a baby turtle crossing the street. This would be fine in another setting, say a dirt road with a 25-mile-an-hour speed limit, but considering the speed on this six-lane highway was 65 miles per hour, stopping to let a turtle go would seem positively reckless. I wondered if the developers just put in the signs to create a sense of place, the thought being that really, it was a suburban Eden if only you could look past the big box stores and the gas stations.
As well as turtle signs I saw realtors signs - "home MUST be sold today!" - for places with pseudo names like "Belmont Crossing" or "Vista Landing." And strangely enough, these landscapes filled with hardiplank homes were hardly occupied. I never saw a soul. If you ask me, there just aren't enough people to fill these houses.
Of course, the mortgage loan mess was bound to happen as soon as those ingenious interest-only and exotic ARMS passed their honeymoon period. And naturally, we can point to all those mortgage risk assessment departments that seemed to take a vacation in the late 1990s until this August - why were they lending money to people who couldn't afford the repayments? - , but let me be honest: I think that we have just reached saturation point. Quite simply, there are too many new homes for the people who can legitimately afford them.
We've reached the end of the road as far as luxury upgrades and over-the-top custom finishes. I know I can't bear to see another chip of granite, a sumputous bathroom the size of a football pitch or a cathedral ceiling that puts a cathedral to shame: I just want to live somewhere I can afford, where the rooms aren't built for giants and I can commute to and from without GPS. Come on America, let's live where there's life, and let's leave the turtles alone.
I drove out on one of those new toll roads, the sort with exits to nowhere. Some of the road signs were in place, but covered up because the communities they were intended to exit to, weren't quite there. Really, there was no there, there.
Along the speedy highway were a number of "Be kind to turtles" signs, yellow diamonds with pictograms of kindly turtles meandering across the landscape, the message being that you should stop if you saw a baby turtle crossing the street. This would be fine in another setting, say a dirt road with a 25-mile-an-hour speed limit, but considering the speed on this six-lane highway was 65 miles per hour, stopping to let a turtle go would seem positively reckless. I wondered if the developers just put in the signs to create a sense of place, the thought being that really, it was a suburban Eden if only you could look past the big box stores and the gas stations.
As well as turtle signs I saw realtors signs - "home MUST be sold today!" - for places with pseudo names like "Belmont Crossing" or "Vista Landing." And strangely enough, these landscapes filled with hardiplank homes were hardly occupied. I never saw a soul. If you ask me, there just aren't enough people to fill these houses.
Of course, the mortgage loan mess was bound to happen as soon as those ingenious interest-only and exotic ARMS passed their honeymoon period. And naturally, we can point to all those mortgage risk assessment departments that seemed to take a vacation in the late 1990s until this August - why were they lending money to people who couldn't afford the repayments? - , but let me be honest: I think that we have just reached saturation point. Quite simply, there are too many new homes for the people who can legitimately afford them.
We've reached the end of the road as far as luxury upgrades and over-the-top custom finishes. I know I can't bear to see another chip of granite, a sumputous bathroom the size of a football pitch or a cathedral ceiling that puts a cathedral to shame: I just want to live somewhere I can afford, where the rooms aren't built for giants and I can commute to and from without GPS. Come on America, let's live where there's life, and let's leave the turtles alone.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Bitchin' by the Pool
It's scorchin' and I'm bitchin'. This time I'm going to complain about the pool. Since summer days are here, I have occasion to spend a few moments ringside at our local pool, where, dear readers, I have made two important observations:
First, I'll just share with you the sight I was treated to at 10 AM today: a dozen or so women of senior years, clad in nothing but swimsuits and sun visors, were lying on their backs, with their legs in the air, opening and closing their legs like geriatric scissors. It was like some strange AARP porno movie. The music that wafted up from the speakers at this moment was Billy Ray Cyrus' "Achy, Breaky Heart." It was enough to make me drop my Diet Coke and run for the shelter of the kiddie pool.
Which leads me to my second observation: MSCs en masse are enough to send me to water aerobics. This morning they terrorized anyone without a small child into giving up all available seating and making way for their strollers. In their wake, they left a trail of Goldfish and raisins.
As a breed, the MSCs are focused on their neighborhood, schools and golf. Sadly, this leaves little time for their children, who are forced into dumping pool furniture into the water to gain enough attention to receive more raisins.
While I was poolside, I overheard some conversational gems that really ought to make it into a screenplay one day:
"I've got a cousin called Bubba and two more called Buddy."
"I heard it's only $100 thousand to join Congressional, but my husband thinks it's ridiculous to drive that far when we're two seconds away from the golf club here."
Boy, I wonder what Billy Ray Cyrus would say about that.
- water aerobics performed by old ladies is not pretty
- gangs of Mothers of Small Children (MSC) are quite unbearable
First, I'll just share with you the sight I was treated to at 10 AM today: a dozen or so women of senior years, clad in nothing but swimsuits and sun visors, were lying on their backs, with their legs in the air, opening and closing their legs like geriatric scissors. It was like some strange AARP porno movie. The music that wafted up from the speakers at this moment was Billy Ray Cyrus' "Achy, Breaky Heart." It was enough to make me drop my Diet Coke and run for the shelter of the kiddie pool.
Which leads me to my second observation: MSCs en masse are enough to send me to water aerobics. This morning they terrorized anyone without a small child into giving up all available seating and making way for their strollers. In their wake, they left a trail of Goldfish and raisins.
As a breed, the MSCs are focused on their neighborhood, schools and golf. Sadly, this leaves little time for their children, who are forced into dumping pool furniture into the water to gain enough attention to receive more raisins.
While I was poolside, I overheard some conversational gems that really ought to make it into a screenplay one day:
"I've got a cousin called Bubba and two more called Buddy."
"I heard it's only $100 thousand to join Congressional, but my husband thinks it's ridiculous to drive that far when we're two seconds away from the golf club here."
Boy, I wonder what Billy Ray Cyrus would say about that.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Shambo Says Shalom
In the past few days, I've been reading about the recent recurrence of foot and mouth disease in the UK. For those not familar, it's a contagious disease that makes those with cloven feet foam at the mouth, blister and sometimes die. In 2001, an outbreak cost the UK millions of pounds, postposted the general election and caused general madness among farmers.
Needless to say, the recent outbreak is cause for widespread alarm and fingerpointing. The British Authorities are investigating the source of the outbreak, but they should save their time because I have a conspiracy theory: it's Shambo's revenge. Who is Shambo? A dead cow, but not just any old dead cow. Shambo was a sacred Welsh bull, revered by the Hindus of Skanda Vale, near Llanpumsaint, Wales. No, really, I'm not making this up. There's a Hindu community in rural Wales and their bovine was sacrified in the name of TB.
The saga began in April when Shambo tested positive for TB. The Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (DEFRA) said Shambo must die. The case went to the High Court that declared Shambo could live. Then the Welsh Assembly Government appealed and the Court of Appeals upheld DEFRA's original plan to make mincemeat of Shambo.
On July 27, after a little tug-of-war with the condemned Friesen, Shambo was put to death by lethal injection. It turns out Shambo really did have TB, but I think the last word belongs to one of Skanda Vale's monks quoted in the Guardian:
"Today they broke into the temple to take away a cargo to kill but they cannot kill Shambo. They will simply add to the drama of his life cycle and he will come back again."
Coincidence? I think not. Foot and mouth diesease is just the drama of Shambo. I think this is a lesson to us all: what goes around comes around. No bull.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Lindsay Liquored Again
It's past being news now, but Lindsay Lohan has relapsed and been arrested on a DUI charge (along with possession of cocaine and driving on a suspended license). Last night, at around 1 AM she decided to try some drag racing on the mean streets of Santa Monica: actually, she was trying to chase after a car driven by the mother of Linds' former assistant (who had quit hours earlier).
Police found Linds was an eensy bit sloshed, that natty alcohol-measuring ankle bracelet thingy not quite doing its Promises job.
Of course, the police invite her back to their place for an after-hours get together, where they find the cocaine. Her mugshot isn't too bad until you realize she looks like a cross between Sharon Stone and the Calamity Jane character on HBO masterpiece "Deadwood."
Poor Linds, whatever way you look at it, it's not good to look like you've aged twenty years when you just turned 21. Youth, eh? Wasted on the young.
Police found Linds was an eensy bit sloshed, that natty alcohol-measuring ankle bracelet thingy not quite doing its Promises job.
Of course, the police invite her back to their place for an after-hours get together, where they find the cocaine. Her mugshot isn't too bad until you realize she looks like a cross between Sharon Stone and the Calamity Jane character on HBO masterpiece "Deadwood."
Poor Linds, whatever way you look at it, it's not good to look like you've aged twenty years when you just turned 21. Youth, eh? Wasted on the young.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
California with all the Fixin's
You can file this under "Only in California" or "It's all a load of boll*cks" but it's true: California hopes to make it manadatory for pets in the Wackiest State in the Union, to get snipped starting April 1, 2008. It's no April fool, if you're a kitty with a uterus or a dog with all your boy parts, watch out: someone out there wants you.
There's a bill currently making its way through the California legislature that would force pet owners to neuter their pets or face a $500 fine. The June vote in the Assembly almost didn't make it, except for the help of - wait for it - Bob Barker. And at this point, I'm reduced (in tears of laughter, because frankly, it's too hilarious not to) to quoting the San Diego Union Tribune:
OK, there's a serious note here (it's a million dollar problem, with 800,000 cats and dogs dropped off at shelters every year), but really, there's got to be more to "fix" in California than unneutered pets.
There's a bill currently making its way through the California legislature that would force pet owners to neuter their pets or face a $500 fine. The June vote in the Assembly almost didn't make it, except for the help of - wait for it - Bob Barker. And at this point, I'm reduced (in tears of laughter, because frankly, it's too hilarious not to) to quoting the San Diego Union Tribune:
The legislation cleared the Assembly without a vote to spare, and was rescued only with the help of celebrity animal-lover Bob Barker, who made calls pleading with wavering Democrats on the same night he retired from the game show “The Price is Right.”
OK, there's a serious note here (it's a million dollar problem, with 800,000 cats and dogs dropped off at shelters every year), but really, there's got to be more to "fix" in California than unneutered pets.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Those Ungovernable Bad Boys
Ooops, I slipped again. It's been a week and I've written not a drop. It wasn't for lack of trying either - I've just been distracted by hot weather, online shopping and not-a-lot going on in the world.
Anyway, today's news is that:
The Bad Boy of Two and a Half Men, Charlie Sheen, proposed to his new girlfriend of 20 minutes, Brooke Mueller, on a beach in Costa Rica with a diamond as big as the budget deficit. The rock is reportedly worth $500K, enough to buy a few therapy sessions to discover why you still aren't quite over your ex-wife.
But let's not be too jaded, at least someone's gonna try to govern the ungovernable, which is more than can be said about today's other bad boy: Pakistan.
In a document titled, "Al-Qaida better positioned to strike the West," security analysts in Washington came to the conclusion that the US is under threat of attack by groups on the Afghan-Pakistan border. On the same day the report was leaked, John Kringen, who heads the CIA's analysis directorate, testified that:
"They seem to be fairly well settled into the safe haven and the ungoverned spaces of Pakistan."
Pakistan, you bad boy. What's it gonna take to whip you into shape? Denise Richards?
Anyway, today's news is that:
The Bad Boy of Two and a Half Men, Charlie Sheen, proposed to his new girlfriend of 20 minutes, Brooke Mueller, on a beach in Costa Rica with a diamond as big as the budget deficit. The rock is reportedly worth $500K, enough to buy a few therapy sessions to discover why you still aren't quite over your ex-wife.
But let's not be too jaded, at least someone's gonna try to govern the ungovernable, which is more than can be said about today's other bad boy: Pakistan.
In a document titled, "Al-Qaida better positioned to strike the West," security analysts in Washington came to the conclusion that the US is under threat of attack by groups on the Afghan-Pakistan border. On the same day the report was leaked, John Kringen, who heads the CIA's analysis directorate, testified that:
"They seem to be fairly well settled into the safe haven and the ungoverned spaces of Pakistan."
Pakistan, you bad boy. What's it gonna take to whip you into shape? Denise Richards?
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Small and Smaller
Rumor has it that Christina Aguilera and Nicole Ritchie are both pregnant - not that there's anything wrong with it, of course. It's just that both ladies are the size of a third-grader and I cannot fathom how they will actually carry a baby. It's a question of physics: in the same way I wonder how Dolly Parton and other generously endowed ladies don't topple over from being top-heavy, I am perplexed about how someone who's a size 0 can find room inside for another snack, let alone a full-term baby. Is there actually any space in there?
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Brown Runoff
I can't believe I've waited so long to write this, but I have, and boy, it's good.
As reported by John Solomon in the
Washington Post, Republican hopeful, Massachusetts Governor and this year's most famous Mormon, Mitt Romney, apparently is a dog lover of a different breed.
The Post quotes a profile in the Boston Globe that describes how, in 1983, Mitt took the whole family on a trip from Boston to Ontario. Having packed up the car, the Romneys find they just can't squeeze their beloved Irish setter, Seamus, inside the vehicle. No problem. There's room on the roof.
So, Seamus was installed on the roof for the 12-hour trip. But Seamus was naturally terrified at being hurled along the highway toward the Great White North, and this terror, naturally, made its way down through Seamus's digestive tract. At this point, I've got to rely on the Washington Post's understatement of events:
"When Romney's eldest son, Tagg, and his four brothers complained about the brown runoff down the back windshield, their father quietly pulled the car over, borrowed a gas station hose and sprayed down both the dog and the kennel before returning to the road."
First off, Tagg? Is that really what passes for a first name these days? Second, brown runoff? And can you imagine what other motorists thought of the spectacle? A carful of boys, a dog in its kennel strapped to the roof, and a flotsam of dog diarrhea making its way up to the border. Boy, I'm glad the Romney family didn't own a St. Bernard.
See you in Iowa!
As reported by John Solomon in the
Washington Post, Republican hopeful, Massachusetts Governor and this year's most famous Mormon, Mitt Romney, apparently is a dog lover of a different breed.
The Post quotes a profile in the Boston Globe that describes how, in 1983, Mitt took the whole family on a trip from Boston to Ontario. Having packed up the car, the Romneys find they just can't squeeze their beloved Irish setter, Seamus, inside the vehicle. No problem. There's room on the roof.
So, Seamus was installed on the roof for the 12-hour trip. But Seamus was naturally terrified at being hurled along the highway toward the Great White North, and this terror, naturally, made its way down through Seamus's digestive tract. At this point, I've got to rely on the Washington Post's understatement of events:
"When Romney's eldest son, Tagg, and his four brothers complained about the brown runoff down the back windshield, their father quietly pulled the car over, borrowed a gas station hose and sprayed down both the dog and the kennel before returning to the road."
First off, Tagg? Is that really what passes for a first name these days? Second, brown runoff? And can you imagine what other motorists thought of the spectacle? A carful of boys, a dog in its kennel strapped to the roof, and a flotsam of dog diarrhea making its way up to the border. Boy, I'm glad the Romney family didn't own a St. Bernard.
See you in Iowa!
Friday, June 29, 2007
Summer vacay essay assignment: Shakespeare's "Clinton"
Ok, summer hols are here and once you've been to the pool five straight days in a row and hit the Dairy Queen twice in one day, it's time to think figuratively about cracking open the school books and contemplating next semester.
To help the summer slip by, I've devised an ingenious summer project: Shakespeare's "Clinton."
If you've been reading carefully, you'll have noted that I'm reading Terry McAuliffe's What a Party! and it's been quite an inspiration, let me tell you. For starters, it dawned on me that I should have had a driveway repaving business at age 14, but quite aside from Mac's entrepreneurship, I realized that there really just hasn't been enough love for Bill lately.
Bill truly was a great - yet deeply flawed - president, and we should give him his due. Bill is tragic, but heroic. A leading man and his own villain. Larger than life, but the embodiment of the common man. A man of Shakespearean caliber. Bill is a title hero worthy of puffy shirts and Elizabethan collars.
Sadly, the bard is long dead, but staring down the long barrel of summer break, I'm sure we can come up with something.
So here it is: the Trixie Sanchez William Jefferson Shakespeare Playwriting Competition.
Outline for play:
-Bill is the main protagonist
- Story arc must incorporate all of the following: humble beginnings, rises to great heights, falls from grace due to human flaws, conspiracy of enemies, rescued by the Deus Ex Machina of untouchable opinion polls, plays golf, loves junk food
- Other characters as desired (but Janet Reno would be good since it might involve a Will Ferrell revival performance)
- Exit, pursued by bear
Deadline: August 19 - Bill's birthday
Prize: a catfish lunch at Doe's in Little Rock, AK. The restaurant quite righly proclaims that it was "recognized by the Catfish Institute in 1998 for a superior job preparing farm-raised catfish."
Hey, who can argue with well-prepared catfish? Get out your notebooks and start writing.
To help the summer slip by, I've devised an ingenious summer project: Shakespeare's "Clinton."
If you've been reading carefully, you'll have noted that I'm reading Terry McAuliffe's What a Party! and it's been quite an inspiration, let me tell you. For starters, it dawned on me that I should have had a driveway repaving business at age 14, but quite aside from Mac's entrepreneurship, I realized that there really just hasn't been enough love for Bill lately.
Bill truly was a great - yet deeply flawed - president, and we should give him his due. Bill is tragic, but heroic. A leading man and his own villain. Larger than life, but the embodiment of the common man. A man of Shakespearean caliber. Bill is a title hero worthy of puffy shirts and Elizabethan collars.
Sadly, the bard is long dead, but staring down the long barrel of summer break, I'm sure we can come up with something.
So here it is: the Trixie Sanchez William Jefferson Shakespeare Playwriting Competition.
Outline for play:
-Bill is the main protagonist
- Story arc must incorporate all of the following: humble beginnings, rises to great heights, falls from grace due to human flaws, conspiracy of enemies, rescued by the Deus Ex Machina of untouchable opinion polls, plays golf, loves junk food
- Other characters as desired (but Janet Reno would be good since it might involve a Will Ferrell revival performance)
- Exit, pursued by bear
Deadline: August 19 - Bill's birthday
Prize: a catfish lunch at Doe's in Little Rock, AK. The restaurant quite righly proclaims that it was "recognized by the Catfish Institute in 1998 for a superior job preparing farm-raised catfish."
Hey, who can argue with well-prepared catfish? Get out your notebooks and start writing.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Soul of the Party
OK, I know this will come as a surprise to some, but recently I've been called upon to attend a few children's parties. And it hasn't escaped my notice that while they claim to be "parties," there's no booze, no dancing and no making out.
Instead, there's usually a scene of over-enthusiastic parents behaving in a way no sane adult should. At the last one I attended, the parents were dressed in swim suits (remember, parents in their forties aren't pretty when skimpily clad - no hard bodies and string bikinis here) and had a tug-o'-war with a bunch of preschoolers. The parents "lost" and fell in the pool. Hilarious, right? Let me tell you, it would have been more hilarious with a glass of Jack Daniels in my hand.
At another, the mother dressed up as Dorothy, performed songs from the Wizard of Oz that she'd been rehearsing for several weeks, and hired day laborers to create a yellow brick path leading up to the party venue.
Children really only attend parties for two things: the cake and the goodie bag. But rather than stand by the front door for ten minutes and hand out a goodie bag and slice of takeout birthday cake, the hosting parents go through two hours of breathless entertainment - or worst still pay hundreds of dollars to children's party performers* - to make sure their offspring has a good time.
And yet, is it really worth it? I think the current trend in excessive kiddie parties really took off in the 80s. Has it paid off? Are today's college students better equipped to party? Do they know how to tailgate like there's no tomorrow? Are they socially superior, entertainmentally evolved, organizationally unchallenged?
The jury's out, but until I get a Jack Daniels, there's no way I'm going to another party where I'm the tallest person in the room.
*Please don't get me started on what a scandalous waste of money it is to pay for children's party entertainers. Untalented-yet-bouncy people sing repetitious songs, make sock puppets dance or strum the guitar for grossly unreasonable sums.
Instead, there's usually a scene of over-enthusiastic parents behaving in a way no sane adult should. At the last one I attended, the parents were dressed in swim suits (remember, parents in their forties aren't pretty when skimpily clad - no hard bodies and string bikinis here) and had a tug-o'-war with a bunch of preschoolers. The parents "lost" and fell in the pool. Hilarious, right? Let me tell you, it would have been more hilarious with a glass of Jack Daniels in my hand.
At another, the mother dressed up as Dorothy, performed songs from the Wizard of Oz that she'd been rehearsing for several weeks, and hired day laborers to create a yellow brick path leading up to the party venue.
Children really only attend parties for two things: the cake and the goodie bag. But rather than stand by the front door for ten minutes and hand out a goodie bag and slice of takeout birthday cake, the hosting parents go through two hours of breathless entertainment - or worst still pay hundreds of dollars to children's party performers* - to make sure their offspring has a good time.
And yet, is it really worth it? I think the current trend in excessive kiddie parties really took off in the 80s. Has it paid off? Are today's college students better equipped to party? Do they know how to tailgate like there's no tomorrow? Are they socially superior, entertainmentally evolved, organizationally unchallenged?
The jury's out, but until I get a Jack Daniels, there's no way I'm going to another party where I'm the tallest person in the room.
*Please don't get me started on what a scandalous waste of money it is to pay for children's party entertainers. Untalented-yet-bouncy people sing repetitious songs, make sock puppets dance or strum the guitar for grossly unreasonable sums.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Janet Reno, where are you?
Today, I spent a quiet moment thinking about Janet Reno, which is not suprising since I'm reading Terry McAuliffe's book "What a Party" (boy, what a Kool Aid salesman, but I say that in the nicest possible way, really), and what a loss she is to late night television.
I loved Will Ferrell's brilliant impersonation of her every Saturday on SNL - robotic, slightly butch and dressed in a vivid shade of polyester blue. Nothing comes close these days, with the possible exception of Bobby Lee's rendition of Kim Jong Il.
Janet, Janet, Janet - what made you so tall, so seemingly near-sighted, and so shapeless? There's not been an Attorney General like her since.
So Janet, if you're out there, please consider a reprise in the role of Attorney General - surely Alberto Gonzales isn't long for the job, and we know Will Ferrell's just itching to get back into those old blue dresses.
I loved Will Ferrell's brilliant impersonation of her every Saturday on SNL - robotic, slightly butch and dressed in a vivid shade of polyester blue. Nothing comes close these days, with the possible exception of Bobby Lee's rendition of Kim Jong Il.
Janet, Janet, Janet - what made you so tall, so seemingly near-sighted, and so shapeless? There's not been an Attorney General like her since.
So Janet, if you're out there, please consider a reprise in the role of Attorney General - surely Alberto Gonzales isn't long for the job, and we know Will Ferrell's just itching to get back into those old blue dresses.
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