Keep your feet on the ground.

                    "Sometimes it is less reality and more what you want to see."

Cinematic Moment:  "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard 12

A friend of mine grew up in a house on the Hudson river.  The water is just beyond a little stone wall and the view is absolutely gorgeous.  It doesn't hurt that her mother has an eye for design, a natural green thumb and a way of making a space perfect for lingering long into the afternoon.  For the record, she has since passed this trait on to all her girls, who continue to create immaculate, effortless spaces.

 As I sat on the old wooden chair one morning, looking out at the bridge linking land to land, I remembered a particular morning a month earlier.   We were stuck on the bus to White Plains, a few hundred feet from the bridge, where a man was threatening to jump.  At the time, I had been shocked by the news from the bus driver, responding to our inquiries about the hold up, but have to admit I didn't think much of it that morning, my sleepy-eyed query quickly turning to anxiety about being late to work.  Now, I thought about him in depth.  

What kind of things must he have felt standing there on the ledge, looking out into the grey water, chunks of ice floating still and angry from a cold January?  Was he scared or ready to feel the wind on his face?  Who had he left behind and more importantly, did they know how he felt?  In the hundreds of mundane moments he encountered that week, what about that Thursday morning made him feel so absolutely hopeless that the bottom of the Hudson seemed the safest place to be?  

All of the sudden, on a perfectly beautiful morning, with the spring sun shining a bit too brightly for February--I was heartbroken.  Something occurred to me about this thing we call "reality."  There isn't such a thing.  Rather, life is this endless perspective, a constant struggle with relativity and being on the right side of it.  It will always get the best of us if we allow it to.  It's our job, be it a difficult one,  to not let that happen.

 The man on the bridge ended up living through the fall.  There is a chance he has gone on to see reality a bit differently.  I hope he's drawn himself out of the ice water.

Flickers.

                              "Candlelight even gives life to tacky sculptures of coral."

Cinematic Moment:  "CM Illustrated Week"  Postcard #11

I try to light candles in almost every room in the house if I'm home.  When the sun goes down, the flickering makes everything a little more enchanting.  This sketch was done in the tub, with a dozen little tealights lit around me and a very cold glass of Pinot Grigio. 

 I bought the coral statue as a way to keep my Florida roots woven into the decor.  Sadly it became more of a random necklace holder on the side of the bathtub, useful for days when I forgot to put things in my jewelry box.  That explains the giant out-of-place heart plastered on the side of coral.  Gold certainly doesn't grow on coral...or under the sea, for that matter.

Anyways, the moral of this illustration is evident:  I am convinced candlelight would make a pot roast sexy.  

Smile.

                                                   "Late night traffic jams get a face."

Cinematic Moment:  "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard #10

On days I would commute back upstate from work to the house in the country, I took the bus.  The ride was almost 2 hours each way if you count traffic and stops, which was a blessing in the morning for a long nap, but a curse on the way back when all you wanted to do was be home.  During those days, I rarely saw my house in the daylight.  

Around the time of this sketch, I had put in my 2 weeks notice and was beginning to really pay attention to the things I had gotten so accustomed to seeing that I'd stopped looking at.  I wanted to ingrain them in my memory so I wouldn't forget this phase of my life.  The triangle shaped glass office building we passed everyday, going over the Hudson in the morning with it's sinister haze, the Greek men in my office who had my bagel ready to go before I even ordered it and always made me laugh.  Even something as mundane as the red tail lights on the cars in front of the bus became intriguing to me.  They gained a sort of alien facial structure.  It struck me as something I wanted to remember.  Even now, when I'm on the road I search for faces in the red lights.

What do you want?

                  "My boyfriend's idea of love is different than mine."

Cinematic Moment:  "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard #8

I'm not typically a girl who takes 2 hours to get ready.  An hour? Maybe. When on the road, that time allowance is even smaller, especially when it's a battle to even find a shower, let alone wash my hair.  Once in a while, on a day off, I'll linger in the tub a bit, hoping my body will absorb the water like a camel hump to clean itself later on if the venue's "shower" is actually a glorified sink.  At times like this, my significant other will work, if there is internet available.  Otherwise, he will rush me in one form or another, so we can hurry up and patronize fine establishments like Ruby Tuesday, in flourishing places such as Idaho City.  

 On the day that birthed the above sketch, I was being legitimately rushed from a Hollywood hotel room to make a movie showing at the Cinerama Dome.  In an effort to appease my darling for a few more minutes, I gave him my 10-minute sketch book and said, "Draw me a love picture."  Yes, I said a "love picture."  Perhaps requesting a 600 second image that would sum up his overwhelming feelings of passion and affection was too tall an order, as literally 4 minutes later he had put the book down and was back to harassing me.  To my dismay the image above is what I saw as we walked out the door.  

If one were to hold this love picture to its title, his feelings would be the half-gestated child of Captain America and the Tick.  I found it so hilarious I added the caption to remind myself this is why I love him and more importantly, why men and women really need each other.

We never close.

Cinematic Moment:  "CM Illustrated Week"  Postcard #7

I was standing outside a bodega underneath my apartment on 96th when I decided I didn't want to work for someone else anymore.  I wanted to be able to travel, to go back to school, to write, to learn another language.  That was the day I made the decision in my mind to quit my job and freelance.  I had no idea where I'd end up or what I truly wanted to do.  It was terrifying and invigorating.  All I knew was when I sketched this, I felt my life was more wide open to possibility than ever before.  

You look glovely.

       "Winter doesn't seem as bad now that I have fingerless gloves.  I can chew my nails!"

Cinematic Moment:  "CM Illustration Week" Postcard #6

I'm a bit of a glove fanatic.  Every time we go shopping or antiquing, I come home with a new pair...vintage cream tea gloves that are a bit too small, furry pink mittens with gold flecks, striped, solid, long, short...I love, love, love them.  

This winter it was fingerless gloves.  I was going through what I like to call my Homeless Material Girl phase.  A friend of mine who worked for Atticus hooked me up with a pair along with a matching beanie.  I was through the roof with enthusiasm...until I realized my fingers were frozen.  Too cold to remove them from my pockets.  Too cold to hold a coffee.  Far too cold to bother biting my nails.  These gloves lasted a week on my hands before I moved to my next glove obsession:  the perfect pair of opera (upper arm) length black leather.  Sadly I never got around to illustrating those because I couldn't hold a pen.

Open up.

"The city never sleeps, even if its eyes are closed."

Cinematic Moment: "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard #5

I'll start this with the grammatical observation that there is no apostrophe in "its."  I apologize for my mistake, but I only had a few minutes and wasn't thinking clearly.  That said, this sketch was done on a weekend evening, sitting at the 125th St train stop which is 30 or so feet up above the city.  The view is pretty impressive if you take a moment to observe.  125th St. simply vibrates on a Friday night.  It's the best way to describe it.  People shopping on the streets, catching up with old friends, music blasting, a constant traffic jam.  It's some of the best people watching and what I consider the place to find the most genuine human interaction in NYC.  

While I watched the world buzz below, I got to thinking that to live in a big city certainly takes a thick skin.  In the suburbs or for instance, the beach town I grew up in, it's easy to never have to encounter misfortune or pain in others.  You simply don't have to see it if you don't want to.  It makes helping or exposing yourself to the grit of life a conscious choice instead of something you learn to live with.  A place like New York City, though, requires living a full circus of emotion every time you walk out of the house.  Where there is beauty, there is equal tragedy.  Yet, people accept it and continue with their days and nights.  I guess sometimes closing your eyes is all you can do.

A cat by any other name.

"Fuck you Gato."

Cinematic Moment: "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard #4

When I made the decision to get a place in the city, we already had our house. Since I'd only be spending every other week in Manhattan, I couldn't afford a place of my own. Instead I opted to share a room in a 3 bedroom apartment with a friend of mine from college. By NY standards, the apartment was huge. $650 a month got me my own closet, a sweet lofted bed and what is unheard of in the city--an eat in kitchen. It was also a dog friendly building a block from the park. I envisioned myself walking down Central Park West, a large floppy hat on my head, walking two small, blissfully excited dogs. I'm pretty sure this was a result of watching the "Uptown Girl" video too many times.

My roomate was the perfect mix of fashionista, little girl, perfectionist and fierce business savant. Beneath Marc Jacobs bags, press releases and glittery boobie tassles, sat a perfectly white, perfectly made bed, the kind you'd see in a department store or swanky hotel. The crowning glory of that bed, however, was her favorite childhood stuffed animal, the precarious "Gato." Gato was a stuffed cat that once was white, but now had taken on the color of freshly poured concrete, his fur matted together from too many adventures. Little did I know that ironically named jerk of an animal would become my nemesis.

One night was enough to show my the dogs hated it there. Barbara had an anxiety attack every time someone walked by. If the person was walking a dog, forget about it. Benson did a little better, but not much. I decided maybe if they took turns and had all my attention, they might adjust better. I brought Barbs to stay with her grandparents in Rockland, where she spent a lot of her childhood and absolutely loves to be. Benson came with me for what would prove to be one of the more trying weeks of my life.

With Benson in the house for the week, everything at the apartment had to be shifted a bit to accommodate him. The roomies clattered to play with him and take him out, loving the idea of a part time pet. He soaked up the attention...then soaked our white rug in urine. He barked for hours at a time, crying for his sister Barbara. He thought about chewing up a Missoni scarf, gummed the heel of my new leather boot...but more than anything, Benson wanted Gato. If I took my eyes off of him for .5 seconds, he had Gato in a tooth choke hold. For that week, I lived in absolute fear that he might sneak Gato into his crate and eat him alive. I could picture the tears of my roommate staining her white Chanel pumps, mourning the loss of her childhood friend.

Everyday I'd put the thing up on my bunk bed to keep him safe, Benson desperate to find a way up there. My roomie would come home and move Gato back to her bed, not understanding that I wasn't some weird security blanket nabber, this was for his own safety. I spent more time and energy on saving that damn stuffed animal than I did doing anything else.

Long story short, Benson came home and I promised the puppies I'd never split them up again. Gato made it through that week and continues to spend his geriatric days on her new bed. 

You like your tights with patterns.

"I guess everyone makes mistakes."

Cinematic Moment:  "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard #3

 A girl in the back of a cab, her riveted leather handbag on her lap.  Patterned tights and black heeled feet protrude from the purse.  She tells herself "I guess everyone makes mistakes."  This girl could be a businesswoman who screwed up a large account.  She could be a kept woman, rationalizing away her husbands infidelities while leaving their Park Avenue penthouse in a fit.  Perhaps she's still in college and instead of studying Western Humanities last night, she learned a whole semester's worth of kamikaze shots and going home with strangers you met in a bar.  The girl on this postcard looks deep in thought, refusing to stare out the window at the city passing at light speed.  Instead she loses herself in the jagged stripes on her legs, also traveling at light speed with their vertical bolts of color, though not nearly as dangerous as the world outside.

In truth, this girl fits none of the above lives because she is me.  And the large "mistake" in question is the fact that I wore tights and high heels that night and it was cold enough to neuter a squirrel.  When writing the caption, I felt the need to make it ambiguous and tinged with regret.  This is a textbook example of my need to make everything a memorable moment in my daily life.  Maybe it's the reason most art galleries keep the inspiration subjective to the viewer...things are always a little more intriguing in one's mind. 

A more fitting caption?  "Damn, I should have worn my fleece Conan boots because my ass is fucking freezing." 

Please take your trash.

 "Gross things in my personal space on the train: Why did I sit here?"

Cinematic Moment:  "CM Illustrated Week" Postcard #2

I used to ride the Metro North train from Harlem/125th St to Westchester county every morning in what New Yorkers call a 'reverse commute.'  Everyday on the train was a new adventure.  One morning a man proceeded to vomit all over the car, running back and forth until the floor was good and coated.  We had to wait on the tracks for an hour for the authorities to come and pick him up.  I've seen early morning drunks in business attire, loud ipod singers and what could only be streetwalkers on some bizarre upstate mission.  

This particular morning, I made a poor seat decision.  The illustration shows how lazy I truly am, as evidenced by my drawing the problem instead of getting up and relocating. 

 Amongst the "gross things in my personal space":  

Man with wandering eyes

Used Q-tips

Bag of unknown substance and origin

Coffee spill

Studio Sounds.

             "And in this world, there is no such thing as harmony."

Cinematic Moment:  "CM Illustrated Week" 10-minute Postcard #1.

We kick off  with this week with a doodle from a Brooklyn recording studio.  At the time, I was working as a copywriter for an ad agency, writing commercials for hospitals and small banks.  The job was interesting, but I hated the concept of being in an office when I could be out in the great big world.  My argument was that I couldn't be expected to ooze creativity in a sterile environment and shouldn't have to be there every other Friday.  God knows why, but my boss agreed. 

 I thought I could write the  30-second spot we were doing for Bon Secours hospital while my boy rehearsed for an upcoming tour.  I hadn't taken into consideration that there were others rehearsing there too, creating the residual noise of an atomic bomb filled with jingle bells.  I struggled for a half hour or so, writing and re-writing the same word 15 times before leaving to get a cup of coffee.  "It'll help me focus," I thought.  Multiply this process by 6 hours and you have 12 over-thought words, a severe case of carpal tunnel, caffeine tics and the bathroom habits of a newborn.  Bon Secours could have offered me a lot more than I them at that point. 

 I finally gave up trying to write and just listened to all the sessions happening in the studio.  A handful of miscellaneous musicians perfecting their craft, each different room holding a new sound.  When aurally ingested as a whole from a couch at the center of the room, however, the harmonies and genres clashed as they poured from beneath the cracks of the studio doors.  It was an interesting concept; cacophony in such a melodic place.

Announcing, CM Illustrated Week(s)

Cinematic Moment:  Lost and Found

Last year a friend and I had this great idea to buy these postcard sized drawing books as a way to make visual notes on the year.  We would then gift them to each other for Christmas so we could see how the year looked through the eyes of a friend. The sketches had to be under 10 minutes long and were meant to document the CM's of our days, rather than be marveled at for their artistic beauty.  

Being the dolt that I am, I ended up losing track of mine in the move from the city and was unable to wrap it up as a present.  A few months later, I found it in a duffel bag pocket while in Japan.  Then I somehow lost it again in a flurry of post-engagement excitement.

 It seems the drawing book loves suitcases as it was located again this morning in a bag my man was packing in.  Considering its relevance to my friend is a little lost now a year later and the fact that having something to do to keep my mind of missing my boy is crucial this month, I have decided to feature 2 weeks worth of these tiny sketches as inspiration for Cinematic Moments.  Think of it as a sort of CM "Shark Week."  I hope you enjoy them and are inspired to pick up your own way of seeing the world in little (awful) pictures.

Mundane Wednesday

Cinematic Moment:  Thoughts of the day.

1.  Divorce

I've recently been following the story of the man who is suing his soon to be ex-wife for the kidney he donated to her.  He wants it back, but will take the $1.5 million he deems it to be valued at.  Kind of a low figure, as it sets the price of his life at a cool $3 million, but I won't argue that.  I might even venture to say he is worth considerably less.  

This case raises some serious concerns and potential problems when it comes to marital gifts and assets that are part of someone's body.  Think of all the Hollywood couples having to break themselves into pieces, "her" squeezing the collagen out of her lips into a glass jar at the courthouse: "him" removing the calf implants she bought him for his 40th birthday like a pair of chicken cutlets.  Doing a little research on the internet for bizarre divorce cases, I stumbled upon something called a "Divorce Party."  This is a party much like a wedding, only celebrating the separation and breaking of a holy union.  The tiny coffin you see below is used to "bury" the wedding ring.  Take any amount of human joy or suffering and there is someone capitalizing on it.  That's almost sadder than asking for an organ back.

(The bride has died. What a mean cake...)


2. Septic Tanks

I have to be honest, I never thought the day would come that I would ever use the term "septic tank" in a conversation other than referring to some quaint log cabin on a skiing vacation. But, the universe never fails to surprise and I've had to learn the in's and out's of a septic system. For those of you that don't know, having a septic tank rather than a water company is basically like owning a 2000 giant fish tank--only the fish are actually billions of bacteria and instead of eating fish flakes, they chow on human excrement.  There's a visual for you.

 Being a neurotic clean freak, I find myself dumping bleach down the drains pretty frequently and taking showers that last well into the double digits. This is apparently murder for the doodie eating bacteria.  Without them, the cesspool would cease to break down and we would have a big problem on our hands.  Browsing the aisles of the grocery store yesterday, I found the box you see above. Rid-X. The box claims to "prevent septic backup."  When it comes to human waste potentially seeping out into our lawn, I believe "prevention" is key, so I sprung for the $10. It turns out Rid-X is actually billions of bacteria in a box--just add water. Kind of like Sea Monkey's, but much more disgusting and smelling of vomit.  Let's keep our fingers crossed that the little guys will be happy and reproduce exponentially.

3.  Wise-asses at work.

We stopped at Starbucks after the gym this morning.  Straying from my usual black coffee, I ordered a latte.  "No sweetener, please" I said to the female voice over the speaker.  

"A latte doesn't have sweetener" she replied, matter of factly.  

"Ok.  I'd also like a lemon loaf too."

"You know, that has a lot of sugar in it."

"I just don't like sweet coffee!"

I was shocked and happy to get a little sarcasm with my morning coffee.  We pulled up to the window to wait for the goods.  The woman in the SUV in front of us stopped, getting out of her car and wedging herself between my open window and the drive thru window of Starbucks.

"I forgot sugar!" she said, "I can't drink my coffee without sugar."

She was cute and clearly very serious about her needs as she stood there, in the cold, for a solid 4 minutes, chattering.  I found it ironic she was desperate for what I had just turned down.  Just then the girl came to the drive thru window with my lemon cake, looking appalled at the woman standing there.  "Um, ok, I can get you some sugar.  And just so you know, there's a door there so you can just come on in and get it next time."

The woman got in her car and drove away.  "What a nutjob" the girl said to me handing me my sugar-free latte.  I may have finally found a friend in this godforsaken town...

You oughta be in pictures.

Cinematic Moment:  The original ambiguous duos. 

After much debate over sound quality, the boyfriance has decided that we need to revert back to vinyl.  In an effort to get some information on a turntable and picking up some worthy LP's, we ventured out a half hour from our house to a reputable record shop to explore.  Don't get me wrong, I love music, but after the first hour of listening to two men talk about needles, the problems with a hardwood floor, the pro's of virgin vinyl as opposed to recycled--I had exhausted my interest in the details.  

I opted to instead, flip through the religiously alphabetized albums.  The records were separated into vintage and re-pressed.  I've recently been a little more attracted to the vintage side of things.  If given the choice between something new or the same thing with a little history, I'll take the latter.  This rule doesn't apply to things like cars or homes, in which I'm afraid of breakdowns and ghosts that just won't leave.  So, I found myself in the old section, marveling at the covers of records that I love or remind me of my childhood.  Eventually this too got boring and my immaturity kicked in.  I started looking for album covers that were just ridiculous, interrupting their conversations with "Hahaha, guys check this out!  What kind of dicksicle approved this cover?!"

Many of them probably seemed a great idea at the time.  New and life-altering.  A female jazz singer holding a dozen paint brushes straddling a chair.  A young boy lying provocatively on his side in small shorts and a gold chain.  The fact that a group of creative people with one single job-to produce a cover that will sell records-allowed these to pass, blows my mind.  I began to gravitate to two particular artist duos that seemed...different than I had always remembered them:  Loggins & Messina and Hall & Oates.  

Now let's let the covers do the talking shall we?

The first cover, "Bigger than Both of Us" and can only refer to the secret love many are convinced these two had for one another.  That's all fine and dandy, but what's with the space station setting?  One of you should have said "I can't go for that...oh, no can do."  You know what I can't go for Hall and Oates?  A nice red wine and RITZ CRACKERS.  The second cover is like some weird high school yearbook page.  Instead of "Have a good summer!"  Hall has used a phrase that says it all: "ooh yeah!"  Oh no.

Front of album

Back of album

Since I was a little girl listening to Pooh Corner, I've always loved Kenny Loggins.  Now seeing these covers, I'm beginning to wonder if the song was at all about Winnie.  Take exhibit A.  Just two friends in linen pants and hats they stole from a Jimmy Buffet shoot hanging out on a sailboat, with no women to bog them down.  Bros before hoes.  So we come to the last two photos above, taken from the album "Best of Friends", which the owner of the record store ended up gifting to me because I was having the time of my life with it.  The cover isn't so bad, save for the small case of "camel balls" Loggins is sporting.  It's also not very good.  

Then there's the back...poor Messina being used as a prop to possibly cover said camel balls.  Maybe they're dancing.  Possibly Loggins is saving Messina from a slight stumble.  Whatever it is, these pals are having a good time.  My favorite part of this album is the credit on the back to Jenn and Jann for "cover concept."  Concept?  Two dudes standing around as friends?  My mind is blown.  

For good measure, I'm throwing in the album below because it is such a brilliant oversight and hey, it's almost Sunday.  Time to give back to the lord.  Happy weekend!

 

Hamster on a toddler (eating popcorn.)

Cinematic Moment:  This one's for the Shorties and superstitions.

When I was still in Pull-ups my parents thought it was the right time to get me something of my very own to love.  In this case, it would prove to be a long haired, blonde hamster.  I had already learned some interesting words at this point in my life, having acquired language skills while on a cross country trip from Florida to San Diego, where my mom read all the billboards out loud to me.  My first word was "taco."  The hamster, I named "Shorty" which I pronouced 'shole-tee.'  At least it wasn't "whopper."

My god did I love that hamster.  At least I'm told I did.  Shorty spent the first year of his life being toted around in my diaper.  I'm aware this sounds like the opening line of joke (in poor taste, I might add) involving Richard Gere.  But it's not.  And seeing as how most toddlers either don't have pockets readily available to them or simply have no idea what they are, I car-pooled the little guy with his head and front paws dangling from the front of my Pampers.  My mom claims he was ridiculously well behaved, sucking up the attention in a way uncharacteristic of rodents.  

Shortly thereafter, I learned that urinating in Shorty's car seat was simply bad manners.  I credit my concern for his well-being with my learning to use the toilet at all.  So Shorty spent less time traveling with me and more time doing activities, like hanging out under the couch cushion while I sat on it.  Anthropomorphism can be such a bad idea when it involves a small child thinking a small hamster has the same desires and ideals as she.  He hung out in my Play School car with the Wee family.  He watched The Wizard of Oz with me, hiding behind the couch in my hand while I whispered to him that the Wicked Witch was make believe.  If I was going in the pool, I thought Shorty should too.  My dad once had to fish him out of the pool with the net we used to skim leaves and bugs out.  I got a talking to about Shorty and how he wasn't allowed to swim anymore because he'd get sick.  I put a band-aid on his cage and hoped for the best.  At one point, all of his hair fell out, but it grew back the color of melted caramel.

Believe it or not, Shorty lived to be 8 years old, which I'm pretty sure is 1000 in hamster years. I'll always count him as my first best friend and thank the heavens for that hamster.  Without him, I'd still be peeing my pants.

(DISCLAIMER:  The hamster above is played by an actor impersonating Shorty.  It is not actually him, mainly because when I was a child, cameras were the same price as private jets.)

Good Mourning

Cinematic Moment: An unsettled canvas.

Today is the kind of day that makes me grateful to know a life outside the warm blanket of the Florida sun. It's not one of those where the fresh snow falls down in fluffy white buttons.  It's not the kind when newscasters speak of inches or getting out your sleds.  This variety specifically is a much bleaker version.  The ground and sky are the same color, like a dirty blank canvas on which the artist has only completed the trees.  They stand tall, yet plagued by bits of negative white space where the sleet falling catches in their branches.  Ice falls from the sky making sounds one might associate with a chipmunk scurrying through a pile of fall leaves.  If you look closely, you can almost see what's happening below the layer of ice on the ground.  It is translucent, allowing a few brave blades of grass to pierce through for air.  Our driveway is very long, taking up most of our 5 acres of land, but where it usually winds, black and obtuse in the middle of the woods, is now tamed and muted with ice. It could be a river to the untrained eye.

The dogs are the only ones in this house who don't feel the effects of the day, Benson running back and forth from their toy box to show Barbara what delights he's found.  Their enthusiasm over the same toys every day amazes me.  I can't even write with the same pen for more than a week without getting bored and seeking something more innovative.  Lately they have been obsessed with the Christmas toys their grandma got them last year. An elongated tubular Santa Claus in particular. He's been reduced to one eye and his red suit now has the patchy consistency of a rotten tomato. I hope their new toys from this holiday will intrigue them next year.

On days like this, I am free to lounge around in my favorite robe, a soft pink cashmere gift from my mother, without feeling guilty. I suppose that's the dilemma of a writer. We work best in specific, controlled environments, but that's not to say our environments don't mirror those of the "clinically depressed" in the real world.  Today is an exception.  The weather implies everyone is allowed to be a bit more brooding than usual before or during their everyday tasks. The good citizens, caring friends, mothers, mathematicians, fathers, taxpayers, whatever. Allow yourself to be manipulated by the gray, like a puppet.

Benson settles on a bright green bear with a plaid bow tie. I settle on another cup of coffee and a morning soak.

I'm on a roll...and so is this hedgehog.

My best friend and I spent all of a couple weeks ago watching these animal videos. If you haven't already seen it (which I'm sure you have as we are light years behind in youtube video knowledge) might I also suggest Hamster on a Piano (eating popcorn.)

Toy Story.

Over the holidays, we were surrounded by sweet children unwrapping toys.  Being so out of the loop got me thinking about my own childhood, mainly the psychological damage inflicted upon me and all the fellow children of the 80's and 90's, by the toy choices of their parents.  Many of the hot ticket items of the decades were up for consideration in this CM, but only 4 made the cut.  I'm sure you guys will come up with the rest.  In the meantime, I present to you:

Cinematic Moment:  The 4 Most Trauma Inducing Toys of My Childhood.

#4.  The Speak and Spell

According to Wikipedia, the Speak & Spell was "originally advertised as a tool for helping young children to learn to spell and pronounce over 200 commonly misspelled words."  This would have been a brilliant idea, had they not chosen the voice over talent from the homicide unit of a backwoods prison, then automated the guy for good measure.  My cousin used to hide in the closet with it when I was going to bed.  The room would be pitch black and from the closet I'd hear a small, metallic voice.  "COULD."  "WOULD."  "HAPPY." Oh my god.  These might as well have been "MONSTER."  "I'M THE DEVIL." "YOU LOOK DELICIOUS." To this day I tear up listening to the automated teller at Wachovia.  

#3. Glo Worm

I'd like to speak to the creative director who sat in on the meeting to pitch the Glo Worm.  "I read about this species of worms somewhere.  The females glow, showing the male they're at the peak of fertility.  I think it'd be totally amazing to do a plush version for small children." Hey Mr.--lot's of things glow.  The moon, for example, is something many people view as soothing.  It also happens to give off light.   That flourescent pea green dick with arms and the creepsicle face?  Not so much.  Thanks for the nightmares.

#2.  My Buddy
Growing up, I had a lot of buddies.  For example, the little girl who lived down the street.  She was my age and didn't have demon eyes like this guy.  For one thing, My Buddy (and his girl equivalent Kid Sister) set a terrible example.  That is the idea that kids can buy friends.  Why bother sharing or bathing when you have a constant pal?  Even the smelly kid had a buddy all of the sudden.  In my day, everyone was toting around one of the above--while developing absolutely no social skills.  This little guy had removable overalls, making it superior to the not undressable version the 90's kids got.  Sadly no one likes a buddy who keeps his or her clothes on, so it was discontinued.  Stripping him down was really the only fun thing about this toy.

#1.  Sea Monkeys
I have to admit-the Sea Monkey almost didn't make number 1 of this list because they are just so damn awesome.  Who didn't have Sea Monkey's on their Christmas list as a kid?  The reasons they DID make this list, however, heavily outweighed their sheer novelty.  The Sea Monkey caused me more psychosis than anything else over the years because everything about them is a lie.   I like to call it the biggest load of shit since Santa Claus.  A huge underwater hoax my parents foiled me into believing simply because they didn't want to get us a tiny monkey like the neighbors had.  (For the record, the neighbors parents lied to them too because that thing was most definitely a flying squirrel.)

Sea Monkeys were the kind of present you spent the entire holiday break staring at.  You told all of your friends about them.  Then, that first Monday back to school you bragged to your teacher that you were the proud parent of actual monkeys...from the ocean.  She shattered your dreams with a few words:  "Brine shrimp." 

Next, there were the tricks you were told they'd do.  Someone may have even broken down and gotten you the underwater Big Top Sea Monkey circus set.  Let me tell you from experience, those little bastards may do backflips, but they sure as hell aren't doing anything on command.  Except dying.  Which leads me to the third reason they suck.  Unlike a real monkey which could outlive its owner, Sea Monkeys have the lifespan of a diseased goldfish.  For any normal child, a pet dying so early on is severely traumatic.  This didn't matter to me so much as the second I found out they weren't actually miniature monkeys, I dumped them in our 150 gallon fish tank to feed our snowflake eel.  Let's see you do backflips now, jerks.

It's a wonder any of us came out of that era quasi-normal.  I suppose it's a huge step up from our parents who played with hammers and rusty nails.  The list is still missing a number 5 though.  So tell me.  What haunts your dreams?

Oil on water.

Cinematic Moment:  Treat your grandmas well

While getting an oil change the other day, we ran into quite the character. I heard her before I actually saw her, gabbing loudly with the man sitting in an adjacent chair, about lottery tickets and gambling. He explained that even if you win at a slot machine, the IRS will be knocking down the door for their share, taking it from your social security if need be. "You can't win for losing!" she cooed, shaking her head. Now I saw her fully in all her maternal glory. She was wearing an aqua colored pullover over a button-down, black corduroy skirt that skimmed her ankles.  Pepto-bismol pink legwarmers peeked out between the hem of the skirt and a pair of New Balance deserving of the name. Her glasses were gold rimmed and the size of a teacup rim. Her tiny hands fidgeted through a red fanny pack, a relic of some local fireman fundraiser. 

The man at the desk told her the car had passed inspection; the charge would be $21. As the only other woman in the room, she immediately latched onto my presence as, most importantly, the only other woman in the room. "Oh for heaven's sake, do they see us coming! You're a woman so you know what I mean."  She looked at me from beneath her wool cap, the color of 3 day old ash.

"I sure do!" I replied, shaking my head in her direction, while adding a quiet "But not here so much" to appease our resident oil change man. I've always been a people pleaser. His eyes said traitor.  I figured he'd forgive me for siding with the 85 year old woman.

She spelled her name out loud to avoid having to hobble to the desk with her cane to fill out the paperwork. E-u-d-i-s.  I would have pegged her for a Bertie had I not heard it with my own two ears.  She continued rifling through the fanny pack.  "People been taking things out of my car you know, so I took my papers out of there.  Now I can't find my license."  

I spotted the barcode of a New York State driver's license poking it's head from the flames of the first pocket.  "Um, I think that's it there."

She went on to explain that she didn't mean her license, but her registration.  They'd give her a ticket if she was caught without the thing.  This of course was another conspiracy against women.  She was sure of it.  I agreed again.  With all the misogyny floating around, what was the world coming to?

Even with her car ready to go, Eudis stuck around for a bit, pouring herself a cup of coffee.  She poured a hefty amount of what she thought was creamer into the cheap styrofoam cup, tsking herself at the realization it was in fact, sugar.  "By heaven do I love sugar.  But I can't have it, you know.  I'm a diabetic."  I hadn't known this, but something told me we were not getting out of there without learning a great deal about Eudis that we hadn't know when we woke up that morning.

Swapping out her sugar laden coffee for something a little more diabetic friendly, she came back over to tell us a complete and thorough history of her disease.  The medications her doctor had accidentally prescribed that gave her bizarre elderly acne, her opinions on Medicaid, the lack of vegetables in the hospital cafeteria and how she figured if she was going to die from a diabetic seizure, she "might as well do it eating ice cream."  I could respect that.  And I did.

When Eudis was finally left, registration in hand and wishing us a blessed New Year, the people in the waiting room at Jiffy Lube shot their sympathetic looks at us for having had to deal with her.  That crazy old lady.  What they didn't understand is how sorry we felt for them for not being able to handle the musings of a sweet elderly woman with no one else to talk to.  I would have sat there all day and chatted with her, like a surrogate granddaughter.  She wasn't crazy, just lonely.  My fiance hit the nail on the head when he said on our way out:  "I think she's just misunderstood."  You can't win for losing.

Mobile Blogging from here.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

Fruit Sad-lad.

Cinematic Moment:  New year's realizations

After what should have been a 20 hour drive back to NY from Florida turned into a 38 hour drive, I am a bit mentally exhausted and should be laying in a ditch someplace.  Instead,  I've spent this morning thinking of ways to organize all the new goodies Santa brought our way.  Streamlined, matching, clean ways that would land my skills in Real Simple magazine.

One quick trip to Walmart birthed these raw canvas looking little storage boxes with a slot so you can write in what they're storing.  It was like discovering the Holy Grail.  And 2 for $10?  2009 was shaping up to be the year of organization.  I thought of all the things I could put in such boxes.  Laundry sheets, bottles of vitamins, rogue chargers from old cell phones I'd kept just in case, dog treats and tea bags and photos, oh my!  It was an OCD wet dream.

 I spurted off my mental list to my man (who clearly wasn't sharing in my enthusiasm for compartmentalization) going on about how perfect this bin would be for his crumpled up receipts.  He was quickly sidetracked by a marked down Millennium Falcon and went over to check for any missing pieces responsible for the sale price.  I began to meander over to the other decorative bin aisles, hoping for more fashionable container finds, beaming with pride over my ability to stick with my resolution to stop procrastinating.  It was then I saw them.

At the corner of an aisle were about a dozen bins made to look like produce boxes.  Inside sat loads of beautifully fashioned plastic fruits.  There were bananas with small brown specks, shiny grapes in cognac and green varieties, loud yellow lemons.  It was enough to bring tears to my eyes.  Even the bright red tomatoes, which I despise in real life, seemed edible in plastic.

 My affinity for plastic foods began when I was a little girl visiting my grandma's house.  She had a sterling silver bowl filled with these plastic grapes that I loved to pluck off and chew on.  Clearly my parents were too loaded on champagne to stop their 5 year old from gnawing on rubber, but at least now I had discriminating enough tastes to seek out the plastic foods, as opposed to the year before when I plucked all the noses off a garland of plastic Santa's, eating half a dozen before my mom caught on.  More importantly, at the time, the idea of someone having plastic foods seemed foreign to me.  I thought for sure this must be what refined adults did-purchase rubbery, realistic food items in the way I collected Barbies.  I was determined to someday have my very own bowl of inedible produce.

Standing here in Walmart, burdened with 16 canvas boxes, I knew it was now or never. I didn't trust myself with the grapes, so instead opting for 6 green apples from a crate, dumping them into the top box to carry them to the register.  I knew they'd be perfect in that useless bowl in the dining room.  One more useless thing I can't live without. I suppose I was right about the gathering of pointless crap being the marker of adulthood.  As I saw my fiance quickly approaching with a box the size of a small child, filled with a Star Wars ship he'd been eyeing for at least a year, my suspicions were confirmed.  

I guess at least we're organized...