Domestic goddess I am not. I hate cleaning. I hate all forms of cleaning. I hate every possible way you can clean your house.
Now, that does not mean I hate BEING clean. I love being clean. I love it when my house is clean. But most specifically I love it when other people have cleaned my house for me.
This doesn't happen often. I was green with envy when my sister-in-law informed me they had gotten a maid service (and they didn't even have kids then). Her husband was a consultant for a company that was not based in the Memphis area, so even though they already lived in the area before he became a consultant, they considered him to be on an out-of-town project, and so they paid him a living stipend to cover housing and transportation and stuff like that. So they got the rent on their house paid, and had enough left over for my sister-in-law to pay for a maid service. It wasn't heavy-duty cleaning; she did the vacuuming and dusting and cleaned up the kitchen and the bathroom.
Hell, that's exactly what I want someone to do at my house! I don't care if someone gets on his or her hands and knees and scrubs my kitchen floor--I'm certainly not going to do it and I wouldn't expect anyone else to do it either--but I would love the basics do get done: my toilet cleaned, my floors swept and vacuumed, my dishes washed and put away (I have a dishwasher that is not installed, so we have to do them by hand). That's really all I ask for. I don't mind doing my own laundry. I don't mind making my bed. I don't mind wiping off the counter tops. I can handle all that. Is it really so much for me to ask that someone else does the other stuff?
I know I sound really petty and lazy. I am. I freely admit it. I would love to have someone do this stuff for me. I just don't have the money to pay anyone right now.
Does anybody know someone who needs to get public service hours? I've got a bathroom floor that needs some attention...
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Well, heck. A couple days after my beautiful post about my heroes retiring from sports and all that, Junior Seau decides he doesn't really want to retire. New England (not my fave team, and a repository for former San Diego players) needed a linebacker, and by golly Seau can still play, so Junior is now a Patriot. Hm. I'll get over the distress of seeing Seau in another uniform, and I'm glad he'll still get to play.
But the uniform thing opened up a whole different problem. You see, Seau has always worn number 55. At USC, at SD, in Miami. But New England's number 55 used to belong to another great linebacker, Willie McGinest (who also wore 55 at USC, after Seau did), who signed as a free agent with Cleveland. Seau and McGinest know each other, and Junior supposedly was going to call Willie to see if it was OK for him to wear 55. Apparently, McGinest wasn't thrilled, but OK'd the deal.
In football, you can't really retire a jersey number. Football teams are big--you've got 45 guys each season--as opposed to smaller team sports like hockey, baseball, and basketball. Also, jersey numbers in football are related (for the most part) to the position that the players occupy. Kickers generally get the low numbers (maybe it makes a kicker feel better to be Number 1!), quarterbacks are next, then running backs, the defensive backs, then receivers, etc. There are always exceptions to this pattern, but most players follow the tradition. That means there is a limited number of jerseys available for most players. And since teams generally have at least two players for each position (you've got to have a back-up in a physical sport like football), that cuts the available numbers down even more.
To complicate matters further, players in numbered sports get very attached to their jersey numbers as part of their identities. Some players throw fits if they don't get their numbers when they go to a new team, and more than one rookie or young player has been bumped out of a number by a veteran. A sign of class is how that younger player deals with it. (Ray Bourque used to play hockey on the Boston Bruins team as number 7, but when Boston decided to retire number 7 as a tribute to the great Phil Esposito, Bourque took the news with grace and dignity, traded for number 77, and wore it until his retirement--at which point both Boston and the Colorado Avalanche retired HIS jersey number.)
In basketball, Michael Jordan's number, 23, was retired not only by his own team, but by several others as well, in deference to many people's belief that he was the greatest player to play the game. In hockey, THE ENTIRE NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE retired number 99 because of Wayne Gretsky, who still holds close to 60 records in the NHL's record book.
But the greatest football player ever is much harder to determine, since a player can be great at his position, but there are so many positions. Who is to say that the greatest quarterback is really better than the greatest receiver? Or runningback? Or kicker? (Well, that one's pretty obvious, I guess...just kidding, kickers!) And the greatness of a football player is often dependent on the greatness of the players around that person. Where would Joe Montana have been if he hadn't had Jerry Rice to catch his passes? (Answer: Kansas City! hahahahaha!) There is no Wayne Gretsky in football, or Michael Jordan. (And even some sports fans would argue that Jordan wouldn't have been as great without Scottie Pippen, and Gretsky got some help from time to time from Mark Messier.)
The case with Seau and McGinest is difficult too, since both have legitimate claims to the number. Seau is the veteran, and did have 55 before McGinest did, even in college. But McGinest had the number first at New England, and won three Super Bowls with them.
So who will get the number? Probably Seau, since football players just can't lay claim to numbers like in other sports. If McGinest is a class act, he'll let Seau have it with grace, and let it go. And if he puts up a fuss, Seau can be the dignified one, and select a different number. They'll get over it.
The bigger question is, will my Chargers finally go back to the Super Bowl (and not get their butts kicked this time)? Only the season will tell...
But the uniform thing opened up a whole different problem. You see, Seau has always worn number 55. At USC, at SD, in Miami. But New England's number 55 used to belong to another great linebacker, Willie McGinest (who also wore 55 at USC, after Seau did), who signed as a free agent with Cleveland. Seau and McGinest know each other, and Junior supposedly was going to call Willie to see if it was OK for him to wear 55. Apparently, McGinest wasn't thrilled, but OK'd the deal.
In football, you can't really retire a jersey number. Football teams are big--you've got 45 guys each season--as opposed to smaller team sports like hockey, baseball, and basketball. Also, jersey numbers in football are related (for the most part) to the position that the players occupy. Kickers generally get the low numbers (maybe it makes a kicker feel better to be Number 1!), quarterbacks are next, then running backs, the defensive backs, then receivers, etc. There are always exceptions to this pattern, but most players follow the tradition. That means there is a limited number of jerseys available for most players. And since teams generally have at least two players for each position (you've got to have a back-up in a physical sport like football), that cuts the available numbers down even more.
To complicate matters further, players in numbered sports get very attached to their jersey numbers as part of their identities. Some players throw fits if they don't get their numbers when they go to a new team, and more than one rookie or young player has been bumped out of a number by a veteran. A sign of class is how that younger player deals with it. (Ray Bourque used to play hockey on the Boston Bruins team as number 7, but when Boston decided to retire number 7 as a tribute to the great Phil Esposito, Bourque took the news with grace and dignity, traded for number 77, and wore it until his retirement--at which point both Boston and the Colorado Avalanche retired HIS jersey number.)
In basketball, Michael Jordan's number, 23, was retired not only by his own team, but by several others as well, in deference to many people's belief that he was the greatest player to play the game. In hockey, THE ENTIRE NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE retired number 99 because of Wayne Gretsky, who still holds close to 60 records in the NHL's record book.
But the greatest football player ever is much harder to determine, since a player can be great at his position, but there are so many positions. Who is to say that the greatest quarterback is really better than the greatest receiver? Or runningback? Or kicker? (Well, that one's pretty obvious, I guess...just kidding, kickers!) And the greatness of a football player is often dependent on the greatness of the players around that person. Where would Joe Montana have been if he hadn't had Jerry Rice to catch his passes? (Answer: Kansas City! hahahahaha!) There is no Wayne Gretsky in football, or Michael Jordan. (And even some sports fans would argue that Jordan wouldn't have been as great without Scottie Pippen, and Gretsky got some help from time to time from Mark Messier.)
The case with Seau and McGinest is difficult too, since both have legitimate claims to the number. Seau is the veteran, and did have 55 before McGinest did, even in college. But McGinest had the number first at New England, and won three Super Bowls with them.
So who will get the number? Probably Seau, since football players just can't lay claim to numbers like in other sports. If McGinest is a class act, he'll let Seau have it with grace, and let it go. And if he puts up a fuss, Seau can be the dignified one, and select a different number. They'll get over it.
The bigger question is, will my Chargers finally go back to the Super Bowl (and not get their butts kicked this time)? Only the season will tell...
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
It's 3 a.m. Do you know where your sanity is?
I am sitting in a gymnasium at 3 in the morning, listening to the muted conversations of about 100 high school girls while The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants plays in the background. This is the inaugural event of the school year, the lock-in for the incoming freshmen, hosted by about 20 of the seniors. They play games, have Q&A sessions, and eat a lot of junk food while being locked in the school all night long. Their parents dropped them off at 2 this afternoon, and they'll be picked up at 8 in the morning. I am one of only two chaperones awake at this hour; the other teachers who are staying the night are sleeping in a classroom somewhere. But I learned after the third lock-in I attended that I felt worse in the morning if I got only a little sleep than if I got none at all. So here I am. A few of the girls are sleeping, some of the older girls are working on summer assignments that will be due this week (school starts on Wednesday), some are watching the movie, but most are sitting around chatting with each other. This is a nice bonding time for the freshmen, who are coming to this school from a variety of public and private schools in the area.
Anyway, in my attempts to stay awake, I figured I'd post a blog entry to honor my favorite football player, Junior Seau, who has announced his retirement after sixteen years (thirteen of them with the San Diego Chargers).
I hate it when my sports heroes retire. I cried when I watched the press conference when Ray Bourque (twenty seasons with the Boston Bruins, two with the Colorado Avalanche) announced his retirement after the Avs finally won him the Stanley Cup (but not as hard as I cried when he hoisted the cup over his head); I cried a few days later when Tony Gwynn stepped down after twenty years as a San Diego Padre (it broke my heart that he never won the World Series he so deserved). And it breaks my heart that Seau is retiring without ever winning a Super Bowl, and that he's going out as a Dolphin. The Chargers wanted to open up a roster slot to sign him to a one-day contract, so he could retire with his hometown team, but there was no space available.
I like the players that are class acts. I love the people who are just as good off the field at helping others as they are on the field at hitting them. You can keep your Terrell Owens and your Randy Moss; give me a Reggie White or Cal Ripken. Give me someone who plays the game because he loves it, not because he gets paid for it. Give me Wayne Gretsky, who can own every record in the book and still seem like a humble, down-to-earth guy. Give me Ray Bourque, who only left the Bruins because they told him they could not win a Stanley Cup for him in the years he had left, and he cried when he left. Give me Tony Gwynn, who could have taken his batting titles and his 3000 hits anywhere in the league but only ever wanted to play in the town he loved. Give me Junior Seau, whose foundation has helped thousands of kids, who could inspire his teammates to greatness with a pump of his fist, who had thousands of fans in San Diego screaming his name, who signed a baseball cap for me for my twenty-first birthday. Give me my heroes.
Thank you Junior, for being the class act you've always been.
Number 19, Number 77, Number 55. Thank you for being more than just numbers on jerseys and in record books. You are the reason I love the game.
I am sitting in a gymnasium at 3 in the morning, listening to the muted conversations of about 100 high school girls while The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants plays in the background. This is the inaugural event of the school year, the lock-in for the incoming freshmen, hosted by about 20 of the seniors. They play games, have Q&A sessions, and eat a lot of junk food while being locked in the school all night long. Their parents dropped them off at 2 this afternoon, and they'll be picked up at 8 in the morning. I am one of only two chaperones awake at this hour; the other teachers who are staying the night are sleeping in a classroom somewhere. But I learned after the third lock-in I attended that I felt worse in the morning if I got only a little sleep than if I got none at all. So here I am. A few of the girls are sleeping, some of the older girls are working on summer assignments that will be due this week (school starts on Wednesday), some are watching the movie, but most are sitting around chatting with each other. This is a nice bonding time for the freshmen, who are coming to this school from a variety of public and private schools in the area.
Anyway, in my attempts to stay awake, I figured I'd post a blog entry to honor my favorite football player, Junior Seau, who has announced his retirement after sixteen years (thirteen of them with the San Diego Chargers).
I hate it when my sports heroes retire. I cried when I watched the press conference when Ray Bourque (twenty seasons with the Boston Bruins, two with the Colorado Avalanche) announced his retirement after the Avs finally won him the Stanley Cup (but not as hard as I cried when he hoisted the cup over his head); I cried a few days later when Tony Gwynn stepped down after twenty years as a San Diego Padre (it broke my heart that he never won the World Series he so deserved). And it breaks my heart that Seau is retiring without ever winning a Super Bowl, and that he's going out as a Dolphin. The Chargers wanted to open up a roster slot to sign him to a one-day contract, so he could retire with his hometown team, but there was no space available.
I like the players that are class acts. I love the people who are just as good off the field at helping others as they are on the field at hitting them. You can keep your Terrell Owens and your Randy Moss; give me a Reggie White or Cal Ripken. Give me someone who plays the game because he loves it, not because he gets paid for it. Give me Wayne Gretsky, who can own every record in the book and still seem like a humble, down-to-earth guy. Give me Ray Bourque, who only left the Bruins because they told him they could not win a Stanley Cup for him in the years he had left, and he cried when he left. Give me Tony Gwynn, who could have taken his batting titles and his 3000 hits anywhere in the league but only ever wanted to play in the town he loved. Give me Junior Seau, whose foundation has helped thousands of kids, who could inspire his teammates to greatness with a pump of his fist, who had thousands of fans in San Diego screaming his name, who signed a baseball cap for me for my twenty-first birthday. Give me my heroes.
Thank you Junior, for being the class act you've always been.
Number 19, Number 77, Number 55. Thank you for being more than just numbers on jerseys and in record books. You are the reason I love the game.
Monday, August 14, 2006
I can now actually call myself a kayaker.
Previously, kayaking was a hobby. If people asked me what I liked to do, I said, "I like to paddle." (Which can start some very interesting conversations, by the way. Not that kind of paddling!) But I never did introduce myself as a kayaker.
But this weekend I reached a milestone of sorts in my paddling career: I kayaked a section of the Ocoee River in eastern Tennessee. The Ocoee is the river on which they did the 1996 Atlanta Olympics paddling sports. The middle section, which is the commonly run/rafted section, is primarily class III in nature, and is pushy, splashy, and rocky. For most people in the southern paddling sphere, the Ocoee is the river by which you measure your ability. It is the first significantly challenging river in the range of abilities, not because it is incredibly difficult but because of the consequences if you fail (the Ocoee has had fatalities of experienced paddlers due to pinnings, head injuries, leg entrapments, drownings, etc. instead of just incidents involving stupid, drunken rednecks with more safety gear surrounding their coolers of beer than on their persons).
I had attempted the Ocoee on one earlier expedition, and unfortunately did not make it through more than two rapids before I was upside-down and exploring the bottom of the river with my head. Not fun. This time went better. I put in just about where I messed up the last time, and managed to make it down the rest of the river with only a few screw-ups. I did go through one rapid backwards, but I was in control and avoided all the obstacles. And I did swim one rapid, not through the fault of any major obstacles but because I flipped over on something innocuous and missed my roll attempts. I really need to work on my roll. But everything went very well, I did not feel at any time like I was in mortal peril, and I really did have fun.
So I can now say, yes, I've kayaked the Ocoee. And if someone asks me what I like to do, I may tell them, "I'm a kayaker."
Previously, kayaking was a hobby. If people asked me what I liked to do, I said, "I like to paddle." (Which can start some very interesting conversations, by the way. Not that kind of paddling!) But I never did introduce myself as a kayaker.
But this weekend I reached a milestone of sorts in my paddling career: I kayaked a section of the Ocoee River in eastern Tennessee. The Ocoee is the river on which they did the 1996 Atlanta Olympics paddling sports. The middle section, which is the commonly run/rafted section, is primarily class III in nature, and is pushy, splashy, and rocky. For most people in the southern paddling sphere, the Ocoee is the river by which you measure your ability. It is the first significantly challenging river in the range of abilities, not because it is incredibly difficult but because of the consequences if you fail (the Ocoee has had fatalities of experienced paddlers due to pinnings, head injuries, leg entrapments, drownings, etc. instead of just incidents involving stupid, drunken rednecks with more safety gear surrounding their coolers of beer than on their persons).
I had attempted the Ocoee on one earlier expedition, and unfortunately did not make it through more than two rapids before I was upside-down and exploring the bottom of the river with my head. Not fun. This time went better. I put in just about where I messed up the last time, and managed to make it down the rest of the river with only a few screw-ups. I did go through one rapid backwards, but I was in control and avoided all the obstacles. And I did swim one rapid, not through the fault of any major obstacles but because I flipped over on something innocuous and missed my roll attempts. I really need to work on my roll. But everything went very well, I did not feel at any time like I was in mortal peril, and I really did have fun.
So I can now say, yes, I've kayaked the Ocoee. And if someone asks me what I like to do, I may tell them, "I'm a kayaker."
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
As I sit and consider how I am spending my final day of freedom before the beginning of another school year, I am faced with the realization of a darker side of my personality, one that I do not often share with others. But I feel that it is something that I must admit to, in order to recognize the problem for what it is and deal with it as needed. And the realization is this:
I like reality television.
Oh dear God, I can't believe I just admitted that. But when I look at some of my recent entertainment choices, in the midday hours when more acceptable programming does not exist, I have to face reality. *intentional pun*
As I flip through channels and find little or nothing of value to watch (and I'm taking a break from reading all morning), I gravitate to some of the most depraved shows, namely Project Runway and Workout, both on the Bravo Channel. Fashion isn't even anything that interests me (I'm all about comfort and I dread the possibility that someday one of my students will submit me to What Not to Wear) and, while I am interested in working out, Work Out seems to be more about the trials and tribulations of the trainers with each other and the difficulties the owner experiences in her relationship with her girlfriend. So why did I sit and watch three or four episodes of each show yesterday?
Examining other television shows I watch regularly, I see a disturbing pattern. Oh, not all of my favorite shows are of the reality genre, thankfully--I love 24, My Name is Earl, and of course my SciFi trilogy of Stargate SG-1, Stargate: Atlantis, and Battlestar Galactica--but I can't help but notice how many reality shows I like to watch. During the normal television season, we (I'm implicating my husband here as well) watch The Amazing Race and The Biggest Loser (that show is actually one of the inspirations for our weight loss project over the past ten months). In the past few weeks we've gotten interested in MTV2'sFinal Fu, a martial arts competition. We've also watched American Inventor, America's Got talent, and Who wants to Be a Superhero, which is like a ComicCon gone horribly awry. And, God help me, when I have the opportunity I still check in on MTV's Real World/Road Rules Challenge shows like the current Fresh Meat to see which past cast members are still publicly humiliating themselves.
Now, I don't like the reality shows that are along the Survivor vein. I have tried and am not interested in Survivor, Big Brother, and other shows where the contestants make and break alliances and try to lie, cheat, and steal whatever they must to achieve victory. NOTE: And yet we loved Celebrity Mole, where the whole point was to lie, cheat, and do what needed to be done to throw others off the scent while figuring out the truth before everyone else did.
I've pinpointed where my affection for reality television began, and it has a lot to do with sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll. In other words, MTV's The Real World. As a child of the 1980's, I grew up with MTV, and the first season of The Real World came on my senior year of high school (oh, I just showed my age. Crap.). Remember when MTV showed more videos than shows? Anyway, I was fascinated with the show. I mean, wow, what would happen if you took seven strangers and had them all live in a house together? This was back when the concept was new enough to be innovative and honest enough to be interesting. They didn't select the beautiful people just to see who would sleep with whom in the house. Instead, they picked people from different backgrounds and different lifestyles to see a mini sociology experiment in action. Take Julie, white, young, naive, from the South, and put her in an environment with a very political Kevin, black, from the city, and watch the sparks fly. Take Jon, a cowboy singer, from the South, and have him live in a decadent Southern Califonia environment. Take Puck, an obnoxious, non-hygenic bike messenger, and have him live with, well, anybody. I LOVED the show. I watched the first four seasons religiously. I loved Road Rules too. Same concept, smaller venue (have them all live in a Winnebago!), and throw in some physical challenges and interesting global locations. Cool! I fantasized about being a cast member on the show.
But then MTV started to change the formula a bit. They stopped looking for people who would disagree and cause sparks in the house, and started looking for sparks of a different kind. It seems like the casts of more recent Real World seasons have been all about sex. All they do is sleep with each other. I've stopped watching new seasons of The Real World, but I still love the Challenge shows where they bring a lot of the old cast members from both shows back for more fun. Some of the cast members have gotten a bit old for the silliness, but some still come back for more (I'm crushed, by the way, that Coral and her teammate Evan had to leave the current Fresh Meat show due to injuries. Coral is a bitch from way back, and super-fun to watch in action).
Even though I no longer watch all the MTV reality shows, the seed was sown, and I have quite a list. In no particular order, here are some of the reality-type shows, either competition game shows, or following people in the course of their lives/jobs, that I have enjoyed;
The Amazing Race: I would love to go around the world and see the places these people have gone. The challenges are fun because they have some cultural connection to the location in which they take place.
The Biggest Loser: Severely obese people are taught by trainers about exercise and nutrition, put through a boot camp over the course of several weeks, and then turned loose in the real world to see if they can continue the weight loss. After watching the show, my husband and I realized that we could do the same "eat less and exercise" plan that the contestants used on the show.
Final Fu: Thirty martial artists of various disciplines complete challenges that demonstrate their strength, endurance, speed, and flexibility, and spar against their competitors. It's hosted by Ernie Reyes, Jr., and he's amazing. I would love to do some form of martial arts, but if someone ever hit me, I'd cry.
Celebrity Mole: One person on the show is the mole, and is sabotaging challenges occasionally. The other people on the show are trying to figure out which person is the mole, and trying to throw the others off the mole's trail so they don't figure out the real mole. It's hysterical, and it is fun to see at the end of the show if your guess is the correct one.
The Real World: Wouldn't you love to live in the houses that MTV has provided over the years for this show? I mean, damn. When they had the San Diego season a few years ago, there's no telling how much MTV had to pay for that big-a$$ house on the waterfront. I mean, San Diego is the most expensive housing market in the country.
Road Rules: Basically, it's The Real World on the road. They travel in an RV to various locations and compete in physical (and occasionally mental) challenges. Again, cool locations, fun events, beautiful people...where can you go wrong?
any of the Real World/Road Rules Challenge shows. The best of both worlds, baby!
Extreme Makeover: Home Edition: How cool is this show, really? Answer: way cool. They take the home of someone who desperately needs help and is incredibly deserving, and they literally create a miracle in a week. If you want a good, warm, fuzzy feeling (and a good cry)you should watch this show.
Surf Girls: Another MTV show, that was only on for one season. They took a bunch of girls who could surf, and they competed against each other in surfing (and other things, but to their credit mostly surfing) to see who was the best. The best short boarder got an affiliation with Quicksilver (I think, it's been several years since it was on) and the best long boarder got to go on The Crossing (a big surf trip out in the middle of the ocean where they look for monster waves).
American Chopper: Not a competition, but a very entertaining show following the Teutel family who run Orange County Choppers. They make awesome theme bikes (the fire bike still gives me chills), and if you think your family is dysfunctional you should check these people out.
Monster Garage: Sort of a competition, where Jesse James and a team of mechanically inclined people take a perfectly good vehicle and do something ridiculous to it. Who could forget the funny car/hot dog cart? Or the Mustang/lawnmower?
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy: Come on, how can you not love this show? They are freakin' great. I think some of their behavior is a bit over-the-top, but they really do seem to clean these straight victims up. Even my husband has started using product on his hair and zhuzhing (is there even a right way to spell that?) it.
Boy Meets Boy: I hate the dating shows; I think they are pretty silly. I really don't think you can find true love on one of those shows, but the plot twist that they threw in (several of the men this guy was meeting and going on dates with were straight and he didn't know it) was (sad to say) too good to pass up. I mean, what a mean trick. But he took the revelation well.
Ghost Hunters: I don't know if you've ever seen this show, but it is a group of paranormal investigators who go to supposedly haunted locations to debunk or prove the hauntings. Most of what they find is inconclusive, but every once in a while they'll find something reeeeeally freaky. The episode in the lighthouse where you hear a woman's voice saying "Help me" when there are no women present and where you see on the video the shadow of something moving on the circular stairs is CREEPY. I feel like the cowardly lion: "I do, I do, I DO believe in spooks!"
Fear Factor: You know the saying, "Everyone has a price"? Well, for the people on this show, it's $50K. I mean, would you eat pig rectum for $50K? I'm not sure I could. I have a delicate gag reflex.
And probably the greatest one we've ever watched, The Joe Schmoe Show. This was like the anti-reality show. An "everyman" of sorts was selected in a casting call to be on a reality competition. But what he wasn't told was that he was the only contestant. All the rest of his "housemates" were actors and actresses playing the standard reality show stereotypes: the a$$hole, the bitch, the virgin, the buddy, the gay guy, the military nut, etc. Basically, the guy was guaranteed money; it was more about how long they could carry on the joke. It really was kind of mean; the guy became pretty good friends with some of the people, and he was genuinely hurt when he found out they were actors. Even the cast members questioned the joke; on several occasions when he did something really nice for someone else they would talk to each other "off camera" about how terrible they felt and how they wanted to tell him the truth because he was such a nice guy. As mean as it seemed, it was fun to watch because he was truly a nice person, he deserved the money, the reality show caricatures were spot-on, and you just couldn't believe the things he'd go along with. I mean, a competition to see who could keep their hand on a stripper the longest?
Anyway, it has been a long spiral into the pit of entertainment despair. But I'm not ashamed to admit that I like reality television. Maybe someday someone will create a reality show for people to admit their darkest secrets, addictions, and horrifying revelations.
Oh, wait, that's The Jerry Springer Show.
I like reality television.
Oh dear God, I can't believe I just admitted that. But when I look at some of my recent entertainment choices, in the midday hours when more acceptable programming does not exist, I have to face reality. *intentional pun*
As I flip through channels and find little or nothing of value to watch (and I'm taking a break from reading all morning), I gravitate to some of the most depraved shows, namely Project Runway and Workout, both on the Bravo Channel. Fashion isn't even anything that interests me (I'm all about comfort and I dread the possibility that someday one of my students will submit me to What Not to Wear) and, while I am interested in working out, Work Out seems to be more about the trials and tribulations of the trainers with each other and the difficulties the owner experiences in her relationship with her girlfriend. So why did I sit and watch three or four episodes of each show yesterday?
Examining other television shows I watch regularly, I see a disturbing pattern. Oh, not all of my favorite shows are of the reality genre, thankfully--I love 24, My Name is Earl, and of course my SciFi trilogy of Stargate SG-1, Stargate: Atlantis, and Battlestar Galactica--but I can't help but notice how many reality shows I like to watch. During the normal television season, we (I'm implicating my husband here as well) watch The Amazing Race and The Biggest Loser (that show is actually one of the inspirations for our weight loss project over the past ten months). In the past few weeks we've gotten interested in MTV2'sFinal Fu, a martial arts competition. We've also watched American Inventor, America's Got talent, and Who wants to Be a Superhero, which is like a ComicCon gone horribly awry. And, God help me, when I have the opportunity I still check in on MTV's Real World/Road Rules Challenge shows like the current Fresh Meat to see which past cast members are still publicly humiliating themselves.
Now, I don't like the reality shows that are along the Survivor vein. I have tried and am not interested in Survivor, Big Brother, and other shows where the contestants make and break alliances and try to lie, cheat, and steal whatever they must to achieve victory. NOTE: And yet we loved Celebrity Mole, where the whole point was to lie, cheat, and do what needed to be done to throw others off the scent while figuring out the truth before everyone else did.
I've pinpointed where my affection for reality television began, and it has a lot to do with sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll. In other words, MTV's The Real World. As a child of the 1980's, I grew up with MTV, and the first season of The Real World came on my senior year of high school (oh, I just showed my age. Crap.). Remember when MTV showed more videos than shows? Anyway, I was fascinated with the show. I mean, wow, what would happen if you took seven strangers and had them all live in a house together? This was back when the concept was new enough to be innovative and honest enough to be interesting. They didn't select the beautiful people just to see who would sleep with whom in the house. Instead, they picked people from different backgrounds and different lifestyles to see a mini sociology experiment in action. Take Julie, white, young, naive, from the South, and put her in an environment with a very political Kevin, black, from the city, and watch the sparks fly. Take Jon, a cowboy singer, from the South, and have him live in a decadent Southern Califonia environment. Take Puck, an obnoxious, non-hygenic bike messenger, and have him live with, well, anybody. I LOVED the show. I watched the first four seasons religiously. I loved Road Rules too. Same concept, smaller venue (have them all live in a Winnebago!), and throw in some physical challenges and interesting global locations. Cool! I fantasized about being a cast member on the show.
But then MTV started to change the formula a bit. They stopped looking for people who would disagree and cause sparks in the house, and started looking for sparks of a different kind. It seems like the casts of more recent Real World seasons have been all about sex. All they do is sleep with each other. I've stopped watching new seasons of The Real World, but I still love the Challenge shows where they bring a lot of the old cast members from both shows back for more fun. Some of the cast members have gotten a bit old for the silliness, but some still come back for more (I'm crushed, by the way, that Coral and her teammate Evan had to leave the current Fresh Meat show due to injuries. Coral is a bitch from way back, and super-fun to watch in action).
Even though I no longer watch all the MTV reality shows, the seed was sown, and I have quite a list. In no particular order, here are some of the reality-type shows, either competition game shows, or following people in the course of their lives/jobs, that I have enjoyed;
The Amazing Race: I would love to go around the world and see the places these people have gone. The challenges are fun because they have some cultural connection to the location in which they take place.
The Biggest Loser: Severely obese people are taught by trainers about exercise and nutrition, put through a boot camp over the course of several weeks, and then turned loose in the real world to see if they can continue the weight loss. After watching the show, my husband and I realized that we could do the same "eat less and exercise" plan that the contestants used on the show.
Final Fu: Thirty martial artists of various disciplines complete challenges that demonstrate their strength, endurance, speed, and flexibility, and spar against their competitors. It's hosted by Ernie Reyes, Jr., and he's amazing. I would love to do some form of martial arts, but if someone ever hit me, I'd cry.
Celebrity Mole: One person on the show is the mole, and is sabotaging challenges occasionally. The other people on the show are trying to figure out which person is the mole, and trying to throw the others off the mole's trail so they don't figure out the real mole. It's hysterical, and it is fun to see at the end of the show if your guess is the correct one.
The Real World: Wouldn't you love to live in the houses that MTV has provided over the years for this show? I mean, damn. When they had the San Diego season a few years ago, there's no telling how much MTV had to pay for that big-a$$ house on the waterfront. I mean, San Diego is the most expensive housing market in the country.
Road Rules: Basically, it's The Real World on the road. They travel in an RV to various locations and compete in physical (and occasionally mental) challenges. Again, cool locations, fun events, beautiful people...where can you go wrong?
any of the Real World/Road Rules Challenge shows. The best of both worlds, baby!
Extreme Makeover: Home Edition: How cool is this show, really? Answer: way cool. They take the home of someone who desperately needs help and is incredibly deserving, and they literally create a miracle in a week. If you want a good, warm, fuzzy feeling (and a good cry)you should watch this show.
Surf Girls: Another MTV show, that was only on for one season. They took a bunch of girls who could surf, and they competed against each other in surfing (and other things, but to their credit mostly surfing) to see who was the best. The best short boarder got an affiliation with Quicksilver (I think, it's been several years since it was on) and the best long boarder got to go on The Crossing (a big surf trip out in the middle of the ocean where they look for monster waves).
American Chopper: Not a competition, but a very entertaining show following the Teutel family who run Orange County Choppers. They make awesome theme bikes (the fire bike still gives me chills), and if you think your family is dysfunctional you should check these people out.
Monster Garage: Sort of a competition, where Jesse James and a team of mechanically inclined people take a perfectly good vehicle and do something ridiculous to it. Who could forget the funny car/hot dog cart? Or the Mustang/lawnmower?
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy: Come on, how can you not love this show? They are freakin' great. I think some of their behavior is a bit over-the-top, but they really do seem to clean these straight victims up. Even my husband has started using product on his hair and zhuzhing (is there even a right way to spell that?) it.
Boy Meets Boy: I hate the dating shows; I think they are pretty silly. I really don't think you can find true love on one of those shows, but the plot twist that they threw in (several of the men this guy was meeting and going on dates with were straight and he didn't know it) was (sad to say) too good to pass up. I mean, what a mean trick. But he took the revelation well.
Ghost Hunters: I don't know if you've ever seen this show, but it is a group of paranormal investigators who go to supposedly haunted locations to debunk or prove the hauntings. Most of what they find is inconclusive, but every once in a while they'll find something reeeeeally freaky. The episode in the lighthouse where you hear a woman's voice saying "Help me" when there are no women present and where you see on the video the shadow of something moving on the circular stairs is CREEPY. I feel like the cowardly lion: "I do, I do, I DO believe in spooks!"
Fear Factor: You know the saying, "Everyone has a price"? Well, for the people on this show, it's $50K. I mean, would you eat pig rectum for $50K? I'm not sure I could. I have a delicate gag reflex.
And probably the greatest one we've ever watched, The Joe Schmoe Show. This was like the anti-reality show. An "everyman" of sorts was selected in a casting call to be on a reality competition. But what he wasn't told was that he was the only contestant. All the rest of his "housemates" were actors and actresses playing the standard reality show stereotypes: the a$$hole, the bitch, the virgin, the buddy, the gay guy, the military nut, etc. Basically, the guy was guaranteed money; it was more about how long they could carry on the joke. It really was kind of mean; the guy became pretty good friends with some of the people, and he was genuinely hurt when he found out they were actors. Even the cast members questioned the joke; on several occasions when he did something really nice for someone else they would talk to each other "off camera" about how terrible they felt and how they wanted to tell him the truth because he was such a nice guy. As mean as it seemed, it was fun to watch because he was truly a nice person, he deserved the money, the reality show caricatures were spot-on, and you just couldn't believe the things he'd go along with. I mean, a competition to see who could keep their hand on a stripper the longest?
Anyway, it has been a long spiral into the pit of entertainment despair. But I'm not ashamed to admit that I like reality television. Maybe someday someone will create a reality show for people to admit their darkest secrets, addictions, and horrifying revelations.
Oh, wait, that's The Jerry Springer Show.
Monday, August 07, 2006
TRAVIS PASTRANA PULLS OFF 1st COMPETITION DOUBLE BACKFLIP AT XGAMES
I am not really an adventurous person, despite the kayaking. I am a stay-at-home, live-vicariously-through-the-experiences-of-others person. I love to watch adventure races, crazy expeditions on the Travel or Discovery Channel, and the XGames. I could never do the cool stuff they do in the XGames. But I loooove to watch it. So when Travis Pastrana, a sort of geeky-looking stringy kid, rides his motorcycle in the XGames events, it makes it extra-fun, because (God bless him) he just doesn't look like he belongs there. All the other competitors are covered with piercings and tattoos, and here is this tall, lanky, big-eared 21-year-old (around that age, anyway) who beats them all but looks like a member of the chess team.
The best thing about the double backflip wasn't even how amazing it was or the skill it took. It was the kid's attitude about it. Before he tried it, he told his mother he was going to go for it, and if something happened to remember that he was having fun. And then, after the glorious completion, it showed him hugging his mother and apologizing to her for scaring her like that. What a fantastic kid! And then, he got really excited, not because he just pulled off the greatest motorcycle trick in the history of the sport, but because skateboarding god Tony Hawk waved at him and gave him a thumbs-up. He was just enthralled that his extreme sport hero (not even in the same discipline as he is) was impressed by his trick.
What a great kid! Of course, I'm sure his mother is proud, and horrified. In the back of her mind she's thinking Why couldn't I just have a little girl with pigtails and Barbie dolls? But she has to be pleased that he ran the idea past her first, that he apologized for scaring her (bet she's heard that a million times), and that everyone is so impressed not just by Travis Pastrana's mad skillz (he also won gold medals in the rally car racing and the moto freestyle along with his best trick gold) but by what a nice young man he seems to be.
I like this new generation of extreme athlete, the Travis Pastranas and Shaun Whites. It gives me hope that I'll be living vicariously through them for a long time.
I am not really an adventurous person, despite the kayaking. I am a stay-at-home, live-vicariously-through-the-experiences-of-others person. I love to watch adventure races, crazy expeditions on the Travel or Discovery Channel, and the XGames. I could never do the cool stuff they do in the XGames. But I loooove to watch it. So when Travis Pastrana, a sort of geeky-looking stringy kid, rides his motorcycle in the XGames events, it makes it extra-fun, because (God bless him) he just doesn't look like he belongs there. All the other competitors are covered with piercings and tattoos, and here is this tall, lanky, big-eared 21-year-old (around that age, anyway) who beats them all but looks like a member of the chess team.
The best thing about the double backflip wasn't even how amazing it was or the skill it took. It was the kid's attitude about it. Before he tried it, he told his mother he was going to go for it, and if something happened to remember that he was having fun. And then, after the glorious completion, it showed him hugging his mother and apologizing to her for scaring her like that. What a fantastic kid! And then, he got really excited, not because he just pulled off the greatest motorcycle trick in the history of the sport, but because skateboarding god Tony Hawk waved at him and gave him a thumbs-up. He was just enthralled that his extreme sport hero (not even in the same discipline as he is) was impressed by his trick.
What a great kid! Of course, I'm sure his mother is proud, and horrified. In the back of her mind she's thinking Why couldn't I just have a little girl with pigtails and Barbie dolls? But she has to be pleased that he ran the idea past her first, that he apologized for scaring her (bet she's heard that a million times), and that everyone is so impressed not just by Travis Pastrana's mad skillz (he also won gold medals in the rally car racing and the moto freestyle along with his best trick gold) but by what a nice young man he seems to be.
I like this new generation of extreme athlete, the Travis Pastranas and Shaun Whites. It gives me hope that I'll be living vicariously through them for a long time.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Ahhhhh.
That's what it feels like in my house right now, finally. I don't think there is a single greater invention in this world than air conditioning. Well, there probably is, but I sure couldn't think of one yesterday as I waited for the repairman to show up.
Our house is a rental, which means we cannot handle any repair work ourselves. Well, we can, but it's really better to consult the person who actually owns the house. So I called my landlord yesterday morning after a wonderful night in the motel Sunday. It was 89 degrees in the house yesterday morning when I placed the call. But guess what? There was no helpful landlord to fix the problem. He's on vacation this week, probably to somewhere a heck of a lot cooler than my house. After pondering briefly how to handle this unfortunate news, I left a message with his secretary that we would be calling someone to handle the problem, and deducting the cost from our next month's rent. Yippee.
So I called a repair person. The lady at the a/c company said she'd call me when the serviceman was on his way. That was at about 9:30 yesterday morning. At 3 p.m. I got a call that the repair guy was coming. By this time, the temperature in the house was 100 degrees. I had three ceiling fans, two box fans, and one little round floor fan blowing their little hearts out trying to keep air moving inside the house. It wouldn't have done any good to go outside, because the weather was just as unpleasant out there. I couldn't leave the house and drive around in the air conditioned car, because I had to wait for the repairman. It was miserable. The dog and I laid nose to nose on the hardwood floor, contemplating how miserable it was. I think the dog was more miserable than I was, owing to his thick double coat of black fur. There can be nothing worse than being a black dog in the summertime (I believe Harper Lee even pointed that out in To Kill A Mockingbird).
When the repairman showed up, he poked and prodded at the a/c unit outside for a few minutes, hooked up a gauge of some kind to it, and then asked to see the furnace. WTF? Why would he need to see the furnace? He never really explained that need, but we searched the house for the opening in the ceiling to get up into the attic. It was then that I realized there was another level of idiocy to our other landlord. (There were two, partners, and one handled the paperwork while the other did the renovations and repairs on the house. They had some disagreements, and the one who did the work on the house bailed out of the partnership. But before he did, he did many stupid things to the house, and neglected to do things that needed to be done. For example, we have a hole in the bathroom wall where an electrical outlet should be. He never got around to doing the wiring in the bathroom, and so now the nearest outlet I can use to blowdry my hair is two rooms away, in the kitchen.) In the renovations of the house, the landlord put up beadboard in all the rooms as the ceiling. But he never left any opening into the attic. The only way you can get up there is to scale the wall on the outside of the house, and try to open one of the two small windows to the attic, and worm your way in. Our heroic a/c guy didn't have a ladder, so that was out of the question.
So he went back and examined the a/c unit again. He pointed out a layer of dusty dirt on the coil of the unit, asked if I had a garden hose, and hosed the unit down. Then he turned it on and checked to see if cool air was coming in through the vents. It was. AND THAT WAS IT! If someone had suggested to me that I should hose off the a/c unit before calling someone, I would have. The cost for the hosing of the unit? $200. And that's only because I had a $20 off coupon from the phone book. Sheesh. I should be an a/c repair person. I could make a load more money than I do as a teacher.
It took ages for the house to cool down. We left all the fans running the rest of the afternoon and evening, and it was still 89 degrees when we went to bed. We slept with the ceiling fan running (we don't usually do that because it wreaks havoc with my husband's allergies, and I wake up all stuffy too) and no blankets on the bed. But thankfully, it did ultimately cool down, and was 70 degrees this morning when we got up to start the day. I am sitting beneath the vent in our living room as I type this, and I can feel the wonderful breeze blowing down on me. I'll say it again: there is no greater invention in the history of mankind than the air conditioner. If you want to argue about it, I challenge you to sit in a 100-degree house all day, waiting for a repairman.
That's what it feels like in my house right now, finally. I don't think there is a single greater invention in this world than air conditioning. Well, there probably is, but I sure couldn't think of one yesterday as I waited for the repairman to show up.
Our house is a rental, which means we cannot handle any repair work ourselves. Well, we can, but it's really better to consult the person who actually owns the house. So I called my landlord yesterday morning after a wonderful night in the motel Sunday. It was 89 degrees in the house yesterday morning when I placed the call. But guess what? There was no helpful landlord to fix the problem. He's on vacation this week, probably to somewhere a heck of a lot cooler than my house. After pondering briefly how to handle this unfortunate news, I left a message with his secretary that we would be calling someone to handle the problem, and deducting the cost from our next month's rent. Yippee.
So I called a repair person. The lady at the a/c company said she'd call me when the serviceman was on his way. That was at about 9:30 yesterday morning. At 3 p.m. I got a call that the repair guy was coming. By this time, the temperature in the house was 100 degrees. I had three ceiling fans, two box fans, and one little round floor fan blowing their little hearts out trying to keep air moving inside the house. It wouldn't have done any good to go outside, because the weather was just as unpleasant out there. I couldn't leave the house and drive around in the air conditioned car, because I had to wait for the repairman. It was miserable. The dog and I laid nose to nose on the hardwood floor, contemplating how miserable it was. I think the dog was more miserable than I was, owing to his thick double coat of black fur. There can be nothing worse than being a black dog in the summertime (I believe Harper Lee even pointed that out in To Kill A Mockingbird).
When the repairman showed up, he poked and prodded at the a/c unit outside for a few minutes, hooked up a gauge of some kind to it, and then asked to see the furnace. WTF? Why would he need to see the furnace? He never really explained that need, but we searched the house for the opening in the ceiling to get up into the attic. It was then that I realized there was another level of idiocy to our other landlord. (There were two, partners, and one handled the paperwork while the other did the renovations and repairs on the house. They had some disagreements, and the one who did the work on the house bailed out of the partnership. But before he did, he did many stupid things to the house, and neglected to do things that needed to be done. For example, we have a hole in the bathroom wall where an electrical outlet should be. He never got around to doing the wiring in the bathroom, and so now the nearest outlet I can use to blowdry my hair is two rooms away, in the kitchen.) In the renovations of the house, the landlord put up beadboard in all the rooms as the ceiling. But he never left any opening into the attic. The only way you can get up there is to scale the wall on the outside of the house, and try to open one of the two small windows to the attic, and worm your way in. Our heroic a/c guy didn't have a ladder, so that was out of the question.
So he went back and examined the a/c unit again. He pointed out a layer of dusty dirt on the coil of the unit, asked if I had a garden hose, and hosed the unit down. Then he turned it on and checked to see if cool air was coming in through the vents. It was. AND THAT WAS IT! If someone had suggested to me that I should hose off the a/c unit before calling someone, I would have. The cost for the hosing of the unit? $200. And that's only because I had a $20 off coupon from the phone book. Sheesh. I should be an a/c repair person. I could make a load more money than I do as a teacher.
It took ages for the house to cool down. We left all the fans running the rest of the afternoon and evening, and it was still 89 degrees when we went to bed. We slept with the ceiling fan running (we don't usually do that because it wreaks havoc with my husband's allergies, and I wake up all stuffy too) and no blankets on the bed. But thankfully, it did ultimately cool down, and was 70 degrees this morning when we got up to start the day. I am sitting beneath the vent in our living room as I type this, and I can feel the wonderful breeze blowing down on me. I'll say it again: there is no greater invention in the history of mankind than the air conditioner. If you want to argue about it, I challenge you to sit in a 100-degree house all day, waiting for a repairman.
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