Review: The Other Boleyn Girl

Ok, we all saw the book when it appeared in Barnes and Noble and Borders. Some of us may have even purchased it then, before the hype associated with the New York Times Bestseller list.

Then the commercials and the interviews started. You knew the title, perhaps, but not much more. A recent trip to Borders would have confronted you with racks devoted only to this particular novel, swathed in a new cover to promote the release of the new film upon which it is based. In some places, the bookcase would have been strategically placed next to a high-end TV set, running an endless loop of movie promos.

And yes, admittedly, at one point, I thought "read this book, see what you think" in the vain hope that perhaps one author in the present age "has it" and isn't composing trash like The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants or The Da Vinci Code on a patronizing 4th grade reading level.

Well, high expectations, or any expectations, are only destined to be disappointed.

The Other Boleyn Girl is not much of a novel, for all 600+ pages of it. The point of the genre of historical novels is to give the reader a more intimate view on a character or an event in the past--a view that the reader can't get, no matter how much history he or she has studied, because that third dimension is rarely plainly there in the documents left behind from that time period. The problem is in this case, Phillipa Gregory tells us a story we already know in a way we already know it, and she isn't even entirely accurate on that point, either. Case in point is the ages of the characters being rather off--Mary Boleyn, the main character and the famous Anne's sister, is hyped up here as the younger sister--younger than Anne by a year, when in reality, she was not only older than Anne, but older, more than likely, than the whole bunch of Boleyns from that generation. If her affair with King Henry VIII, timed in this novel at running from about 1522 to about 1526, would have corresponded to Mary Boleyn's mid-twenties, if not later in her life. Phillipa Gregory, either for dramatic effect or because of bad research, chose to make Mary about 14 when the affair began. It seems to me that she may have done this to further her ends to create the "naieve", young, malleable character in the form of Mary, and perhaps to make what turns out to be a very sad attempt to mould Mary in the form of a literary foil to the quick-witted, strong Anne Boleyn we know from history.

The problem is first, this character does not at all jive with what is known about Mary (who appears quite the opposite, and rather proud of that fact), and second, you can't create a "foil" in the literary world when you are telling a story from one character's perspective. The point is that a balance between the two characters' actions and thoughts and feelings, whether revealed or interpreted by the reader, must be established by the author's treatment of both characters equally. As you can tell, with a title like The Other Boleyn Girl, that balance does not exist.

The biggest problem for me is that I didn't care about the characters--not Anne, not Mary, no one. They were all too two-dimensional for me to care about. It was like I was reading a cartoon strip with pictures and minimal dialogue rather than a book. Gregory may have made her book so long because she filled it with empty words that only seemed to describe short, one-sentence volleys she hopes we consider conversations and events--no character development and no descriptions included.

Unrealistic bits in particular:

I know it offends every female on the planet today to "do the right thing" historically and have women accepting the fact that they are subject to the male authority in their world, but this was indeed the 16th century. Many would retort that "of course Gregory discusses this in the novel", and my point is that she does discuss it. Over and over again. Every other discussion. With something so ingrained in the culture of the world she is attempting to paint, there wouldn't be this much discussion about it by the people who are apart of this world, if any discussion at all. We, as modern readers, would just have to get over it.

Anne's fate gets overshadowed at every point that one could consider "obvious" in the text. We know what happens. Once or twice at powerful moments would be a great literary effect. Five to ten times in the first third of the book passes the "overkill" level on the meter.

The court of Henry VIII was a big place which included lots and lots of people. Gregory gives you the idea that Henry only interacted with the Boleyn family members during diversions. Apparently, this complicated Tudor world only encompasses King Henry, a few nameless ambassadors, a bunch of church people, Cardinal Wosley, Queen Catherine, a group of ladies in waiting--apparently reduced to Anne and Mary Boleyn, their extended family, and a nameless group of other people, and their brother, George Boleyn. Oh, and Mary's husband makes the occasional appearance now and again. Of course, this entirely leaves out the whole group of peers of the realm and their retinues, with the exeption of Henry Percy, who courts Anne briefly, and a random group of "Seymores" we never see a sign of in person (oh, and which serves as yet another reminder of Anne's fate). I cannot imagine that all of these individuals would have been so overlooked and left out in the real court of Henry VIII.

Oh, and I doubt the King of England would have been caught publicly nearly kissing any of his mistresses. Sorry, Phillipa, flirtations abounded at that time, but open affection was rather frowned upon and could have single handedly started a war with Spain while Henry was still married to Catherine in hopes of children. That didn't start, for those of you who are interested, until the court of Charles II when it was clear from the beginning that his wife was barren and he was riding the tide of backlash against the strict Puritans.

What did I realize? Phillipa Gregory's work here will shed a lot of light on why certain authors have been historically classified as "great writers". The answer to that question, nine times out of ten, is good character development, which is something entirely missed in The Other Boleyn Girl. Instead of three-dimensional, real people lost to the past, we watch a fabulous, colorful story fall prey to too much foreshadowing, people characterized by one or two attributes rather than human complexity, and the telling of events, both pivotal and ordinary, in the same, matter-of-fact way, whether it be a day with the children, a birth, a marriage, or a death.

And now for something completely different:

Route 93 My Friend; Route 93 My Enemy

Northern New England continues to be a winter-sports-lover's dream. However, for the un-athletic world, well, the dreamy lyrics of the song "Winter Wonderland" faded long ago.

Allow me to clarify for those who haven't once consulted a news source of any kind in the last two months. Once a week, every week, there has been a snowstorm that has exhibited the following characteristics: cold weather resulting in the type of snow that either sticks on a surface or blows around into large, poorly placed piles, the heaviest period of snowfall corresponding with either one or both "rush hour" periods without a plow to be seen, and people in SUVs plowing through these conditions at 70 miles per hour regardless of the presence of two inches of snow on the road surface and dozens of other cars attempting to be careful around them.

What amazes me the most is the fact that major highways upon which hundreds and thousands of people a day drive are many times left to the mercies of Mother Nature to the point that travel on them becomes extremely dangerous. Yesterday, for example, I was driving north on Route 93. All four lanes were covered in powdery snow. I was on the road for about 45 minutes and I did not see one plow, let alone one plow actually physically plowing the road surface. Behind me was miles and miles of traffic--hundreds of cars trying to get a head start on the upcoming vacation week at the many available ski resorts. I counted three rollovers on that stretch--mostly comprised of the "I'm invincible with a car bigger than the average motor home" crowd. It was incredible.

On the other hand, Route 93 is also the most efficient way out of here.

The Zen of the Complete Apartment

Last night, I passed my first apartment-arrangement milestone: I assembled the last piece of furniture that arrived on my back doorstep as slats of wood and accompanying bolts in a box.



And now, the apartment is pretty much all set up. Well, the bare walls will be my next project--and a significantly more enjoyable task than putting together bookcases and tables.

Before:



After:



Ahhhh....the green couch. No, I didn't have to built that, but that doesn't mean that I didn't have additional, exceptional problems with it.

I ordered it from Bob's--there is a surprising lack of furniture stores out here, so my choices ended up being: wait for three weeks for Macy's to deliver something out of their limited selection of styles and colors, be patronized by sales associates at Ethan Allen, live without any seating, or suck it up and go to Bob's. Fortunately, it was quick work to actually buy the furniture there. I recall being dragged to locally owned furniture stores with my parents as a kids and it always took hours in environments where you weren't allowed to touch anything. I set a shipping date for mid-week, and I was assured I would get a phone call a day ahead to give me a three hour window to expect the furniture and I would get another phone call from the delivery truck an hour before it's anticipated arrival. My concern was mainly coordinating my availability with my hours at work, and if all went well, I'd get my couch in good time with limited inconvenience to myself in the process.

Well, as usual, no process that involves people bringing large items into your home who aren't allowed to accept tips will be absolutely painless.

The day before, I got a window of between about 8 and 11 for the furniture. I figured that wasn't so bad--in the ideal case I would get the furniture before I even had to be at work, and if not, I could count it as part of a lunch hour taken to let the movers into the house. No big deal either way.

At 7:30 in the morning, the vibrations of a large vehicle in front of the house gradually dragged my consciousness into an awakened state. I checked my phone--no calls had come in that I missed, and I did a double-take when I saw the nearest clock face. I threw on a pair of slippers and rushed to the door where the anticipated knock had already been laid. I opened the door. One of the two movers entered and asked me where I wanted the furniture to go. I pointed to a few places on the floor.

Oh, and did I ask him what happened to the "warning" phone call? You bet.

The chair and the coffee table came in just fine through the front door.

Then, came the couch. Surprisingly, they tried to move it in with all of the cushions still on it, regardless of having apparently done this for a living for at least longer than 24 hours. They quickly corrected this error and brought the cushions into the apartment first, and then, went back for the frame.

The frame turned out to be a little long. They got it through the front door in an upright position, taking apart an overhead hall light in the process. However, given it's length, they couldn't get it through my door like that--they would have to take it in length-wise rather than upright. The hallway wasn't wide enough to accommodate the length of the couch entirely, so one of them tried to climb up the narrow staircase to the upstairs apartment in order to allow for more room to turn it, and he was now trapped behind it halfway up the staircase.

So, the next logical step was apparently trying to convince me to call customer service and get a refund for the couch because they couldn't get it in the apartment.

I've done a lot of moving, and I am sure you can guess what the chances were for my doing that without a complaint.

My apartment is one of two on the first floor of the building. Across the hallway from me is another apartment, and it didn't take too many functioning brain cells to figure out that if the neighbors would only open the door for five seconds, the movers could back the couch length-wise into their apartment and then pull it into my own. Apparently, there was some kind of a policy conflict with their physically knocking on a neighbor's door to finish their job. Given the position of the couch in the hallway and the position of the movers, there was no way I could do the job on that one. Bottom line, I told them that regardless of minor policy glitches, their primary policy was to move the furniture people purchased into their homes, and they wouldn't be taking the couch back unless they at least knocked on the door opposite mine.

What happened? They knocked, the neighbor opened the door, they quickly pulled the couch into their living space and then, straight into my own in about half a minute's time.

At least someone found a new favorite spot, with or without furniture:



Oh, and it's snowing out here.....seems to do that a lot.

In Memoriam: Harriet

Harriet died this morning.

I adopted Harriet about five and a half years ago from an animal shelter nearby my parents' house. I was moving out, starting an internship in another state, and I couldn't imagine living in a house without at least one cat. Of course, there were plenty of cats to choose from, and as any animal lover knows, a trip to the shelter means having to fight the urge to take each and every one of those animals home.

Harriet caught my eye here. She was obviously displeased sharing a living space with so many other, less intelligent cats, and some who even cried to beg for the attention of a passing potential adopter. She was curled up towards the back of her cage, but upon being approached, she was aware--she acknowledged it in a way that later on, after getting to know her better, I could only term as characteristically Harriet. She didn't open her eyes, but she did start to purr, and she flicked her tail in response to every statement I made to her.

It was only a matter of time before I took her home. I brought her with me to my internship, and she moved with me into and out of two different apartments. She put up with a number of roommates in the meantime, and she never minded them. In fact, she seemed to prefer to be around other cats and actually made an effort to "get to know" them. As for humans, well, they could generally be divided into two groups--people she liked and people she eventually decided to put up with.

It's hard to tell when animals get older sometimes. The passage of time is different for them than it is for us--five years isn't much to a human being, but to a cat, it could be a significant part of a lifetime. Her black fur greyed slightly, she slept a lot more, and she was even more disagreeable when she had to be taken to the vet or treated for her diabetes. However, Harriet still greeted us at the door when we came home, she still would try and chase the reflections that watch faces made on the wall from the sun, and she still commanded the position of queen of the house--a position none of the other cats dared to tread upon. She understood a large vocabulary of words. She always looked worried when we scolded her, and upon pairing that with her terror when I moved out of my last apartment, we thought that perhaps her previous owners had abandoned her--and, as much as we would like to think that animals aren't affected by things the way we are, whatever Harriet had been through had made an imprint on her that she never forgot somehow.

Three kittens came into our home while Harriet was with us. No matter how annoying they must have been at times--jumping on her, running over her, making endless amounts of noise--she was never impatient. Only when a young, naive Charlotte tried to vie for "alpha-cat" did Harriet promptly quell that rebellious spirit by knocking her clear across the kitchen floor at an unanticipated moment--which was never forgotten by Charlotte. Emily, Charlotte's sister, took a particular liking to Harriet and would follow her around, nap with her, rub up against her, and just generally did everything that Harriet did. Emily's shining moment was hopping into a laundry basket with Harriet after Harriet suffered a glucose crash and was without the ability to move or see on her own. The other cats kept a safe distance, but Emily snuggled up with Harriet, and Harriet, not one for a lot of affection, acknowledged her kindness the only way she could at the time--by echoing Emily's purr.

Harriet was well known at the vet. After a recent surgery, the office called and we were informed that "Harriet had a procedure done today. There were no injuries to the staff."

Well, Harriet, for all the bowls of soup we shared, for the times we sat on the couch together, for the selection of dead mice you brought me as "gifts", for putting up with my roommates both feline and human, and for having the strength to be entirely unapologetic about who you were--something a lot of people cannot do--I bid you a formal, affectionate, and tearful good-bye. I hope that you understand somehow that although I had to do things like give you daily insulin treatments and shave your matted fur, I love you very much.

And, if I learned anything at all.....that there will never be another Harriet.

And I prefer it that way.

Hello, Can I Help You?

There seem to be two main reasons why companies--mostly big-name ones--provide some of the worst customer service imaginable. One is just sheer arrogance on the part of the company. It's the same kind of scenario you find on a small scale on the high school dating scene. You've got the hot guy or the hot girl that everyone at least finds attractive, and when you conjure up a vision of him or her in your head, arrogance tops the list of non-physical attributes. Similarly, you get a big company that has lots of customers and provides lots of services, and the "big head" phenomenon isn't too far behind.

The other reason is our fault--the consumer. Too often, we're willing to let them charge us all kinds of ridiculous fees for their services, we let their problems become our inconveniences, and we just say "oh, well" without thinking for a second how amazingly ridiculous the concept is.

Case in point:

Date: Today
Company: Verizon

Last week, I ordered Verizon TV, Internet, and phone service online. I sent them all the information and got the confirmation e-mail right away. However, the next morning, I got an additional e-mail informing me that I would have to call the "Welcome Center" at such-and-such a number to confirm the order. Ok, not a problem. I did. The operator explained to me that their credit check system had not been working properly when I placed my order, that she had confirmed the information with me by phone, that I would get an e-mail in the next 24 hours regarding the service installation, and that everything was all set for the date I had selected.

Ok. No problems there. Yet.

By Monday, no e-mail had come. Odd. So, I called Verizon again to see whether they forgot to e-mail me or something got lost in translation.

I called the Welcome Center again. The operator told me that the credit check had not yet been processed (so much for the accuracy of the first operator). He told me that he sent the order out through the proper channels, but if I wanted to confirm they received it, I would have to call them myself. So, apparently unable to transfer me over the phone, I had to make another call.

I made the call. Five times. The line was busy for a full 45 minutes before I got a free line and sat on hold for 20 minutes listening to a loop of repeating elevator music. Finally, after I had lost all hope that I would be helped, an operator came on the line. I gave her a confirmation number that she got wrong, of course, but after that was worked out, I explained to her what the other operator had told me.

I was put on hold. Hold time: 3 minutes.

Apparently, the credit check was in the exact same state it had been since the beginning. I explained to her that the other operator had sent over the new information in order to speed up the process and ensure that I could get my service installed tomorrow, as was originally planned.

I was put on hold. Hold time: 2 minutes, 33 seconds.

Well, no, it couldn't work that way. It was seemingly as if the whole order had not been placed at all as the computer system told the story. I asked her why two other operators had told me differently in my previous conversations.

Her answer was to put me on hold a third time. For four minutes.

When she returned, she wanted to redo the whole order. She also explained that I couldn't have the services installed the next day because the credit check takes a full day to process. The best she could do was give me the 17th. I asked her why their computer problems were ultimately inconveniencing me even though I took every step they had required of me correctly. I also asked her why her company seemed to think that the average person who works Monday through Friday from 9 to 5 every week could clear his or her schedule on the fly to wait eight hours for their technician to come. Her reply was to label these legitimate complaints as "venting" and tell me "she would do what she could."

And then....she put me on hold. For what seemed like ten minutes.

Well, needless to say, she had no new information when she came back. The best she could do was still Thursday. I told her that Thursday was out. I asked for the 21st--Martin Luther King Day. No, she didn't have any time that day. I told her that this was completely ridiculous. Verizon first expected me to do all the work myself to get my credit checked properly, which isn't any of my concern, thought I could be home any day of the regular working week for all of regular working hours, and figured that could be done any day they had available regardless of customer convenience and schedule. I said that I had an installation date for the 15th, and given the amount of trouble I had been through already, I expected Verizon to find a way to do it--oh, God forbid--on my time, not theirs.

The operator apparently found this absolutely shocking. She explained she would have her supervisor call me and asked me for my number, which I gladly gave to her. Then, I ended the phone call.

Ten minutes later, I thought: why not see what Comcast can do for you? Comcast had similar rates, similar services, and a similar price range. I figured it couldn't hurt to give them a quick call. Perhaps appealing to them, referencing my unsuccessful call to Verizon may help things out a bit as well. I placed a call, and it was picked up in about thirty seconds by a Comcast operator. I explained what I wanted to order, he put the order in the computer and waived the installation fees. I asked him if they installed on the weekend, and he set me up with an installation on Saturday. He also gave me a four hour, as opposed to an eight hour, window for service. Then, came the credit check. When he asked for my social security number, I thought that the game was up. Ten seconds later, the check was done and everything was fine. Before I ended the call, I had to thank him for providing great service, and I told him that I was happy to be a Comcast customer.

Oh, and did that mysterious supervisor call? I think not.

Time to call in a U-Haul

Wow, it has been a while. I was still pilgrimming on to the Thanksgiving season when I last wrote. In fact, in the meantime, The Rock of Love turned out ugly--no shocker there given VH1 jumped on The Rock of Love 2 without allowing us to take a Poison-free breath, Tila apparently chose a man after bringing the options down to a man and a woman who one could easily mistake for a man, and New York has a new love that we have yet to see make it through the Reunion show. I wish my dating life were that exciting.

So, I got a new job (Applause).

What that means is: relocation, relocation, relocation, and in no way can that be equated to Thoreau's similar three-pronged invocation of simplicity. This meant taking the entire weekend to try and find a place near my new epicenter of work. Here are some of the highlights of my search:

My first apartment go-see landed me fairly close to my job, which was a plus. Unfortunately, that was the only plus. As soon as I pulled into the parking area shared by two adjacent buildings, I was given the immediate once-over by two individuals on their porch smoking, both of whom could be mistaken for the instigators of the latest hold up at the local liquor store. The landlord couldn't show me the apartment--she had apparently dropped the keys somewhere in the snow days before and had neglected to tell me that when I committed to see the place. I rescheduled the appointment, but when I decided to take a pass on the combination of a disorganized landlord and neighbors who have probably featured on the show COPS, I figured she would have lost my phone number anyway and therefore, I stood not a chance of getting the "where are you?" phone call from you when I didn't show up.

Later on, I saw a place on the other side of town where a lot of students live. Of course, that generally translates into appauling living spaces, exhorbitant prices, and lots of unwanted company. No shocker that was exactly what I found there. The house overseer was a little nervous because he thought the carpet looked shabby---but that was the least of his problems. The apartment included out of date appliances about to break down at any minute, rusty baseboards, ceiling tiles he was loath to replace because "the new, brighter tiles wouldn't match the older ones", an exposed patch of insulation in wall on the outside where the air conditioner was mounted, walls full of old nails and an older paint job, and a healthy dose of undisposed-of dog crap on the front step. Since I had contacted the man days before I intended to visit, at least he could have taken care of the latter problem.

Yet another landlord sent on his kids--his daughter and his two sons--to show us a place in a larger complex. They collectively arrived over twenty minutes late and because the girl didn't know which units were available, she needed to use my cell phone to call her absent dad and double check on that.

I drove a distance out to one place, took one look at it, pulled a U and came back, and I didn't pick up the phone when the landlord called to ask me where I was and whether or not I had gotten lost getting to the place.

Did this result in some good prospects? Valid question, but the answer is a hopeful "absolutely."

And, I stayed in the same hotel as John McCain in the process--unknowingly until he showed up in his bus. I didn't see him, but I did end up sharing an elevator with his wife, which confirmed my suspicion that he indeed did not marry her for her clever quips and quick wit.

Where Dating Shows Have Never Gone Before.....and NEVER Should Have

Once upon a time, there was "The Dating Game". Fans tuned in during primetime TV hours to watch a contestant ask three hopefuls questions in order to choose one of them for the covetted date. Simple concept, neatly packaged in thirty minutes.

Then, a decade later, we got "Love Connection". Why not bring in audience participation AND a description of the date we never got to see with its predecessor? Instead of the euphoric and hope-filled meeting scenario, why not find out what happens AFTER that, for better or for worse? Oh, and with the added bonus of Chuck Wollery asking the questions that drags the dirt out from under the rug?

Could they ever have seen where that was ultimately going? If they could, Chuck would have been booted from the business long before any of the participants picked their potential partners.

I blame VH1.

Ok, I fully admit that shows with variations on "The Bachelor" certainly did contribute to the out-of-control spiral these programs have taken. Who can forget "Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire?" and its disasterous results? However, VH1 had to take that giant leap into the completely ridiculous first with "The Flavor of Love". VH1 forced its audience to watch Flava Flav in "The Surreal Life", and the network should have noticed something about his completely incomprehensible train of thought there. Instead, the creators of VH1's programming decided to focus the scrutinizing lens on the frightening "convenience of the moment" relationship that "blossomed" between Flava Flav and Brigitte Nielson. It was only a matter of connecting a few dots before you got "The Flavor of Love"--and more than one cycle to boot. Then, because VH1 realized that the network couldn't justify the break-up of every one of Flava Flav's love connections, whether staged or genuine, so someone must have thought "why not bring in a chick-oriented version?" and "who better to use but someone completely outrageous from the previous show?" Voila--born is "I Love New York", currently in it's second run. And, for the rockers out there, so you don't feel left out, your consolation prize was "The Rock of Love" with Bret Michaels.

Each one of those shows had its share of hard-core personalities, cutting their way to the top, mostly for fame and recognition than the subject of the program. There were outrageous moments, people and events you don't expect, and lots of alcohol to go around.

However, nothing compares to "A Shot at Love" with Tila Tequila. NOTHING. Gotta give it to MTV for taking a VH1 concept and infusing just enough of Jerry Springer into it to truly take it to a level it never should have gone. It's actually a lot like that scene in "A Christmas Story" where the kids are standing by the pole and one of them is daring another one to press his tongue onto the frozen metal surface to see if it will stick. The two of them are going back and forth in the "I dare you" volley, until one of them skips the "I triple dare you" and goes for the "I triple dog dare you" instead. What happens? The kid is forced to lick the lamppost and out comes the fire brigade to get it off. Similarly, MTV skipped the seemingly logical next step in the process and creating a same-sex dating show and went straight for the absolutely outlandish in the form of Tila Tequila. Tila apparently is having trouble choosing between men and women, so MTV jumped on that and created a dating free for all where men and women compete for Tila's love. More alcohol than ever before, a physical fight after every elimination, and participants who make you wonder where they came from (and when they will be returning there so we never have to see them again).

Yet another reason why networks like VH1 and MTV should go back to doing what those little letters stand for--showing music videos, featuring musical performances, and generally staying entirely out of the creative programming world.

Fall Outside the Front Door

Update: Reason Number One Has Emerged

1. Being constantly reminded in situations with family, friends, or embarrassingly large groups of people that I don't know that I don't have a job that I can support myself on regardless of the huge amount of paperwork, legwork, etc. I do and have done to remedy that situation as quickly and efficiently as I possibly can so everyone will JUST SHUT THE HELL UP.

Thank you, cue curtain drop.

Top Ten Reasons I MUST Move Out

10. The mysterious disappearance of belongings--anything from catalogues to clothes could be hanging in plain view one minute and never to be seen again the next.

9. The "food" problem--I may take advantage of a home cooked meal every now and again, like everyone else, but after spending fifty dollars on my own grocieries only to find them incorporated into that meal when my ultimate goal is to cook for my own needs is rather self-defeating (and poverty inducing).

8. The fact that my room is a general dumping zone for every other family member's unidentified and unclaimed belongings even though it's general area is about ten feet by ten feet.

7. The time frame anything I want to watch is actually being displayed on the TV screen is limited to when no one else is around.

6. Heating, during the winter months, is apparently not necessary overnight, even if my room is right over the garage and poorly insulated.

5. Phoebe, my mother's cat, is being driven farther and farther into cat psychosis due to the general molestation by my cats "in residence."

4. Visits home by my sister require a constant compromise of car transportation, regardless of the fact that I work eight hours a day full time.

3. If I am switching cars with other family members, and sometimes several times over a short span of days, I will inevitably have to fill up the gas tank in every new car I get into.

2. Reminiscent of my late teen years, my father remains in a semi-awake state for how every many hours I am out at night in order to more effectively demand to know where I went and who I was with when I return home.

You know, I don't think there is any number one reason. Perhaps "personal desperation" should be it. Back to job searching.

Paths to There

So, what does someone have to plug into a search engine to find your blog?

A number of things don't surprise me, such as: madness in the seventeenth century, for example, which pretty much characterizes my life in five words or less. However, upon examining some google searches that have brought recent visitors by, here are a few things that do:

less than reputable characters, family guy from College Park, Maryland

insults for redheads from Washington state

self build castle john mew from Colchester, UK

paul o grady heart attack from Cambridge, UK

younger and younger looking from the United Kingdom

the longest piece of cloth worn ever from Auckland, New Zealand

And, my personal favorite:
nicest ass in the world from Piscataway, New Jersey

Company-less Misery on the Weekend

It has always been extraordinarily difficult for me to tell the difference between "allergy symptoms" and "infection." Regardless of the fact that neither experience is either more or less miserable than the other, the prospect of "allergy symptoms" always has the advantage of a higher comfort level associated with it. At least I know a change of scenery and a dose of Benadryl, and moments later I'll be good to go.

Not so in the lingering illness category. I distinctly recall an episode of the Mary Tyler Moore show from the 70's where Mary had caught a bad cold, and in between sitcom-style disasters, she described the cumulative cold experience as "three days coming, three days here, and three days going." This statement has colored my interpretation of the length of time one suffers from the nasty little microbes.

It also helps if you have a misery-topping condition in memory recall at times like these. I generally look back five years ago when I realized I had mono. I have no idea how long I actually had the virus before the announcement of a positive test result came back from my doctor. I do recall a rather odd sleeping pattern for a few weeks prior--namely, that I was sleeping every free moment I had. I chalked this up to depression due to the nature of my job (I was selling tickets to the museum--a monotonous task that required hours of visitors needlessly complicating the short, simple ticket selling process). One throat culture and one blood test later, and I faced the prospect of being off my feet for an awfully long time. You always hear about the sleeping problems associated with mono, but what they don't tell you is how ridiculously painful the initial throat swelling can be. One gland had increased to the size of an egg in my neck--you could literally see it--and I couldn't swallow anything without waiting until the peak period two hours after taking at least four advil. I usually float these memories through my head while I am waiting for those three Advil Cold and Sinus liquigels to take effect after a long night of congestion, coughing, and sinus pain.

My first interpretation of the latest bout of symptoms fell in the more relieving allergy category. I worked on Wednesday, and at the end of the day, my manager asked me to sew up a canvass bed that had just had the filling replaced. These "beds", of which there are many, are exposed to ship conditions and New England weather patterns year-round, nautrally resulting in extensive mold growth of all species and varieties. Although the filling, which is usually straw, gets replaced, the canvass rarely does, and at this point, fumigation would not irradicate more than half of the organism population living on and in the bedding. After sitting with the bed in my lap for about two hours, I certainly felt the incoming throat inflammation. I put the bed away at the end of the day, drove home, and arrived feeling very "disinterested" and tired--uh-oh. THOSE aren't part of the allergy experience. I woke up the next day, and I couldn't remain in blissful ignorance any longer. I had caught something, and I would be stuck with it for at least another few days. Brilliant.

Well, we have just passed day four of the virus' attack, having taken a day off from work to remain home--a day I didn't want to have to take at all.

The serious kicker in this is a short conversation I had with Tom, my coworker, last week. He had brought in a large bottle of hand sanitizer and placed it on a shelf over his space in the lounge, kindly offering me the use of the contents if I wished. I thought it was good preparation for the oncoming slaught of children in a few weeks, but at the present, a handful of groups and travelers were our only visitors. I also remembered the year I had two bouts with bronchitis within three months--and I thought "you haven't been ill in two winters, you'll be fine." Yeah, Tom, should have taken you up on that offer....

Me versus the LSAT

So, I'm going to take the LSAT at the end of September. Of course, the end of August signals the arrival of the official "freak out" time. Yes, it is still four weeks away. However, there is something about a test that requires an officially acquired fingerprint on the registration card that ignites one's nerves rather early on.

What do you do? Buy as many overpriced instruction manuals from Borders as you possibly can. Make sure they include attention grabbing validations of their content, like they are published by "The Princeton Review", they include at least one CD ROM for good measure, and they assure you that you will "crack the test" after synthesizing their strategies.

Basically, the LSAT includes three main parts. One is a writing sample, so you can't do much about that ahead of time--only the pricey LSAT prep course could assure you of writing sample success. The other two sections that are left are: argument analysis and logic puzzles.

I figured since argument analysis will be a little more section by section, I would leave that off and take it in chunks. The logic puzzles, on the other hand, are patterned very much the same way, so mastering them first assures you of a good score on two sections of the test even before you go into the arguments. That mastery always provides the much needed confidence boost going into something as complicated as the arguments section, so I figured I would take them on first.

The logic puzzles give you a set of items or people and then a set of conditions based on the situation they are placed in. For example, the premise may be: a restaurant features a different entree every evening, starting on Sunday and ending on Saturday. Then, you get a list of entrees and a set of conditions: each entree is featured exacctly once, the veal gets served on Monday, the spaghetti is served the day after the lamb, etc. After that, you have to answer five or six multiple choice questions based on the puzzle.

The first one is always the same: Which of the following is an acceptable order for these items based on the premise and conditions? The easiest puzzles always are the ones that have a specific event or item at a certain time or place in the puzzle. For example, if we use the restaurant premise, one of the conditions could be "the veal is always served on Mondays". At least then you have something to go on. Other puzzles just give you "if "this", then "this"" conditions. Then, if you bother to diagram the stupid thing, there is nothing to diagram.

I worked on this in the local library today, and after about six sets of these questions, I was ready to fall alseep. The LSAT people should let people go if they manage to get a whole set associated with the same puzzle right. Regardless, the sheer repitition will bore people, perhaps to death. Maybe that's why they fingerprint you ahead of time. They can put your registration certificate on top of your body bag and they can identify who you are no matter what state you choose to test in.

Todays News

Mississippi has officially won the distinction of being the fattest state in the USA. The tidbit of information that officially surprised me the most involved the existence of fried pickles, and the fact that this was actually considered "food".

In an effort to reduce diaper use, some parents are participating in a "diaper free" movement. This apparently means that parents teach their children the art of body language to signal the need to relieve themselves. One woman said she had to explain away a lot of odd looks in a public restroom when she was holding her daughter over a sink so she could relieve herself. Perhaps these onlookers were more concerned about the fact that, in a room full of toilets, she chose the basin in which patrons attempt to cleanse themselves of the possible ill-effects of having used a public facility.

About time, huh? This kid finally hacked the iPhone off of the poorly reputed AT & T network. He then apparently sold the model for a car. As for me, I would have held out for more.

Amy Winehouse's father-in-law is calling for a boycott of her recordings until she and her husband seek help. Her daddy may think she's fine, but there's more than one opinion that counts.

In an attempt to lure men to a health food website, the link advertised "what all men should eat" in such a way as to imply the same thing that everyone from hair dye companies to cigarette makers do--"you'll get laid if you (insert action here relating to product)." It turns out that men should be eating pretty much what everyone else is eating to be healthy. Yey food pyramid.

Opinion Polls & Market Research

And...."Trench 'N' Fun"

This was the result of overwhelming boredom in one history class--my friend, Lindsay, and I actually had enough time to bring out the Crayolas and create a board game.

How "Trench 'N' Fun" Came Into Being

My fifth grade teacher certainly had her favorites, and I wasn't one of them. Since neither my friend Lindsay nor I fell into her perfect cookie-cutter package of what an eleven-year-old girl should be like, we were more or less "ignored with intent" in the same fashion a cat will sit with its backside in your general direction with the occasional glance over the sholder if dinner is later than expected. Regardless, we fell into the "accelerated student" category, and this entitled us to the occasional project on the side, such as writing and telling stories to the Kindergardeners or reading additional books. However, this didn't excuse us from a lot of class-wide activities, such as the collective reading of the "fifth grade book" that year, Johnny Tremain. After the volumes were first distributed to the class, our teacher started reading the first chapter to us. What could have taken only half an hour--double that at the most--took a murderously long period of time to complete because she stopped to explain every word longer than two syllables to everyone in the class. Because we were all of mixed abilities, I am sure there were students who needed that guidance, and of course that help should be made available to them. For those of us who were on a faster track, well, we generally amused ourselves by reading on ahead or creating board games on the back of our math book covers.

Fast forward to eighth grade. That year, we did a lot of history-oriented projects with one entire unit focused on the American Civil War. The teachers divided us into groups of eleven or twelve, each group made up of randomly chosen students. Like most of the other over-achievers, I could expect perhaps one other student on my level in the group. And yes, that is exactly what happened. As a result, I was busting my ass for not one or two other students, but nearly a dozen of them, because I simply did not want to end up with a low grade averaged in with all of my solo work.

These two situations, and many others, were brought to mind when I read an article today in Time Magazine about how the school systems were leaving genius students behind. I think it goes much farther than that--I think the whole company of over-achievers are left holding the ball on their own. I didn't get out of a mixed ability classroom until I entered high school, and like any other team-oriented exercise, the goings-on of the classes as the years went by were always geared to the proverbial weakest link. This meant hours of reading books, a la Johnny Tremain, the explaining of instructions for projects and crafts over and over again, and lots of "group projects" where the teachers hoped less hard working students would "learn something" from their counterparts that exhibited the early signs of a high work ethic.

Since over achieving students can handle most classroom work without too much trouble, they are usually ignored in a mixed classroom while an overworked teacher focuses on the students who need the extra help. The teacher is forced to create lesson plans that all students can participate in, regardless of what they can (or in many cases are willing to) do, and as a result, many over acheivers finish them long before the rest of the class with little to do in the meantime. Most over achievers are also the best behaved kids in the class, so even though they may be individually or collectively bored or unoccupied, the teacher can reasonably assume that they won't be drawing on the tabletops with indelible marker.

It isn't only that they are ignored, it is that they are essentially "used" by the teachers as teaching tools for other students that is even more inexcusable. Teachers divide students into groups and deliberately mix ability levels so that other students can "learn by example" from their peers. Many times the only thing that separates an over-acheiving student from others on the grade school level is how hard they work--not their abilities. How many of the "smart" kids out there knew someone on the bottom of the class that they knew was just as talented, but who refused to do any homework? Putting groups of students together like that gives the less hard working kids a chance to coast and gives the over achieving kids a heart attack, forcing them to pull more than their own weight for the same grade. Oh, and if anyone out there can remember grade school with any clarity--was there ever a time when a student saw an overachiever and thought "oh, yeah, maybe I should work that hard, too...."? Or was the picture more like this: over acheiving student furiously writing out how to complete a project while other students talk to their friends, throw bits of paper at each other, and talk about what is upcoming next weekend?

The interesting thing about "No Child Left Behind" is that it demands that schools bring up students that sit on the lowest levels. I think it is fantastic that money is being allocated and programs are being developed that allow more students to learn and participate in class. However, the danger is that this is becoming the only focus, leaving over acheiving and bright students essentially to fend for themselves. What's the solution? I'm sure there isn't one because if there were something clear-cut, it would have come to pass in our classrooms long ago.

And if I hadn't had free time in grade school, "Trench 'N' Fun: The World War One Experience" board game wouldn't have graced the back of my history book.

Can I help you?

The good thing about having weekdays off is that you aren't competing with hoards of people when you go shopping. On Saturdays between the hours of 10 am and 10 pm, you are guaranteed to end up standing at the end of a line of half a dozen teenage girls, each one purchasing one item, and the items cumulatively standing at a value of fifteen dollars. The first one will step up to the cashier, and in order to make it clear to everyone in the store, who she believes must be paying attention to her, that she is "with them" behind her and certainly not uncool to the point of shopping alone, she will toss in the occasional comment in on the conversation inevitably going on behind her and in front of you. As they each make their purchases, they will gather to the side of the counter as one at a time join them, and before too long, you'll have an assembled mob there, making more noise collectively than all of the people in the food court nearby put together. By the time you get up there, you'll be adding a trip to the nearby CVS for ibuprofen and bottled water to your shopping trip.

The drawback to weekday shopping is that you will walk into a lot of nearly deserted stores with a lot of very bored sales clerks restocking already well-stocked racks of shirts and slacks, checking through empty changing rooms for articles to rehang, and just generally standing in packs in varying corners of the store. As soon as you walk in, they take notice. By the time you wander to the first rack of attractive looking potential buys, a lucky representative is already on his or her way over to you. You pick up one shirt to give it a once over. By then, you're being greeted in a warmer fashion than you would greet your mother if you hadn't seen her in ten years, with a lengthy announcement following about the latest sale. Sometimes, the pitch is short and you can get on with your shopping. You must assume that in those cases, the salesperson is either not very enthusiastic about making the same announcement over and over or perhaps that he or she has done the unthinkable insofar as to put himself/herself into your shoes for a minute to realize you just want to get on with your errands. Other times, it goes on for a while even if you have made the polite acknowledgements that should signal your desire to be let alone.

Perhaps it is over enthusiasm for the job. Perhaps it is just that person being completely dense.

Today, I went into an Old Navy to look at the summer sale. The crowd wasn't large, but unlike most of the mall stores, there were more than two people in there. I was looking through a table of pullovers when a store clerk, a guy, approached me.

He greeted me, as I expected, and told me the shirts I was looking through were half off. I had observed the sign, but I thanked him for the information.

He asked me "are you planning on purchasing this on your Old Navy charge today?"

I had to admit that I didn't have one. I knew what was coming.

"Well, if you open one today.....(insert shopping benefits here)."

"Thank you, I'll think about it," was my reply, and I turned a few degrees in the direction of the table, prepared to go back to my previous activity.

"I could start one for you right now if you like. I just need a driver's licence and a debit card."

Sigh. Obviously my less-than-straight answer and body language were not enough.

"No, thank you. I need to think about it. I don't often shop in this store," I stated, hoping this additional information would indicate that I wasn't entirely interested.

Then, he gave me a list of the other stores that are affiliated with Old Navy. I thanked him for letting me know, and I again tried to return to leafing through the tops.

"We don't get commission for this, you know," was his next statement. He had sensed my indifference finally, and as opposed to considering the idea that maybe I just didn't want an Old Navy charge card littering my already overstuffed wallet, he thought I just didn't want a hard working store clerk to reap the benefits of my business.

I insisted that I already knew they didn't get commission, which was the only way I could think on the spot to combat the indirect accusation. Finally, he rounded out the conversation with a generic closing statement and I could return to what I was doing--if by then, ten minutes later, I still remembered what I had been doing in the first place.

In comparison, when I went to the Clinique counter in the Macy's on the other side of the mall, after I asked the clerk for her card in reply to her offer of a makeover, she immediately closed the appointment book she had strategically pulled out, took out her card, circled her name and the phone number on it, smiled, and handed it to me with a "I hope to hear from you, thank you for your purchase" without a hitch. She probably figured that I wasn't willing to commit, but since she treated me so politely, I wasn't going to go home and rule the option out because of anything she had done. On the other hand, I would consider it an insult to my personal pride to ever sign up for an Old Navy card at this point, given I put up so much of a fight so that I didn't have to do so.

At present I am Old Navy charge card free, and I probably will call for that makeover.

Sunrise at Plymouth Harbor

Guess Wrong and...

After a long meeting in the morning, I walked down from one of the administration buildings at work to the "visitor" level where people pass from an exhibit space and gift shop into the "environment" the interpreters work in. The gate sheilding the back of the building, where the interpreters stroll through to get to the break space, was open and a truck was parked just outside of it. I didn't think much of it, and I walked through the gate.

I was met by this guy operating what looked like a power washing hose. He looked at me in a rather funny fashion as I passed by, intending to go into the front door of the gift shop.

"Do you work here?" he asked when I gave him the "what the hell are you looking at me like that" facial expression.

"Yes, why?" was my quick response.

Well, apparently, he was covering the outside of the building with chemicals--and based on his tone of voice and his "you stupid idiot" glance as he turned back to his work.

I immediately retorted, "So, where's the sign?"

He, of course, ignored this. He had placed yellow and black "Caution" tape on the visitor side, but nothing at the gate where employees had access. In addition, regardless of the presence of harmful chemicals, he was in a t-shirt and a pair of jeans--apparently top quality protection against the consequences of exposure to his poisonous mix.

I always enjoy the irony of moments when you are made to look like the moron because someone else was a moron first. And that moron is too much of a moron to realize it.