bad album covers and more bad album covers, part 3.

You're not sick of this yet, right?
Part 1
Part 2

21. Chicken Coupe de Ville
I went to high school with that guy. Okay, that statement is not strictly true, but the essence of the statement is true in that I went to high school with guys that could have been that guy, had they had the ambition to release an album and (sort of) learn some French.

22. Music for Dreaming
Picture this: giant women lying in the snow while all the Whos in Whoville sing them to sleep to keep them from making snow angels and destroying the whole town. It's kind of a concept album.

23. Wayne & Charlie - Rapping Dummy
When I was in the fifth grade, a puppet act came to our school to talk about drugs and STDs. Wayne & Charlie sort of remind me of that, because it looks like an act that is trying to send a message to the kids via youth culture, made by people who don't actually understand youth culture.

24. Steve Warren - Reflection
Actually, another Steve Warren album ("Introspection") was on this list, the cover of which featured Steve Warren's insides. It was cut from the list when they found this one. It was unanimously decided that two Steve Warrens were worse than one.

25. The McKeithen's
This one is very ordinary really, and you might pass it by completely because there are probably millions of albums with seventies family photos on the covers. But then you start to looking at Mama McKeithen's hair. I guess that was a style at some point, but goodness me, what has she got hidden in that thing? Could my hair do that? Are the airports aware that terrorists could even now be sneaking bombs aboard planes in bouffants?

26. Slim Goodbody - The Inside Story
Slim Goodbody is an actual person who goes around teaching children about anatomy. Which is fine, really, I just think his clothes might be a leeeetle too tight to be doing a children's act. Slim is currently on his 30-state Bodyology tour. I'm not even making that up. Considering he's been doing this since 1975, I wonder if he's had to have the body suit altered as he's aged.

27. "Happiness" with Ron Johnson
This album cover is terrifying. You know why? Because of the quotation marks around "Happiness." It's the scariest punctuation to ever have existed, even scarier than the periods in The Tell-Tale Heart. I don't know what "happiness" means to Ron Johnson, but it really can't be good.

28. Dickie Harrell - Drums and More Drums
Upon first viewing, I failed to notice that there were actually a lot of drums in the room, and so wanted to rename the album "Arms and More Arms." But I do like text at the top - "uninhibited drum rhythms!" - which the producers put up there to differentiate this album from all those other stupid albums which totally inhibit their drum rhythms.

29. Norberto de Freitas
Several of the classic Japanese Godzilla movies include an extended scene in which one or two drunks is surprised by Godzilla. You don't know why the scene is in any of the movies, much less multiple ones. You get the feeling it's funny in Japan, but you don't understand the humor because you lack some sort of basic understanding about the culture. Looking at this album cover is sort of like that. Except I start to get the feeling that whatever joke this album cover is doing isn't really that funny anywhere.

30. Tommy Seebach - Disco Tango
Yes, I get it. It's funny because Tommy Seebach is all 70s and the 70s were dumb and ha-ha, the 70s. But to make fun of this album cover implies that we have learned from the mistakes of Disco Tango. We have not, because we made the same mistakes in the 80s and the 90s and we're making them even now. Fashion is always ridiculous in hindsight. Tommy Seebach was just a victim of the times. The boys now make fun of poor Tommy as they head out to the club in their eyeliner and women's pants.

bad album covers with a new accent, part 2.

Now to continue our foray into the cheesy, the offensive, the poorly-thought-out: awful album covers.
Part 1

11. Trucker's Dream
So apparently, the trucker's dream is five guys in matching costumes which make them look like they might be performing in a musical version of Cops. I guess I had truckers all wrong then. Huh.

12. Skidrow Joe - Joe Bravo y su orquesta
I contend that this is actually an interesting album cover. If Bob Dylan had made it, it would be iconic. Leave poor Skidrow Joe alone. Clearly, he has enough problems. Although, I am confused about the words on this cover. Is Skidrow Joe the same person as Joe Bravo? Yes, I live on Skid Row, but that doesn't mean I can't be fabulous!

13. The Braillettes - Our Hearts Keep Singing
This album cover was almost sabotaged by a rival girl group, the Helen Kellers, who snuck in and switched the Braillettes' outfits with matching chicken suits. Luckily, the Braillettes' manager caught the the girls right before the photographer started shooting (the photographer had worked on many album covers in the past and so didn't think anything of it). By the way, the Helen Kellers' album did not sell well, though many touted it for being ahead of its time. In fact, Yoko Ono cites it as her favorite album.

14. "My Turtle's Dead" An Hysterical Evening with Weela Gallez
Poor Weela Gallez. She tried as hard as she could, even borrowing a monkey and changing her name from Jane Porter, to make an interesting album cover, and the only thing that I can think about is the fact that she's using the article "an" before a word starting with a consonant. Does she not pronounce the 'H' in "hysterical"? Or maybe that's a joke, in which case, I think I've severely underestimated the subtlely of Ms. Gallez's 'umor.

15. Don & Seymour
Again with the anti-puppet sentiment. I think this looks like good, clean, wholesome fun, although I do wonder how to work the puppet and play the guitar at the same time. Does the puppet make the chords and stuff? With his face? That might have been what kept Don & Seymour from hitting the big time. Or maybe that's why it's an audio act - during the actual performance, the sock just sits on the floor while Don talks to himself.

16. Manfred sings: Love songs with a new accent
The key phrase here is "with a new accent." I think Manfred must have re-recorded this album five or six times, each time "with a new accent." His mom bought every single one, but she thinks the Hungarian one is best.

17. Expose Yourself to Cajun Music and Johnny Janot
Rather than mock this tasteless attempt at humor, I think we should all say a fervant little thank you that Johnny Janot is not facing us directly. Yes, this album cover is bad, but it could be a whole lot worse. There's always a silver lining, people.

18. Little David Wilkins - King of all the Taverns
I feel like this guy has gotten really good at self-deprecating humor. You know, when people make the preemptive strike of making fun of themselves so that other people can't do it? He probably starts off his act talking about the irony of the word "Little" in his name. Well, Little David Wilkins, it worked, because I just don't have the heart to mock you now.

19. Rick McKnight - Free Indeed!
This isn't so bad. I mean, it's just this really happy guy who is out dancing in a field while his dead twin brother looks on from heaven. Free indeed, free indeed, thank God Almighty, I'm free indeed!

20. Organ and Firelight: Hal Shutz at the Hammond Chord Organ
Finally, a record to put on when you're sitting in front of the fire with your special lady. After listening to the artistic stylings of Hal Shutz on the Hammond Organ, she'll be in the mood for love.

bad album covers, now with commentary, part 1.

I've seen lists like this before on various web sites. Ten awful album covers and commentary that is sometimes witty and sometimes not. I find that with this list, I miss the commentary, because it means I have to come up with my own jokes. Even bad jokes are better than thinking in my free time. Then I thought of all the people in the world who aren't funny at all, and how they're struggling right now to think of something funny to say, but all they've got is, "Uh, wow, I mean, that guy's dumb and uh, his hair is really seventies looking. Huh-huh." So here is some commentary, so that the humor-impaired among you can rest your poor unfunny brain. Note that I don't guarantee any of this is funny, but again, it's better than thinking in your free time.

I didn't make this list, and so I'm not responsible for the selection. It doesn't seem to be in any particular order. I will also state that some of these album covers aren't that bad. I mean, they're bad, but it's more of a normal, run-of-the-mill bad as opposed to eye-gougingly bad. In fact, I would like to submit my own entry. I don't have the album cover, because it was one of my ex-boyfriend's and it hardly seems appropriate to ask for it now. But you don't need the cover, only the title: Don Raper's Songs for Women.

There are 50 in this list, so I'll be doing this in installments because most of you probably cannot handle that much cheese. If you're feeling brave (and if the link still works), you can check out the full list.

One last disclaimer: a bad album cover does not necessarily mean a crappy album. But it probably does. Let's begin!

1. Cody Matherson - "Can I Borrow A Feelin?"
Is he asking to borrow one of my emotions or simply to grope me? Looking at ole Cody here, it seems apparent that he made this album for his little wife, Doreen, as a wedding/prom present. Doreen's a lucky lady, and whenever Cody asks if he can borrow a feelin', she says yes.

2. The Many Facets of Roger
It's really too bad that some of Roger's many (i.e. six) facets didn't include shirts which buttoned up all the way. Also, I charge that Facets 3, 4, and 6 (starting at top left corner and going clockwise here) are all saying "Aw, honey, you know you love you some Roger!" Facet 1 would like you to repeat what you just said because he didn't quite catch it, while Facet 5 seems to be wondering what that spot is on the carpet. Facet 2 demands that you take Roger seriously as an artist.

3. Orion Reborn
I think the worst poor decision in the making of this cover (and there were many) was to have one color for the shirt, pants, and background. I suspect it's the exact shade of blue that is used to project the weather map on the background screen for the six o' clock news. Maybe Orion knew a guy at the local TV station and asked to borrow the set for this photo shoot. Then he brought this excellent mask that he bought during his Mardi Gras vacation...in Boise.

4. The Frivolous Five - Sour Cream & Other Delights
"Look at all this sour cream going to waste! And we didn't even buy it on sale! We're so frivolous!" Seriously, I'm totally okay with this one, even though the one in the middle back sort of reminds me of my late Aunt Sally. Some old women wear purple, others wear dairy products. However, given the age of these ladies, I do wonder if maybe this record isn't just a bunch of recipes set to music.

5. Harry and Terry - Live
This list features multiple ventriloquism records, and apparently we're to understand that puppets are silly and tacky and loserly. I do not understand that, and I think puppets are silly in a good way, awesome, and super cool. I do wish that this particular puppet (not sure if it's Harry or Terry) didn't look quite so drunk. Also, let's take a moment and ponder whether a puppet act works on a solely audio medium. It worked for Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, but then again they were talented and had W.C. Fields to crack jokes on. I fear Harry and Terry are not so lucky.

6. The Handless Organist - Truly a Miracle of God
For a minute, I thought this one was just on the list because it was so old-looking. I misread it as "Handel's Organist" and figured she was playing "The Messiah" or something. Then I did a classic double-take and realized that this woman has no hands. And of course I felt bad for her, showing up on this mean list when she looks so happy and she can play the organ. I can't do that, and I have hands. Marvelous, wonderful hands that I do not thank enough for all they do for me. Thank you, hands!

7. The Stanley Johnson Orchestra - Have Harp Can't Travel
I sorta like this one, though my official opinion depends on whether the actual harpist in the Stanley Johnson Orchestra is a midget or if they're just making fun of midgets. The first idea is actually pretty neat, while the second is overdone. Yeah, ha ha, midgets, they're really short. Next, please.

8. Les Baxter - Space Escapade
Alien women were a big thing in bad movies during a particular time period, I guess comparable to the island of lonely Amazons of Greek epics. I've seen several of this sort of movie, and so maybe I'm becoming immune to it, because this album cover doesn't seem all that bad to me. Cheesy and dated, yes, but so will many things seem in fifty years. I like that the alien women have slinkies on their heads, perhaps signifying that they too go down stairs, alone or in pairs.

9. Music for Bathroom Baritones, Bathing Beauties
Check out the text at the bottom: Compliments of your American Standard plumbing contractor. The job description of a plumber apparently used to included serenading clients. Those were the days.

10 Merrill Womach - Happy Again
Like the Handless Organist, this is another person overcoming physical disabilities through faith and being mocked in return. Poor Merrill Womach, first his parents give him that awful name, then he loses the job at Chernobyl, but hey, he's happy again, and I say more power to him.

Part 2

robbing from the poor.

Some people think that it is unethical to shop at thrift stores if you are not poor, as if the items at Goodwill were reserved for those with low income. This entry is not for them, but for the rest of you, in case you ever run into someone who has such an attitude. You can then educate them about why you make the choice to buy used.

Honestly, I think it's a bit odd that there is such a stigma attached to buying used clothes or housewares. No one looks askance at you if you buy a used car. And surely poor people do buy used cars. At what price tag does being smart and thrifty become being cheap and unethical?

You may not convince anyone. A lot of the problem is that people don't want to be thought of as poor. They would rather overpay then have someone think that they are in financial trouble. And so you may have the better argument, but the other person can't get over their hangups. That's fine. It's not your job to change everyone, but it's worth your time to at least show them the other side of things.

There are lots of responses. First, the slightly-heartless response: The poor people had just as much opportunity to buy the $4 pair of jeans that I did. There was nothing keeping them from it and my financial situation gave me no advantages to finding and purchasing the jeans. If a poor person were to come in the store after I purchased the jeans, they would likely be able to find another pair just fine. A thrift store is not like a soup kitchen. I've never gone to a Goodwill and seen them be completely out of jeans.

Next, the very trendy Green response. Everyone agrees with that whole Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle thing they started teaching when we figured out we had limited resources. Buying used is reusing. If something is still in usable condition, then use it. The less we buy new, the less companies will make, and the less that will end up in a landfill.

Finally, here's the response that I think is most compelling. Nearly all thrift stores are non-profits, and their proceeds go to charity programs. The Salvation Army provides disaster relief, free drug and alcohol rehab, and youth programs. Goodwill trains disabled people for jobs so that they can become self-sufficient, contributing members of society. There are probably thousands of non-chain thrift stores that do charity work on a local level. By shopping at these thrift stores, you are supporting their causes. You are enabling the store itself to stay in business, as well as contributing to their various programs. Buying your Levi's new isn't helping anyone except Levi stockholders. Compared to those guys, I am poor.

So there. I am not cheap, but socially and environmentally responsible. You can always suggest that the other person buy their jeans at Goodwill and then take the price difference and donate that to charity. We'll see how they like that suggestion.

who is john kerry?

I was thinking about John Kerry the other day, and it made me feel very old. I suppose it's nothing specific to him. It's everything that has been in the news while I've been alive to remember it.

When I was little, I would watch Jeopardy with my mom and think she must be about the smartest person in the world, aside from my dad, who was a scientist. She knew all the answers, even when those silly people on the program didn't know them. I was awed by her knowledge of history in particular, and her ability to remember a bunch of obscure names that were the headings of only one-column entries in the encyclopedia.

But then I was thinking about John Kerry, and about how in 30 years or so, he will come up on Jeopardy as one of the harder questions. By then, he'll be a mostly-forgotten senator who ran for president and lost. The clue will probably mention that he was a Vietnam veteran. And then I'll know the answer, because I remember old John Kerry, and my children will be agog. They will think that I am the smartest mother ever. And it won't be because I'm smart, just that I'm old
enough to have been there and remember it. They'll ask me how I knew it, and I could try and explain about the good ole days back in the early 2000s, but they'll have stopped listening by then, the rotten ingrates.

I don't wish to say that my mother was never smart and only incredibly old. She's still really smart and only kinda old.

all the good ones are taken.

I haul myself out of the dumpster and start taking inventory. A nice towel, a desk fan, a couple of plastic cups. Nothing too exciting, but then again, not bad for free stuff. College kids are so wasteful that it makes me angry, except that it also provides me with lots of linens, kitchenware, and office supplies. I pack up the smaller items in the towel hobo style, then walk around to the long end of the
dumpster to start gathering the items Josh threw over the side. He's still hidden inside, poking through bags of actual trash and non-trash.

"Anything good?" asks an unfamiliar voice. I turn around to see a guy walking towards us from one of the dorms nearby.

"Not too bad," I answer, wondering if this dude actually is a diver. He climbs up the side and looks in as Josh stands up amid the discarded term papers and takeout boxes.

"Nah," the stranger says as he hops down and walks away quickly. Josh climbs out and smiles at me.

"He didn't have what it takes."

"Nope."

"He sure liked you, though."

Maybe so. Guys do stupid things for girls, but do they jump into dumpsters? If he hadn't caught sight of my boyfriend just then, would that dude have soiled his shoes in the discarded pizzas of others? I suppose I have someone that just jumped into a dumpster with me, but I suspect he would have done that anyway. Josh starts laughing.

"That poor guy."

"Yeah, he must be pretty desperate. I look terrible." I'm wearing ratty clothes and the grime and sweat of a Sunday afternoon. I haven't washed my hair all weekend.

"And you just got out of a dumpster. Maybe since it's the end of the school year he's worried because he hasn't gotten a girl yet."

I'm not sure how I feel about my own boyfriend laughing at another dude for wanting to get to know me better, but I have to admit it's pretty hilarious. I laugh, too, wondering if the poor guy walked away thinking that all the good ones are taken.

not a movie review: incubus

I've written a couple of movie non-reviews, and I've written about my fondness for really bad movies. The movies I've talked about here have been good movies that I recommended. So I thought I'd talk about a bad movie, and then recommend that, too, just in case any of my readers also enjoy watching a wretched film and making fun of it. Today's movie is Incubus.

To sum up: Marc is a war hero who is now living on a farm with his sister. The farm is near a well said to have rejuvenating powers. It's not so much a fountain of healing but a fountain of making you slightly prettier. As a result, lots of vain sinners come to the well and so some succubi hang out there to tempt them with nakedness and take their souls. But then a particularly ambitious succubus sets her sights on Marc, who is a good guy. The other succubus warns her to stay away from war heroes and other holy types, but she doesn't listen. A skirmish in the battle of good versus evil ensues.

So while this movie sounds kinda stupid or maybe it sounds like it could have potential with the right script, let me add two things into the mix.

1. It stars a young William Shatner.
2. It's entirely in Esperanto.

For those of you who do not know about Esperanto, allow me to explain. A long time ago, a ophthalmologist thought it would be a great idea if there were a universal language. So you know, we could all speak to each other instead of having to rely on third-party translators. They invented Esperanto. While it's a pretty good idea, it won't work if the language doesn't catch on, and that's what happened. Esperanto is a great idea that failed. It's like Communism, but without all the association of killing and stuff.

This movie does have one thing going for it, and that's the cinematography. The guy responsible for that later went on to be responsible for some actually good movies, like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and America Beauty. So there are lots of really interesting shots in Incubus. One particularly beautiful scene is shot from inside a dark house. All you can see is what's outside the window, where Shatner is walking around in some waving wheat. There are gorgeous shots like that throughout. But it's not enough to save the movie from itself. You can have a great cinematogrpaher, but you'll probabably want a decent screenwriter and director, too.

Despite the surreal mix of Esperanto and Captain Kirk, in the end, Incubus is just a bad movie, with all the classic bad movie elements. The script is poorly-written and unnatural (could be due to translation), the plot is confusing, there are scenes that are pointless, and really the only redeeming character in the movie, Shatner's sister, comes to a miserable end. You spend several minutes watching people just walk around without talking, which surely could have been edited. Later you're not even sure if someone was raped or not, but at least you know how many oak trees they walked by!

Some of the scenes are just laughable. At the end, the succubus wrestles a goat for her soul. I know, I know, it's symbolism. But it's still a goat - a big, black billy goat, likely gruff. My dad has a pet goat that looks similar. It's just hard to take the scene seriously. Will she save her soul? Will she escape the evil clutches of her former master? Will the devil begin nibbling on her robe?

I think the funniest part, though, is all the scenes where people are looking for Shatner. First his sister is looking for him, then the succubus, then the sister again. They're all calling out to him, using his Esperanto name.

"Marco!"

"Marco!"

"Marco!"

And so Josh and I answered, every time, "Polo!" Wikipedia doesn't know how old the swimming pool game is, and so it could be just an unfortunate coincidence that these scenes so hilariously resemble a water tag game. But you can't watch the scene without thinking about summers in the community pool.

If you don't enjoy watching really awful movies, then don't watch this one. You'll get bored and frustrated. However, if your idea of a good time consists of making joke after joke at the expense of a terrible piece of film-making, then here's your Saturday night. Polo!

keeping up.

I'm not on Facebook. I have a MySpace account, which I signed up for so that I could look at someone else's pictures. I don't have any quotes or pictures, and my only friend is Tom, who is such a nice guy, he's friends with everyone.

My avoidance of these sites was at first unintentional. It seems like they got really popular while I was in college, but I never saw any need to have one. At some point, I realized that I was in the minority. Most people I know have one or both of these accounts, and they are active. I've seen Josh mess with his MySpace before, and while he occasionally updates the background or something like that, mostly he just reads through his messages and manually filters out the spam. He does receive messages from actual people, but from what I can tell, they are people who know either his phone number, email address, or both.

When I was having dinner with a friend recently, he was playing with his Blackberry and then muttered something about me not being on Facebook. I remarked how I didn't really have a use for it. He responded, "Oh, I just need it to keep up with people."

This remark struck me as completely asinine. Because he doesn't "keep up" with people. It's not that he talks to people through Facebook. He just has a page that he can go to whenever he wonders what such and such is up to. He can then find out where the person is living, their marital status, how many pets they have, and that yes, their favorite color is still red. There's no actual communication going on between them. It's a way to simulate having a relationship with someone without actually doing anything.

I know I sound like a fuddy-duddy. I'm willing to be convinced here, if someone can explain to me how social networks can give me something I don't already have. I understand that they are valuable marketing tools, particularly for musicians. And I will grudgingly admit that if some long-lost friend wants to find you again, it'll be easier if you are on one of these networks. But once you're found, will you actually be friends again, or just someone on a list of friends?

she don't have no tact.

"...and she didn't have no money," my brother concludes the story, which I remember as being amusing, though I don't recall what it was about.

"She didn't have any money," corrects my niece. Her dad doesn't hear her, which is probably just as well, because I could imagine his expression.

"Don't correct your dad," I said with my "silly scolding face," that is, an expression which mixes disapproval with a smile, so I don't come off as too severe.

"It makes you seem stupid when you use bad grammar," she replied.

I sigh and feel as if I'm talking to my former self. At her age, twelve, I definitely would have corrected my own father for using a double negative. I can picture his expression, too. It says, "you're missing the point." People would tell me that it was rude to correct another person's speech. I didn't care and considered it a public service to help people understand how to speak correctly, because I was an arrogant little snot. I know that I used the exact excuse that using bad grammar made you look stupid.

And that is completely true. People, and not just jerks like me, judge your intelligence by the way that you speak. But when you use that excuse to justify correcting someone in a casual social settings, what you are really saying is, "I am judging your intelligence by the way that you speak, and honey, it doesn't look good."

At some point, I was finally convinced that it was rude to correct the grammar of others in any setting where you don't have authority (which for me, is pretty much everywhere). And so I stopped correcting people. Out loud, anyway. In my head, I could hear a stifled voice sigh, "She didn't have any money." Sometimes that little voice got out if I was in a bad mood or just didn't feel like exerting the will power to be polite.

My ex-boyfriend tried for years to break me of this habit, telling me it was terribly disrespectful. He was right, of course. It hurts the other person's feelings, makes them feel stupid, and indicates that you're not really listening to what they're saying because you're so hung up on how they're saying it.

But of course, I didn't listen to him. I struggled to stifle myself because I understood that people didn't like me because of it, but I didn't really understand why I shouldn't do it. But somehow over the past few years, I finally got it. I don't know how or when it happened, just that when I heard my niece correct my brother, I realized that I didn't do that anymore. What happened is that I met a bunch of smart people who didn't speak the way their hassled english teachers taught them to. I knew these people were intelligent enough to know the rules, and so they must be ignoring the rules on purpose. As free-thinking individuals, they have the right to do so.

I still notice when a subject and verb don't agree. But it's more like noticing that someone has a foreign accent. They don't speak the way that I'm used to hearing, but I understand them, so there is no problem.

I wonder if I will be able to convince my niece to stop correcting people. She knows it's rude, and that hasn't stopped her. I know she believes in her dad's intelligence, and I could explain that he is choosing to speak that way because it's more natural to him. Maybe that would work. If not, I'll just tell her that it will make boys not like her, and that should get her through puberty. Hopefully by then, she'll have figured it out on her own.

long drive.

I was pretty overdue for a visit to my folks. Aside from my mother regularly nagging me about coming home, promising bribes of fresh honey and vegetables, she'd even casually mentioned that I visited less often than my sister did. I figured if I was going to keep my position as favorite child, I'd need to get down there.

From Raleigh to Lenoir is a long drive if you have nothing to think about, and so I thought about some old family slides that my uncle had recently uploaded to the web. These were all taken from my late grandfather's collection, documenting life in one extended Kansas family from the 50s to the early 80s. There are lots of pictures of people who I can't identify at all, though I recognize their noses or chins. Then there are others that show people that I do recognize, but they're not as I know them.

Seeing pictures of people when they are young adults always makes me a little sad. They seem so young and vibrant and open for any possibility. They knew they could do anything, and they felt immortal. They have no idea what is in store for them, and they might even think they have their lives all planned out already. Even if they end up leading happy lives, it couldn't have been what they expected. It makes me realize how uncertain my future is.

There were pictures of my parents while they were courting in California in 1960. My mother is the picture of innocence, all shy and fresh-faced. She doesn't know that she will have six children. She doesn't know that she will leave the Worldwide Church of God and become a card-carrying United Methodist. She has no idea that she will eventually learn to like squash. In 1960, she wouldn't have thought to imagine those things happening to her. But they did. Does that mean that I will someday like cantaloupe? I cannot imagine such a future world, no matter how long of a drive I have to think about it.

The long drive came to and end, and as I pulled up the long and winding driveway that leads to my parents' house, my headlights illuminated four pairs of eyes looking at me. The goats were out of their pen and sitting calmly on the makeshift concrete basketball court next to the house. I parked and got out, and they looked at me, ready to bolt if I came any closer, but content to stay put if I left them alone. The wind shifted. Goats smell bad.

I walked up the steps to the back door to let myself in, hoping that the door wasn't locked. As I reached the top step, the automatic porch light came on and I found another set of misplaced animals. Lying down in the back yard were two donkeys. Maybe some of you think that Raleigh is just a small town, but I promise that I never run into livestock where I live.

I let myself in the house and didn't try that hard to be quiet. Mama woke up and came to give me a hug, and I told her the animals were out. She sighed and went to wake up Daddy. A few minutes later we were all out in the yard: me with no shoes, Daddy completely dressed, and Mama in her nightgown and a pair of garden clogs with socks. I sat on the back porch with the dog and watched them chase the donkeys and goats back into their pen.

Finally, Mama came back to the house, and I got up and put my arm around here. "So when you were eighteen years old, posing for pictures with your fiance in Pasadena, did you ever think you'd be chasing donkeys in the middle of the night in North Carolina?" I ask her.

She laughs. "Well, there are worse things."

i'm just a soul whose intentions are good.

"Do you think of yourself as misunderstood?"

I had to sit back and think about it. I'm not sure why sitting back was necessary, as if thinking hard about something required you to use as few muscles as possible. But I'd never considered the question before, despite having sung "Oh, Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood!" at the top of my lungs.

I have felt misunderstood on an individual basis. Sometimes I feel that way on this blog, where I write a post and someone takes one line and runs with it, leaving me scratching my head and wondering if I'd been unclear about my point. And sometimes I make a joke, which people don't understand is a joke. Then there's the completely opposite situation where I'm being genuine and someone thinks I'm being a smart-aleck, having been burned by the previous situation before.

But no, I don't feel misunderstood. There are people who get me, and there are people who don't. The second group seems to have more members, and so when I find someone in the first group, I get very excited. Here is a kindred spirit. At last, I can be myself and say things that are too dorky or too silly or two obscure or too whatever for other people. And when I'm around the other kind of people, I definitely feel toned down. I'm Sandra Lite. By figuring out which group a person belongs to, I cut down on feeling misunderstood.

To recap: I've just written that I don't feel misunderstood, yet I think that the majority of people that I meet don't get me. I don't want to say that I feel misunderstood, because it strikes me as sort of a cliched excuse for having no friends or getting fired or not being able to get your book published. It's downright teenagery. In fact, I used to wonder whether that song about being misunderstood was ironic. I've looked up the lyrics, and I don't think it is, though there is potential for a great cover version.

But as far as feeling like most people don't get the real me, I assume that everyone feels this way. Maybe I'm wrong, and that feeling is just a part of being introverted or liking math or having big feet. In any case, it's just something else to deal with. Some people get me and some people don't. So it goes.

show-stopper.

I go to every show of my boyfriend's band. I'm not one of those hugely enthusiastic girlfriends, but more of the quiet and supportive type. I sort of remind myself of my mother at my high school basketball games, not wearing school colors and not screaming out at every play, but there nonetheless and clapping the few times that my team did something good.

Going to every show means seeing the same band play at least once a week, sometimes more. And I like the band, really I do, because I'm not the kind of person that can fake enthusiasm very well. But I do spend a fair amount of time at shows just people-watching. Sometimes the people being watched are in the band, particularly the bassist, and sometimes they are the various other concert-goers.

I know a lot of the concert-goers usually, because they are regulars like me. The band has a local following, and I can recognize most of their faces even if I don't know their names.

But I know Brad, and I was watching him. There was nothing particularly interesting about him, really, it was the girl he was with. Actually, it was her existence at all that was the most interesting. I'd never seen Brad with a girl. I'd seen him get shot down a few times after asking one to dance, but this one appeared to have responded to his advances much more positively. Who was she? Where did she come from? Would she stick around?

I like Brad, and so I was happy for him. I'd assumed that his girllessness was something he had wanted to change, but I always assume that. Everyone always seems to be looking for someone. I'm willing to hear other viewpoints on this, though, since I haven't spent much alone-time.

Having analyzed the situation as much as possible as I can from twenty feet away, I scan the crowd for other interesting people. I check out the bassist, frown on the underage girls in tight pants, admire another girl's jacket, check out the bassist, see if any of the other girls are checking out the bassist. I frequently check back on Brad's situation, noting how close the girl is standing, if they look happy, whether she is prettier than he is handsome.

The music is interrupted mid-song. Another regular, Big Mike, has come up to the stage and is trying to get the Trevor's, the guitarist, attention. Trevor stops playing his guitar momentarily to see what the trouble is. I start going through the possibilities. Big Mike would know better than to interrupt a song for something trivial. Had someone's car been stolen? Was someone messing with the equipment? After a few seconds, Trevor gives Big Mike a disapproving look and goes back to his song. Assuming the situation is under control, I turn my attention to an older man sitting by himself and start imagining his life story.

After the show, we're breaking down the equipment and talking about the hot news item: Brad's new girl. Neither of them are to be seen, so I assume they've gone off to be alone (together). I question Josh for more information.

"Did you see her?"

"Nah, I couldn't from the stage."

"Oh. Do you know who she is?"

"No."

Like many girls, I find my boyfriend to be a crappy gossiper.

"Oh. Oh, hey, what did Big Mike want? Why did he stop the show?"

"To tell Trevor that Brad had a girlfriend."

I giggle. Maybe I should start gossiping with Big Mike.

retail health care.

I don't know if you've ever had a urinary tract infection, but I have. If not, I'll describe it for you. Think of a time when you had to pee so bad you thought your bladder was just going to burst. Not like hyperbolic burst, but actually explode inside your body and leak urine all over the place. You were actually concerned for your health. It's like that, but what's worse, it takes all the fun out of peeing. The fun of peeing is the wonderful relief you feel afterwards, at least that's the way it is for girls. My jealous heart says that boys have other kinds of fun associated with urination associated with portability. Anyway, with a UTI, there is no relief. When you finally make it to the toilet, bursting with pain and doing the got-to-pee dance, you have only a few droplets to give. Seriously, not enough for a mouse's urine specimen. And then, two to five minutes later, you have to pee again. And you know that you don't really have to go, it's just a measly few more drops, but you've been toilet-trained. It's really a terribly inconvenient condition.

So we've established that I know exactly what a urinary tract infection feels like. So Saturday afternoon, when I had to pee, and then I had to pee again immediately, I knew what was up. I went to the grocery store and bought a nice big jug of cranberry juice to start chugging. You can tell someone is having bladder troubles when they start buying cranberry juice like it's going out of style. No one knows why it works, only that everyone says it works and it sorta kinda seemed to work that one time and you'll try anything to not have to go to the bathroom every other minute.

Actually, I do know why cranberry juice works. It changes the acidity in your bladder, and the bacteria don't like it, so they bail. At least, that's the dumbed-down version that a nurse told me. She looked trustworthy.

I don't really have a doctor here, so I didn't want to worry about finding one just to go pee in a cup for them. So when I seemed cured on Sunday after having drunk about four times my daily allotment of vitamin C in the form of cranberry juice, I let the matter go. I forgot all about it until this morning, when I was reminded. Then I was reminded again, a couple minutes later. Then again, etc., etc., and so forth.

I drank the rest of my cranberry juice this morning, but decided that I should probably seek professional advice. So I decided to give the Minute Clinic a try. These are mini doctor's offices found in pharmacies. Their website calls it "retail health care," a phrase that scares the NPR listener in me. But I just wanted some drugs to fix my problems, and in an overdrugged society like ours, retail health care sounds exactly like the kind of place where I might find that.

The Minute Clinic is a tiny jail cell of a doctor's office in the corner of a CVS Pharmacy. I walked in, was told to go out again and sign in on the interactive kiosk, then invited immediately back inside the office because no one else was waiting. I told the nurse that I had a urinary tract infection. She gave me a small paper bag and told me where the bathrooms were.

I don't know if you've ever walked across a drug store with an empty urine specimen cup in a bag in your hand, but I have. I wondered the whole way who knew what was in the bag, who was smirking at me and the secret of what I was about to go do.

In the handicapped stall of a CVS Pharmacy bathroom, I peed in a cup. I don't feel like I need to go into any more detail than that. I will say that I once more thought about how easy boys have it when it comes to peeing.

I don't know if you've ever walked across a drug store with a bag containing a cup of your own urine, but I have. It was far worse than the walk to the bathroom. I imagined terrible scenarios where I might run into someone I knew, or even that I might physically run into anyone at all. I've never had cause to walk around in public with a cup of my (or anybody's) urine, and really, I see why people don't do it very often.

The nice nurse stuck a test strip in my cup, looked at the colors and gave me the prescription that I'd wanted all along. She also told me about cranberries in pill form and told me that I could fill my prescription at the pharmacy of my choice (ten bucks says she's required to say that). I crossed the drug store for the third time, this time carrying no urine (well, not externally) and got my antibiotics. I was out the door in forty-five minutes. I was only a little poorer, as the visit qualified as a basic visit on my insurance and the drug was a generic.

Retail health care still creeps me out. But when I know what is wrong with me and I just want to go in there and get something to fix it, it's hard to beat. It's even worth walking around in public carrying a fresh urine specimen.

skiing on purpose.

Skiing to me is a lot like scuba diving. You pay a lot of money to buy or rent a lot of equipment. Then you drive to somewhere far, far away where you might have to pay more money for the privilege of using stuff like nature and weather. You spend a lot of time putting on funny special clothes and uncomfortable gear that makes you look stupid and causes much difficulty in basic movement. After hours of this, you spend fifteen minutes or so doing the actual activity. And while the actual activities are fun to do, I guess I never felt strongly about them to put forth the effort for the other stuff.

Josh's dad likes to ski. And he likes to dangle lift tickets like expensive paper carrots in front of his sons to get them to hang out with him. Every Christmas or birthday he gives them related gifts, be it jackets or snowboard boots or really thick socks. Maybe this is like moms offering to take their daughters shopping. Men just offer sporting outings. My parents offer me free produce to get me to come home.

I've come to benefit from this, though. I think if I didn't enjoy skiing, that would be a major black mark for me in Josh's dad's book. Maybe he'd start scheduling ski trips on weekends specified for singles at the ski lodge, hoping to introduce his son to a more ski-friendly girl.

Over Christmas, Josh's dad rented a condo at Snowshoe Mountain, West Virginia. At that point, I hadn't skied in about ten years, the last time being a middle school field trip. I was incredibly apprehensive about the trip. Sure, I'd been a decent skier at fourteen. But I was convinced that I was going to be an albatross on the whole trip. Have you ever seen an albatross try to ski? All the other members of our party would spend all their time waiting on Josh's dumb girlfriend, and no one would have any fun. They'd be able to swoosh, swoosh, swoosh down the mountain while I tried to get up after falling while getting off the ski lift.

As we geared up and walked out to the slopes, I felt ready to just sit down and create little frozen teardrops. I was terrified of ruining the ski trip for everyone else, while Josh was scared that I wasn't going to enjoy myself. That's just the silly kind of worry circle that people in relationships make.

After one run down the mountain, I was magically fine. I realized that skiing was not that hard. I might even venture to say that it comes fairly naturally to me, despite the fact that walking down the stairs occasionally does not come naturally to me. My excuse for my success is that I don't take very many risks - I am careful to go at reasonable speeds. Josh's dad calls me a "deliberate skier." Watch out, I'm skiing...on purpose.

A couple weekends back, I again got a free lift ticket. I'm starting to think about buying my own skis now that it looks like I'll be skiing more than once every ten years. Sporting equipment is unshockingly common at yard sales and thrift stores, and rental fees are no joke. Josh's dad even bought me a pair of ski goggles. I felt like one of the family.

turn it off.

We were in a giant church, in a small classroom on maybe the sixth floor of the educational building. It was night. There were cardboard boxes and bedsheets everywhere. You told me to start boarding up the door and the walls with the cardboard and to cover the windows with the sheets. You said that they were coming for us.

I was stressed out because the boxes were everywhere. I was overwhelmed with the task of organizing the boxes such that we could walk around, then flattening them and using them to cover the walls. I grabbed a purple jersey sheet and started on the window. First I turned it horizontally, then thought that maybe I would fold it in half and nail it up top-to-bottom. You said it had to be horizontal. We argued about it, as if we had time to argue. Finally you told me to just do whatever. I put the corner of the sheet to the corner of the window frame and used a nail to hold it in place. But I was nervous or stressed or just plain freaking out and as I hit the nail, the sheet dropped somehow, with a couple of lavender threads dangling from my nail.

It was then that I saw the rocks coming at us, and I screamed. Two the size of golf balls, and one more like a cantaloupe coming right at me as I stood on a chair next to the window. Down below in the streetlight-lit courtyard, I saw them, twenty people we knew and liked and trusted, armed with rocks. Kelly, Dave, Big Mike, some dorky kid whose name I'd never caught, and a dozen others, all looking for us. Big Mike looked like he was carrying a ragged corner chunk of a building, like he'd ransacked a demolition site. They started yelling.

It was sort of like a bad movie about street violence, with them making one-liners at your expense one at a time, then the rest of them laughing. You were fake laughing along, and I followed suit, figuring we were supposed to play it off, act like we hadn't just been nailing up wimpy household materials to protect us from them. I knew it was a ritual, but I didn't understand it. I didn't understand how we'd been having a beer with all these people a couple of nights ago, and now they were trying to stone us.

I saw you slip out the window - we'd boarded up the door - and climb down to them. They stopped yelling to watch you. You walked with your head down and your hands in your pockets, to the left of the group. You passed them, walking into the darkness behind. Then they looked at me.

"Turn it off!" The light, they wanted me to turn off the light. I didn't know why. I looked at you, but you just kept walking, not looking back to give me any sort of hint on what I had to do.

"Turn it off!" Why? Would they do something to me? Would they do something to you? Why wouldn't you look back?

"Turn it off!" I was scared to do it, and I was scared not to do it. Soon I wouldn't be able to see you at all.

"Turn it off!"

baking potatoes!

I love self-checkout and use it whenever possible. Like the ability to swipe your own credit card, it's a flawed step in the right direction. Self-checkout is not always quicker because you have to follow its rules. You have to answer questions. It frequently forces you to wait on scanning the next item. Sometimes it makes you wait until you've placed the last scanned item in a bag, relying on a scale underneath the bagging area. What if I don't need a bag? Go back and buy more groceries, the scanner thinks. I don't understand the requirement of putting one thing down before scanning another. Do they think you're stealing if you scan something and then don't put it down? Do they have a database in there of how much something should weigh, such that if you scan a bag of spinach and bag a steak, alarms go off?

Harris Teeter has the worst self-checkout. It asks you twice to scan your VIC (Very Important Customer, gag me) card. Then, when you've committed to paying, it asks you if you have any coupon or items on the bottom of your cart. These are two separate questions, and two separate screens, two separate times when you have to hit a button while you're fumbling for your credit card. I suppose the first one is to be helpful to the customer, but I'd rather be in charge of remembering my own coupons and skip this step. The second step is to keep you from inadvertantly stealing, because they know you're not going to come back and breathlessly explain how you accidentally stole that bag of Purina One, here's $20, now say three Hail Marys.

Food Lion, my regular grocery store, has only a slightly better system. They don't ask you a lot of questions. However, they send your groceries down a belt, where they accumulate at the end. There are sensors on the belt, so that if the bagging area gets full, you won't be allowed to scan any more groceries. The trouble is that self-checkout has replaced staff, and so there's never anyone to bag your groceries for you. You're expected to scan a few items, then go bag them, then scan some more, then bag those. This is not efficiency. At least at Harris Teeter, where bagging is enforced, you can bag as you go because the bagging area is next to you instead of five feet down a belt. Wal-Mart has a spinning bagger, which allows you to put more items in more bags. However, once the scale was broken, and so I had to do a manual override after every item because it thought I wasn't bagging. After every five items or so, a manager had to come over and say it was okay for me to do all these overrides.

The best part of self-checkout for me is the Voice. She's very friendly and upbeat, and always welcomes me as a MVP customer. I like ringing up produce the best because of the way they've programmed the voice to insert the name of your item. They recorded a woman saying the phrases "please move your" and "to the belt." Then they recorded all the possible fruits and vegetables with the same woman, but of course it's really obvious that the phrases are cut and paste together. "Please move your. Baking potatoes! To the belt." I am unable to keep myself from mimicking the Voice. I wish that I had that job. I think I would be good at it, bringing a whole new level of excitement to phrases like "hot house tomatoes," "your total is," and "arugula."

I complain about the self-checkout problem, but I don't know how to solve it. I like the bagging area to be next to me, but I don't like being forced to use it. And I want to scan things as fast as I'm able. I don't want the scanner to ask me about coupons or my discount card or items under my cart. I don't want to have to swipe my card at one place, then move over and sign my name somewhere else. However, I don't have any complaints about the Voice. She's fine by me and can ask me to move my Baking potatoes! any time she wants.

14 hours by the skee-ball machine.

Rhonda and I are sitting at the table in the games room, and I'm telling her about how my niece and nephew drive me nuts. Of course I love them and I think they're good kids, but really, they drive me nuts. It's to the point where I'm starting to wonder how we continue as a species, and why we haven't become one of those animals that destroys their young.

And here we see the adult male human trying to calm his young whilst they fight over a toy. The youngsters are ignoring the parent and sense no danger, when look! Yes! The adult female has entered the room, scooped up both children and thrown them out the window! Well, we have seen something today, folks, man in the wild.

Rhonda doesn't have any children either, but then Patrick comes in. He has two little girls, and so suddenly, he's the expert. I explain that my niece and nephew drive me crazy, to the point that I'm worried I won't have any patience with my own kids. I ask him for reassurance. "Do you find that you have more patience with your own kids than with other peoples'?" He hems and haws, which tells me he can't honestly give the answer I want. Then he asks for examples.

"Well, there's two of them. There's a boy who is eight and a girl who is twelve. And they're just at each other all the time. The boy is constantly provoking his sister in little ways. Just picking at her and touching her and trying to steal her chair when she gets up. But the girl is always trying to assert some sort of imaginary authority, telling him what to do or what not to do, warning him not to spill his drink on the computer." I pause. "I think I could probably strangle one with each hand."

Then Tom comes in, and Rhonda explains, "We're trying to help Sandra decide if she wants to have children." At that point, I realize the conversation has gotten away from me. I really don't want to get into a discussion of my future in child-bearing.

"I am not asking that. I'm just trying to determine if people tend to have more patience with their own kids than with other peoples' kids." I explain the situation with my niece and nephew again, during which Frank walks in. Tom replies, "They're eight and twelve? That's the way kids act."

"I understand that. The issue is not the way they are acting, but my reaction to it."

"You know how you know when you're ready to have kids?" Frank asks suddenly. I fight the urge to clarify that I'm not asking whether to have children, and I'm especially not asking whether to have children now. "You go to Chuck E Cheese, and you sit by the skee-ball machine all day. If by the end of that, you still want to have kids, you're ready."

It's a wonder the human race is still going.

my peeps.

It used to be that the day after Easter was a very exciting one for me. That's when all the candy goes on sale. And it's Easter candy, which means that it's not just chocolate kisses wrapped in colored foil. No, Easter gets its own kind of candy, egg-shaped and pastel colored. I've never been a fan of Cadbury cream eggs, though I have fond memories of those bizarre old commercials with the clucking rabbit.

So really, Easter candy is all about the Peeps, marshmallow animals covered with sparkling pink and yellow sugar. You can buy them in packs of nine or twelve, depending on whether you get bunnies or chicks. I haven't done any comparative weighing, but it seems that you get a better deal with chicks. Regardless, you can really only eat about half the pack before you get a stomachache. I'm sure there's a very good scientific explanation for this, what with all the marshmallow research going on these days, but I imagine the various chick and bunny parts swimming in the stomach and slowly swelling until you feel all full and empty at the same time. Gummy worms work on a similar principle. You feel kinda gross and think, man, I just ate a whole lot of nothingness. Then half an hour later, you happen to see the rest of the package, just sitting there, getting stale, and you forget all about any tummy ache.

It's best not to buy very many packages of half-price peeps, because you pretty much have to eat the whole package at once, or at least within an hour or so of opening them. Peeps do get stale once opened, and the delicious marshmallowy center becomes hard and unpleasant to eat. You start venturing into dangerous thought territory when you eat them, like wondering what in the world this crap is made of anyway. You're supposed to be thinking about how delicious they are, and whether you prefer chicks or bunnies, not to mention the whole question of whether to eat heads and ears first or just throw the whole thing in.

But honestly, I haven't gorged out on Peeps in years, and I realized why only yesterday. It's because of their yearlong availability. You can get Peeps on any holiday now. They have ghosts and bats and pumpkins for Halloween, hearts on Valentine's Day, snowmen for Christmas. Even the Fourth of July gets little red, white, and blue chicks. Peeps have sold out to the other holidays. They're just chemical marshmallow coated with chemical sugar that makes you feel funny if you eat them. And while that's all they ever were, at least then, they were special.

the avocado council.

Someone alert the Avocado Council. Their fine fruit is being done a disservice. I cannot yet tell how widespread the problem is, only that I have observed it in both the mountain and piedmont regions of North Carolina. There is no evidence to suggest that the issue started here, so there is the distinct possibility that it started elsewhere and spread here and who knows where else. It must be stopped.

I'm speaking of bad guacamole.

Some of you, those who have already been infected by bad guacamole, say that the phrase is redundant. I used to be among you, counting myself as anti-guacamole and indeed, anti-avocado. Because who ever heard of anything that the avocado ever did, except make guacamole? I shunned the green chip dip, asked for burritos be served without it, and abandoned friendships with those who claimed to enjoy it.

But my friends, I tell you that I had a revelation! I had a fresh and delicious epiphany, I saw the light, and it was light green. I was in a Mexican restaurant in Manhattan, where my friend was served something with a light sweet smell. She called it guacamole. But no, I said, guacamole has a gross brown tinge to it and smells like the bottom of a little kid's shoe after a rainstorm. At the next table over, a waiter came by with a tray bearing four bowls of different ingredients and one big empty bowl. He scooped some from each bowl, diced tomatoes, something white and tiny, some spices, and a bunch of mashed green goo. Right there he mixed them all together in the empty bowl and served it to the couple, who immediately dug in with tortillas. They looked happy. Intrigued, I asked my friend if I could sample hers. Then I looked happy.

So why is bad guacamole allowed to exist? Is it the avocadan equivalent of instant mashed potatoes? Is it too old, too processed, or just using the wrong ingredients? Are the waiters at those other Mexican restaurants just serving it to see if the silly gringos eat it?

I am hear to spread the guacamole gospel. Making delicious guacamole is as simple as taking ingredients from bowls in putting them in the same bowl. Tasting the real stuff will make you think eighty-seven times before you declare yourself anti-guacamole. Now you, too, can spread the word.

Guacamole
Allrecipes

• 3 avocados - peeled, pitted, and mashed


• 1 lime, juiced


• 1 teaspoon salt


• 1/2 cup finely diced onion


• 3 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro


• 2 roma (plum) tomatoes, diced


• 1 teaspoon minced garlic

1. In a medium bowl, mash together the avocados, lime juice, and salt. Mix in onion, cilantro, tomatoes, and garlic. Refrigerate 1 hour for best flavor, or serve immediately.

Avocado trivia : Avocados are also called "alligator pears" due to their leathery skin. For a long time, avocados were thought to be a sexual stimulant, and so if you wanted to keep your good reputation, you wouldn't be caught buying them. The Avocado Council (or the actual, not made-up organization in charge of avocado public relations) launched a campaign to improve the public perspective. The word itself comes from the Aztec word ahuacatl, meaning "testicle." The Spanish soon substituted their own similar-sounding word, avocado, their word for "lawyer." So if a Conquistador ever tells you that someone kicked his lawyers, you'll know what he means.

brain fuel.

It's a well-known fact that bananas don't grow alone, but they've also got something to say. That story, and no others, on tonight's Ad Watch.

doot-do-do-loot-doot, doot-do-do-loot-doot, doot-do-do-loot-doot, do!

Notice anything different about everyone's favorite yellow fruit? You'll have to look closely, for you might not notice that those familiar blue stickers say more than just the brand name nowadays. The Chiquita banana company still says cha-cha-cha, but now it's saying a little more.

Stickers now bear sayings promoting the fruit, things such as "Peel Me - I'm Fat-Free!" While these last minute marketing notes may not directly cause consumers to pick Chiquita over Dole or even bananas over berries, the quirky and cute tactic might make people think favorably of Chiquita in the future. Slowly, the company may win themselves loyal fans with phrases such as "Brain Fuel" or "PSSST! I'm Full of Vitamins!"

Local grocery stores have noticed people lingering a little longer in the banana section to check out these tiny blue ads, and a Harris Teeter in Raleigh, North Carolina even reported one customer stealthily taking stickers and then nonchalantly purchasing nectarines. Some companies might consider that a marketing failure, but we talked to the Chiquita banana lady herself, who said that the stickers are just a way of attracting attention. She then added, "PSSST! I'm Full of Vitamins!"

Another reason to love fresh fruit, another reason to go cha-cha-cha, and for the easily amused, another reason to hang out in the produce section. This is Ad Watch. Goodnight.



doot-do-do-loot-doot, doot-do-do-loot-doot, doot-do-do-loot-doot, do!

team player.

I learned the importance of restocking early and often when I was waiting tables. I also learned the importance of balance, charm, and efficiency, and all of these skills have helped me in my post-server life. But who knew that restocking had anything to do with being a software engineer?

As a waitress, restocking is important as a part of a team. If you have a second to refill the creamers or cut more lemons, you should do it. Period. Because later, there won't be time for silly things like refilling creamers, because there's not even time for important things like taking orders or delivering food to increasingly hungry and angry customers. You will appreciate yourself later. What's more, your coworkers will appreciate it. They will think that you are a Team Player, and they will be more likely to do their own restocking in an effort to help you out. I know I'm getting all pre-game pep talk on you, but you should always restock. Also give 110%.

Restocking is not important as a software engineer per-se. In fact, it only comes into play in the kitchen of my company, where the free soft drinks live. Some of them live in the refrigerator, and some of them are on the refrigerator waiting list, living on the floor off to the side, huddled together in groups of six. Obviously, when someone wants a drink, they take it from the fridge. Drinks taste better when they're cold, or at least the cold covers up their flaws.

When a software engineer takes the last Dr. Pepper from the fridge, what should he do? Would would he do, if he were a Team Player?

Sadly, I do not work with Team Players. Well, not in terms of the fridge. They're actually great Team Players when it comes to getting software done, but not in keeping a steady supply of frosty beverages. I probably shouldn't complain about the far less important matter. Maybe it's all those years of restocking creamers, but an empty fridge drives me nuts.

For a while, I would faithfully restock the fridge every afternoon. It was lovely. There were always plenty of drinks for any taste. I didn't just refill the Dr. Peppers, I would refill the Diet Cokes and the Sunkists and the root beers, because I am a Team Player. But I gave up, because I was obviously the only one who gave a crap. No one else bothered to even refill the drinks they liked, much less the drinks they didn't care for. So I quit my daily restocking ritual to leave them to their lukewarm sodas. That'll teach 'em.

It didn't. Rather than someone else becoming conscientious, the fridge became something you might see in a bachelor pad. Occasionally someone would restock, but he would do so by taking an entire 24 pack of Coke and shoving them wherever they fit. That is called Looking Out For #1, and it is the antithesis of being a Team Player.

Yesterday afternoon, I sighed and gave in. The constant disarray of the refrigerator was driving me even more nuts and I realized that restocking was a pretty stupid thing to get worked up over in software. Fine, you win. You shall have a well-stocked fridge. There will be cold beverages for everyone. No one will appreciate or help me or even notice that someone had to put the cherished Diet Mountain Dew in the fridge for it to be cold in their hot little hands. But I will do it anyway, because I am a Team Player.

gong for god.

All the churches in New York City look lost to me. It's probably because I'm just a small town girl, but I don't expect to turn a busy street corner and find myself starring at a gothic cathedral. I wonder where this church meant to be, and how it got so lost that it just sat down here between a Hungarian bakery and a cobbler's shop.

We stumbled upon this massive Episcopalian church, The Cathedral Church of Saint John the Divine. Going inside a place like this, all marble and domed ceilings and stained glass, I do start to think that if I were God, I'd hang out in the expensive churches. It's really a lucky thing that I'm not God, for a lot of other unrelated reasons.

Anyway, behind the pulpit in this cathedral, there was something hanging from the ceiling. It was huge. I took a poor quality picture of it, and I post that picture here, not because it is a good picture, but because it is fascinating.


It's a gong. A giant, probably six feet high, gong. In a church. I have no idea why, except that if I were God, I would be pleased.

slow cooker love: chicken and dumplings.

It all started with a slow cooker.

I used to call it a "crock pot," which is the genericized trademark name. However, out of respect for my new and beloved appliance, which is not made by Rival (who makes the "Crock Pot" line), but by Hamilton Beach, I call it a slow cooker. Slow cookers are tortoises in the cooking world, the culinary equivalent of slow and steady wins the race. The best part of using a slow cooker is coming home. You've had a rough day, no one understands you, traffic was crappy, and then, your house smells like someone loves you. Someone does love you. It was you, eight hours ago.

So it all started with a slow cooker because that's how I really started getting into cooking. As a novice, the idea of throwing a bunch of raw ingredients in a container and going away for hours appealed to me. That is my kind of cooking. While I have since advanced to recipes that require occasional stirring (and one ca-razy one where I had to flip something), I still have a deep appreciation for the negligent method of dinner preparation.

I see my slow cooker as a friend and ally in this confusing food world, a trusted confederate, a kitchen gadget with a Protestant work ethic. "Go on to work," she cries, for why shouldn't she be a she? "Go earn more money to buy more raw ingredients! I'll stay here and make sure that you have a warm meal to come home to, so that you'll have energy to go out and do it again tomorrow! And leftovers! There will be leftovers!" The more I think about it, the more my slow cooker and I are starting to sound like a married couple in the 50s. She did ask me to balance her checkbook once.

So if you haven't done it lately, give your slow cooker a little love. Along with some chicken and spices.

Note this recipe is a convenience recipe, meaning it's only one step removed from buying a can of chicken and dumplings soup. There are ways to make your cream of whatever soup, and I do know them. But I'm not telling, because, honestly, I'm not quite there yet in terms of my culinary devotion to "made from scratch." So even though it's a long ways from your Amish grandmother's soup, it doesn't taste that way. Feel free to add your own spices and whatnot. Also, I shred the chicken after it's been cooking for a while, though you could cube it before cooking.

Slow Cooker Chicken and Dumplings
ripped shamelessly and modified only slightly from Allrecipes

• 4 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves


• 2 T butter


• 1 (10.75 oz) condensed cream of chicken soup


• 1 (10.75 oz) condensed cream of celery soup


• 1 onion, chopped


• 2 (10 oz) package refrigerated biscuit dough, torn into pieces

1. Place the chicken, butter, soup, and onion in a slow cooker, and fill with enough water to cover.


2. Cover, and cook for 7 to 8 hours on low. About an hour before serving, place the torn biscuit dough in the slow cooker. Shred chicken. Cook until the dough is no longer raw in the center.

the jackie o. sump.

I went to New York City over a December weekend with another Big Apple Virgin. I get very self-conscious about being seen as a tourist. And so it was always a small thrill to me when some other out-of-towner asked us what to do. Of course, those other people were the fanny pack and freshly-bought "I (heart) NY" t-shirt crowd, but it was still nice to think that we could pass for natives, provided you weren't very hip yourself.

One morning we were on our way to Central Park. We had consulted the map and knew the general direction, if not how many blocks we needed to take, figuring we would know it when we saw it. We saw the sidewalk turn to grass, with picturesque running trails and a small soccer field. As we waited on the corner across the street for our turn to cross, a lady came up to us and asked, "Excuse me, do you know of any cafes or bakeries near the park?" We shook our heads sadly and explained that we were not from around here. We congratulated ourselves, both on our navigation and on our masquerading as city folk, and started along one of the picturesque running trails to enjoy the nation's most famous city park.

We'd walked about half a block into the park, consulting our little map as discreetly as possible, when we started to think that something was awry. For one thing the Jackie O. Reservoir looked like a sump (a fun word to say, but really more of an insult if it's named after you). Also, the park appeared to be only a block or so wide. I was a newbie to this whole New York thing, but I was pretty sure that Central Park was supposed to be bigger than the park at my middle school. Finally, we saw a sign saying Morningside Park. We felt a little silly, but we felt worse for the woman wandering around looking for bagels.

We did find Central Park. It's much nicer than the park at my middle school, or really anything in my home town. It might be bigger than my home town. And Jackie O. will be relieved that her reservoir is worth photographing, which is what I did.

the chef did it.

My sister-in-law suggested that I blog about cooking, but I am hesitant about the idea. The trouble is taking what is essentially just a recipe and turning it into a good blog entry. If you're not interested in cooking, there should be something for you to enjoy as well. I suppose I should see it as a challenge.

Perhaps I feel this way because it's only recently that reading a recipe on a blog or anywhere would interest me. Recipes are all about the same, right? There's some ingredients, some directions, some notes, but never any plot twists, intrigue, or thoughtful commentary on the human condition.

But lately, I've been reading a lot of recipes, because I've discovered what makes a recipe worth studying - trying to figure out if you can actually make the thing. Out of nowhere, I discovered that I like to cook. Actually, I discovered that I was not totally inept at cooking, which was really what was keeping me from enjoying it. Who likes to do things they suck at? Not me. I approached the kitchen with apprehension, and more than one dish was flavored with the salt of my frustrated tears. But somehow, quite magically, I found some easy recipes that yielded delicious results and my confidence started growing. I am not afraid anymore.

I'm excited about my new hobby. I bought a new slow cooker, loaf pans, pie plates, and even dropped some major cash on a food processor (which has already paid $2 for itself in grated cheese savings). I bring my lunch to work every day and secretly hope someone will ask me what I'm having so that I can proudly tell them that I made every bit of it. I want to cook two or three new dishes every evening, despite the fact that my fridge is already full of what I cooked on past evenings. I look at recipes online, marking things that sound good and within my skill level. In restaurants, if I find something I like, I go home and look it up, to see if it can be prepared at home. I feel like I'm unravelling the mystery of food - I'm discovering that many fantastic dishes just aren't that hard to make.

I found a can of soup in my pantry the other day, a pop-top lid number with 'Select' or 'Fancy' or 'Choice' in the name that I'd bought months ago on sale. I scowled at it. What was I going to do with this? Since then, I've learned to make about four kinds of soup myself that can show this silly can what it can do with its pop-top. I suppose I'll have to donate it to a food drive to go to someone who doesn't have a slow cooker.

So what I'm saying in all this is that I'm going to at least give my sister-in-law's (sister's-in-law?) suggestion a whirl. I may decide that it's not in me to make recipes interesting to those who are still in their pop-top lid stage. Or maybe I'll write a brilliant murder mystery, where the important clue is a teaspoon of allspice.

nodding donkey.

Josh had never before been to Kansas before I took him there, which is surprising, since surely all American children visit this tourist hotspot at least once. Before we went, he told me that he wanted to be sure to get a picture of a pumpjack (also known as a nodding donkey or a thirsty bird). "Don't worry," I told him. He kept bringing it up, as if I would forget or there weren't more of them than trees in Kansas.

Once we got to the farm, he seemed to be satisfied that we would indeed be able to photograph one, as he finally understood what I meant by saying they were "freakin' everywhere." One evening, at about dusk, we finally snuck off into someone's field and made out took some pictures of a pumpjack.

I remember being fascinated by the things when I was a kid, the way they tirelessly seesaw up and down, up and down, slow and steady wins the race. But I'd never gotten really close to one. It's sort of like going to a natural history museum where they have dinosaur skeletons. It's massive and seems to be part of a different time, an composition of simple machines, not circuits. They are beautiful, in a Kansas sort of way.