Reading Babies: the 8th Sign of the Apocalypse

Here’s a fantastic new product I’ve seen advertised on the television, and can’t help but wonder how things are going for the beneficiaries of this amazing educational tool as they move through their lives. Why did it take so very long to realize that, indeed – Your Baby Can Read!?

Imagine the benefits of having a reading baby. No more pesky bedtime stories, no more hiding the poisonous cleaning supplies, no more boycotting foods containing dangerous allergens – that baby can take on a lot more responsibility now! But that’s not all!

The Gym and I

Statistic show that the average American will spend 67% of her lifetime income on fees related to exercising; 71% of her waking hours planning to go to the gym; 3% going to the gym; and roughly 52% of her free evening hours justifying not being at the gym*. I am an Average American and hope to address these statistics in a calm and  organized manner, perhaps shedding light on these astounding numbers through the finely focused lens of my own opinion.

(yes, food stain on skirt)

I’ll tell you right now why I don’t like going to the gym. Closed captioning. That’s the reason. When I’m on the treadmill or the stationary bike or the Stairmaster, I, like many of my exercising comrades, like to have that “at home on the couch watching television” experience. But at the gym I am forced to watch tv without the benefit of sound, and am expected to read the closed captioning. However, I am near-sighted. I am so nearsighted that this feat of literacy is not possible. Blur blur blur [music notes]. Blur blur blur [laughter]. This is no way to watch Ellen or CNN, and certainly not an effective way to soak up sports highlights. That is the reason I don’t like going to the gym. Closed captioning.

Also the clothes. The reason I don’t like going to the gym is the clothes. Apparently, according to experts, the appropriate fashions for a workout are stretchy, tight fitting and revealing.  I have read that the benefits include ease of movement and ability to monitor proper body alignment. This runs counter to my motivations for going to the gym in the first place – an unyielding desire to hide my body from sight under baggy, loose-fitting clothing. So, the reason I don’t like going to the gym is closed captioning and the clothing.

I Halloweened...Did You?

After making such a stink about being sexy on Halloween, I really had ranted myself into a corner, and had to do something both scary AND unattractive. So please enjoy this late greeting from Zombie Grandma, everyone's new favorite holiday spokeswoman. Move over, Santa! (p.s. I am available for parades and children's parties. Swearing included free!)

Roller Derby is Jazz

(This is the first installment in a series entitled "The Analogy Project: Comparing the Incomparable.")  

photo by nocklebeast

Modern roller derby is the fastest growing sport in the pants-wearing world. Jazz is an American music style birthed in the early 20^th century, whose popularity continues to grow, especially among those predisposed to pants. Roller derby and jazz share many thematic, cultural and evolutionary similarities, although a grateful nation notes that Miles Davis rarely wore booty shorts. This paragraph contained a thesis statement. Don’t get lost!

 

Those unfamiliar with the current roller derby trend, and remembering only the iteration that consumed middle-America in mid-century, with all of its staged fights and well-planned outcomes, might associate this jazz analogy with a cheap lounge act along the lines of Bill Murray’s infamous character on Saturday Night Live (all for show, with a definite hint of someone’s tongue in a willing cheek). “Sure,” you think, “I enjoy the entertainment, but really, since the public failure of the XFL, haven’t we been through enough?”

Sunday: a review

Seven days in the week, and fewer than half are distinguishable among the fray. Monday’s reputation is well known and irrefutable. In fact, today is Monday and I would be remiss in describing it any way other than dreadful. Wednesday’s “Hump Day” moniker, while lending itself to sophomoric elbow prods, is embedded in our collective unconscious as a recurring attainable albeit low-slung goal. Saturday’s starring roles in numerous blockbusters, both film and song, have established its status as frat boy of weekdays. Tuesday and Thursday, seemingly content as the placeholders of the week, come and go all but unnoticed. But one rotation of the Earth remains a day of mystery, a day of ever-changing meaning, content, import and implication: Sunday.

By the time you are forty-six, you will personally experience 2,392 Sundays. Each will essentially begin the same, sun rising in the east, and end identically as well, sun setting in the west. However, every five hundred Sundays or so, elemental changes will take place. Saturday will always precede, and Monday will always follow, but what happens in between runs the gamut.