In my early twenties there was about a five second period of time when I seriously thought I was going to join the FBI. I prepared for this the way I imagine most people do: by discontinuing any recreational drug use, watching the X-Files, and reading John Douglas books.

Now, in case you aren’t familiar, John Douglas had a hand in creating the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, which is, of course, where Mulder started out. So his books are not only gruesome, but informative. The take-away message that I received was basically 1) Don’t hitchhike. Ever. 2) A ballpoint pen is the best weapon (you can stab someone in the jugular! And you can take one on a plane!), 3) Always keep your gun hand (or ballpoint pen hand) free in case of attack, and finally, 4) Be observant.


I have the first three pretty much down pat. I get car sick unless I’m the one driving, I doodle and therefore am always with pen, and I already look for any excuse available to make other people carry things for me. It’s the “observant” thing that I kept getting hung up on. At first I tried to walk into every room taking note the number of people, the number of exits, the color of the walls, how many cars were parked outside, the time on the wall clock, the level of water in the cooler... you know, all the crap that can be considered useful. Except I’d always forget. I’d already be in a room and, suddenly it’s “shit! I didn’t count the number of people in this room! Should I walk out and come back in?”

It’s not that I would just forget, I really don’t think I’m cut out for anything observational. Just the other day I went to visit my brother at his lovely cottage home. After I plopped my jacket on the floor and took a seat, my end of the visit’s conversation went a bit like this:
“Hey Guys”
“Sure, I’ll have a cup if you’re making it”
“Whoa, that cat’s getting fat”
“Is it like a thyroid thing- no? He’s just fat? OK.”
“Oooh- is that pumpkin bread?”


This would be fine except for the fact that it wasn’t until about an hour later that I noticed that my brother had ripped up his carpet, gotten rid of two leather couches and an antique organ, and moved all of the outside furniture inside. I was sitting on porch furniture instead of a couch and I. Didn’t. Even. Notice.

So I'm pretty sure I will never be an FBI agent (I think I'm too old at this point anyway), but I bet if I lost 15 pounds and did something better with my hair I could play one on TV.

The New York Times and Why My Dad Is So Full of Shit That He Squishes When He Walks

First of all, I can’t say for certain why, but my dad has been known to occasionally stretch the truth. For instance, after a Scotch or two he may tell people that he was quarterback for the University of Tennessee football team. Not only have I never seen my Dad do anything sporty aside from golf (and, really? Golf? C’mon), he never even went to college, he went to Vietnam instead. But when he tells people this it really makes my mom mad, which may be the reason why he does it.

He also swears that he and another fellow, T.W. Ford, wrote the lyrics to the George Jones song “I’ll Share My World With You” and sold it to a record industry-type in a bar in Connecticut for two hundred dollars. There are so many reasons why this is probably not true (among them being that “T.W. Ford” is way too cool of a name to be a given to an actual person), yet I don’t ask too many questions because it’s a good song and I kind of like the idea.

But the real reason my dad is so full of shit he squishes when he walks (his term, not mine) comes from his tragically inflated confidence in my abilities, both creatively and, I think, as a human being. I told him I was going to try to write for money and he (in a roundabout way) told me I could be like Thomas Friedman of the New York Times.

Let me clear a few things up: I love Thomas Friedman just as much as the next person, but I’m not lining up any time soon to be a Middle Eastern foreign correspondent. The closest I’ll ever get to Lebanon is Lebanon County. Because that’s where my brother lives, and he makes really good stuffed mushrooms and doesn’t cheap out on the beer. But even if I had a hankering to walk around reporting on the desert I still wouldn’t be like Tom Friedman. Why? Oh, I don’t know... maybe because I have zero experience? That, and I can be kind of mean (and not in an insightful way).

And this brings me to my main point here: Can I reallybe blamed for my inflated sense of awesomeness? It was clearly given to me by my dad, who apparently thinks I can do just about anything. My mom thinks I can do anything, too, with a few exceptions. For instance, she may think I could be a foreign correspondent as well, but would suggest that I cut my hair first. See, she believes ladies past a certain age shouldn’t have long hair. Period. I once pointed out to her that Demi Moore has long hair and she replied, “Well, dear, you’re no Demi Moore.” Anyway, I don’t think I’ll ever be Tom Friedman. But until I come close I can harass him on Twitter if I want.

Natty Trail.

Conversation overheard on a nature trail as we came upon half a case worth of empty Natural Ice cans and a dirty Yankees baseball cap:

Husband: I wonder if that guy woke up the next day and was like “fuck! I must have blacked out on Natty Ice and lost my favorite hat.”

Me: I wonder if they could make a version of beer called “Natural Bumppo”. Get it... “Natty Bumppo”? I’d buy it.

>cricket noises<

Me: Get it?  Natty Bumppo? Last of the Mohicans? Nevermind.

Later on there was another awkward conversation involving me wondering about a possible Sesame Street/Our Town- Grover’s Corners parody that also fell pretty flat. I’ve since learned to keep literary references out of my beer jokes. And I also died a little inside.

Reason #156 Why I Will Go To Hell If There Is One

Often, if my husband and I are hungry enough, we’ll say we are “Fly-On-The-Lip Hungry”.  Like, we’re so hungry that we’re like those African babies with the swollen bellies who are to weak from starvation to swat the flies off of their face.  I know this is insensitive, but it is also an issue of practicality.  I mean, there is a convenient source of protein right there. Just eat the fly.

Acting! Thank you!

My new title should be “worldly consultant” because I think I can do a lot of jobs better than the professionals that have spent months/years/decades devoted to that line of work, and I’m willing to give my advice freely. For instance, I know better than my doctor and just about any person I deal with over the phone, apart from the people from Apple Support.

Most recently, move over James Lipton as I am a master of the theatrical arts. This stems from a seemingly endless stream of some of my acting pet peeves, specifically what I refer to as “gum/sleeve/over-sized coffee cup acting”.  It’s pretty self-explanatory, but this occurs when an actor or actress over-relies on some external object to convey their feelings.  See: Jennifer Love Hewitt and her sleeves in Party of Five. If you’re constantly tugging on your sleeves I miss whatever seriously passionate/urgent thing you’re saying and, instead, I’m thinking:

“Why do her sleeves cover half of her hands?”
“Can’t she find a shirt that fits, or is she trying that on purpose?”
“I hope they have a good spray pre-wash treatment on set because those sleeves are going to get soooo dirty.”

Related is “gum acting” which has surfaced most recently when I was watching “Prime Suspect”. Maria Bello and that other guy spend so much time violently chewing their gum that I forget major plot points. But by far the most egregious acting failure is “over-sized coffee cup acting”.  You know, you’re watching a scene and the character is just caressing a ginormous coffee cup and delicately sipping in between musings. It looks so stupid and no one sips like that! Drink like a real person! Swallow!

Related to this is the obviously-empty cup. Prop masters and directors alike should know that the audience can tell that the cup is too light to have any liquid in it. You don’t have to get all Daniel Day-Lewis method-act-y, but you could at least put something in the cup... water! Tea! Cheap Scotch!  Anything! I so need to be cast in a film so I can show the world the level of realism that I know can be attained. Anyway...my schedule is pretty open, let me know.

Banning the Globe...

Originally, this blog was going to be an outlet for me to list and discuss all the things that I’ve “banned”. I’m somewhat of a malcontent, so on any given day I can find something that would annoy me enough to ban it entirely, or at least until I forgot why I’ve banned it, which was the case for the Dunkin’ Donuts that is closest to my house.

Other things that I have banned are pretty tame, like giving/going/doing anything over 100%, or doing something beyond the designated scale (like, if I say “on a scale of one to ten, how much does this hurt?” and you say “thirteen!” it doesn’t make your situation more painful than anyone else’s, it just makes you an asshole who literally blows things out of proportion). Sometimes I’ll want to ban a person or a word or a phrase (so, if Bill O’Reilly was on air talking about his ‘staycation’ I may very well blow a gasket). One day I realized I was banning things left and right and I thought that I should provide a service to mankind by collecting and sharing my wisdom.

It soon became clear, however, that a blog solely covering the topic of the things that I’ve banned was too narrow even for me. Instead it is going to be about...whatever I want, because it’s mine. Maybe I’ll discuss things that I’ve banned here and there, or perhaps I will talk about something else that is annoying/perplexing/fantastic. Whatever the topic, it probably won’t be enlightening (and most likely not punctuated correctly, either, since I punctuate by how things sound and not necessarily according to any kind of E.B. White-sanctioned rules), but will hopefully be entertaining enough. You know as they said around the Seinfeld writers’ table: No Hugs, No Learning. For me, that’s as good of a guideline as any.

Mind the Gap.

A little over ten years ago I got to hear Ira Glass (the awesomeness behind This American Life on radio and TV, cousin to Philip) give a lecture at a local university. It was really cool and he sat in the dark with a soundboard and it was just like listening to him on the radio. Except it was live. And you couldn't pause it to pee. Anyway, part of his lecture was about the gap between taste and talent. You know, that period of time when you want to be creating something but you also know that you kind of suck.  It struck me and I was really moved. Ira really spoke to me.

Well, turns out Ira is a bit of a wisdom whore because he has since gone on to give this advice over and over (and over) again.  Really.  Just Google "Ira Glass Taste Talent" and see what I mean. I don't blame him, either.  It's good advice and, hell, if I came up with something that good I'd tell it over and over to anyone who would listen, too. (Hey! Come to think of it, Ira Glass and my Dad are a lot alike.)

So, I guess what I'm saying is: if there is a quality issue of any kind with this blog you can blame Ira Glass.