Full Disclosure Part 5

LOST



Technically, I'm in a fight with this show because it's on hiatus until January or February of 2008, which is ridiculous and seriously testing the limits of my fanship and sanity. But I would be remiss if I didn't include it, so...fine, J.J. Abrams. Fine.

I didn't watch this program for the first two seasons because I thought it was about dinosaurs. I got hooked when the boyfriend (not knowing he was lifting a crack pipe to my lips) plugged me into episode #1 downloaded on his computer. Fire! Dimples! Tracheotomies! Ocean! Handcuffs! Dimples!

You better have the patience of Job to watch this show - endless character flashbacks, slow as Christmas plot development, and enough red herrings for a fish fry - because if you don't (and I don't) you'll spend a lot of time yelling at people who don't exist and producers who do.

But I stay in this unhealthy relationship because Sawyer likes to take his shirt off a lot. Sayid just killed someone with his feet. And has skin like candy. There's creepy music that tells me what to feel and when. Two characters got buried alive just because viewers didn't like them. John Locke can talk to invisible people. They've played Wonderwall more than once. A man wearing an eye patch got electrocuted and I got to press rewind over and over to watch the blood explode from his eardrums. And there still might be dinosaurs.

Full Disclosure Part 4

The Sherlock Holmes Mysteries



This will begin to reveal itself even more as the list goes on, but I am a serious fool for all things mystery. And all things British. So combine the two and there'll be a real problem with me leaving the couch. The stories of Sherlock Holmes are smart and creepy and quirky and the genius that put these on the screen should get a bear hug. Yes, if you have to make a choice between reading the stories and seeing the program, you should read the stories. But that's obviously a ridiculous "if" posed in a ridiculous world I wouldn't want to live.

I have to watch this one with the sound jacked up, because the production quality of each episode is always questionable. It's unfortunate, because this is a program where every line is of the utmost importance. (See how fun it is to talk like him?) At the same time, the characters' facial expressions are close-to-unbearably intense, so you can usually tell what's going on with the sound off.

Jeremy Brett plays Sherlock and is beyond fantastic. He's probably 89% of the reason I watch this show. Sometimes he's whispering and then yells things at the top of his lungs just because he can. I always look around the room like really? Am I the only one who cares that he just did that? Admittedly, I'm confused whether he's a real person or not.

The answer to "What did you do Thursday night?" should probably never be "Watched Sherlock Holmes" but I'm also the girl who'd choose a bagel with Nutella over a beer every single time.

Full Disclosure Part 3

The Dog Whisperer



Although my little brother did - mysteriously - request that my mother puffy paint I LOVE DOGS onto his t-shirt at age 4, we were never the dog-loving-type family. Truth be told, most dogs (even the tiny yippy ones) used to scare the bejesus out of me. Now I want one with an unabiding fervor I usually reserve for flat boots and/or 35 cent packages of Peeps. So, I never thought I'd be pausing my manic channel changing on a show about dogs, let alone sitting quietly and enjoying it immensely with mouth agape.

Cesar Milan is a tiny Latino man with a big a#$ pack of dogs (comprised mostly of big a#$ pit bulls) who's got the ability to whip even the most heinous dogs into shape. If you were to ask him, he'd say he "rehabilitates dogs and trains people" but whatever dude, the man's half canine.

He's fixed skateboard-obsessed bulldogs, crazy-face chicks who use their dogs to cure panic attacks, demon puppies who kick their owners out of bed, and traumatized postal workers. And he's got a side gig in saving maybe-ruined-by-dog-issues-but-actually-dumb-people-issues marriages. You're impressed.

I don't have a dog (yet, CC) to make act better, but CM has improved my vocabulary. I can now request that family and friends please remain "calm-submissive" - the term he uses to describe a dog's ideal mental state - whenever they start acting feisty. It rolls out his mouth nonstop and smushed together into one word; it took me a couple episodes to even figure out what the heck he was saying. I felt confident it must be "con smith" which I thought might be a variant of "heel" or something in Cesar Speak.

I currently have 2 episodes at a time recorded to the DVR. Not exactly something I brag about at work, but I feel pretty good about it.

P.S. The C-Man's not gay? He's married with a child? Really? Well, knock me over with a minpin.

Full Disclosure Part 2

Star Trek: The Next Generation


There is something magical about this program. I think it's a case of the whole being greater than the sum of the parts. Although the parts are pretty damn awesome. The shiny skin and unwieldy emotion chip of Data, the ship's token android. The aliens that all basically look like humans, but with bigger ears or teeth. The quiet whispers and soothing gentlemanly doings of Captain Picard. The muted color schemes and background muzak. The parasites that take on personalities. That time everyone devolved into snakes and primordial goo. Genius!

Adding to the nonstop goodness, are the Holodeck episodes. Every television program has filler episodes, usually executed with flashbacks and warmhearted retrospective musings. Not TNG! When they have nothing to say for themselves, they throw their characters into the Holodeck - a "simulated reality facility" - and just write ridiculous side stories apropos of nothing. Sometimes they play cowboys, sometimes jazz musicians, sometimes the men wear tights. I'm still confused about whether they can get stuck in there or not. I think they keep this vague so I keep watching.

And I'd like to make clear I am not talking about all Star Treks across the board. This entry is very TNG-specific. I can't handle the other iterations and I don't care to try.

Simply put, any show featuring Reading Rainbow's Levar Burton wearing a headband around his eyes is a show that cannot be missed.

Full Disclosure Part 1

It always bugs me when someone professes their dorkdom and then follows it up with a decidedly not-geeky example. "I'm such a dork - I love NPR!" Please. You know nothing of my work. I've decided to show you the true inner workings of a dork, just because people should know before they open their pie holes, just because I can.

I'll illustrate my point with a Top Ten rundown of my favorite TV programs. And I mean programs I'm seriously excited to watch, will DVR, watch with full attention, make appointments for. Some are socially-acceptable and age-appropriate, but most are not.

For this first entry, I'm going to discuss a specific genre, because these shows can't really be separated by rankings and because I've got a lot more shows to discuss.

#10: MYSTERY SHOWS MADE FOR OLD PEOPLE

Matlock/Murder She Wrote/Columbo




What is more satisfying than a formulaic mystery solved by the elderly? Nothing, I say. There are scheming villains, small town cops with poorly-chosen accents, mullets, and soft focus camera work. There are big shoulder pads, many earnest facial expressions, and some outstandingly creative plot devices ("I know he isn't the real clown, because he just sneezed in this video frame! And the real clown isn't allergic to wigs! Look! Right here! We got 'em! The real clown is dead."). It's sort of like hanging out with my grandparents, while reliving my eighties childhood, while vicariously fighting crime.

Need I say more.

Stitch, Pedal, Stitch

Every morning when I get off the bus, headed for the underground stairwell that carries me into the office and away from my couch, I'm confronted with a huge sign:

IS SOMEONE YOU KNOW BEING FORCED TO WORK?

I'm probably not the target for the accompanying photograph of a small child operating a sewing machine, but I still keep the 1-800 number on my cell phone's speed dial. Just in case.

Fear Factor

A few weeks ago, we dined with a gentleman who harbors an unusual fear. A fear of something I've held close to my heart and stomach since the day Chef Brockett on Mister Rogers told me to wrap a piece of American cheese around it and "eat right away." His fear, my friends, is of the banana.

It all came out when I was contemplating getting a - gasp! - banana split for dessert. Horror flooded the poor man's face. Being the sweet flower that I am, I chose a coffee instead, but couldn't help grilling him. How can you be afraid of a delicious fruit? Of a very conveniently-packaged fruit? Of a fruit filled with Potassium and a startling ability to disappear into smoothies? Maybe it wasn't socially appropriate, but I couldn't help myself. (Flashback to my 13-year-old self in Amish country: "I'm sorry! I HAVE to look!")

He had no answers, only drama-filled accounts of getting sick at the sight of fruit salad and leaving parties that served Bananas Foster. I shouldn't judge since I have serious phobias of (completely appropriately) needles and flying and I know by their very definition phobias are irrational. Just think. Tyra Banks (and my boyfriend) are afraid of dolphins. Dolphins! The things we're all dying to swim with in a pee-filed pool. And you? What're you scared of?

Ow.

Things I ate tonight at the new employee dinner:

Lobster Ravioli
Vegetable Eggroll
Beef Satay
Crab Dumpling
Filet Mignon
Lemon Chicken
Chinese Broccoli
Bok Choy
Green Beans (DISTURBINGLY GOOD green beans)
Jasmine Rice
Fried Potatoes
Chocolate Banana (next post = banana phobias. wtf.)
Fried Apple
Flan with Raspberries
Chocolate Cake with Whipped Cream
Coconut Ice Cream
Kitchen Sink

Hostess with the Mostest

My little brother's in town. I'm not about to win any Martha-Stewart-type award for Excellence in Hostessing, as my weeknights typically consist of Frasier reruns (My name is Amy, and I'm a Crane-aholic) and peanut butter toast, while my weekends involve a lot of...downtime. But I've been trying, in spite of my inherent laziness, to give the bro the full San Francisco treatment.

We drove down Lombard Street, strawberry milkshaked at In-N-Out Burger, and hunted sea otters in Monterey. He got the extensive tour of my cubicle, watched people suck face at Telegraph Hill, and strolled around Chinatown (PINK...BAGS...EVERYWHERE). We walked over the Golden Gate bridge, sneaked up to the Boy's office for some killer nighttime views and snack hoarding (late night gummy bears make life worth living) and took a long drive through farm country.

It's been water slide fun. Tonight I'm having over a couple friends for a Wii tournament. Team M will prevail.


Wii tennis. He won. I'm pretty sure he cheated.

Eating roadside stand cherries. I'm not really that pale. I don't think.

Looking at fish. I'm obviously not a PETA member, since everything I saw looked delicious.

Brrrrrrr

The photograph above illustrates two important points:

1) It's June. He's wearing a (thick) sweater and corduroys. And still cold. Every morning last week, I hustled to work in my winter peacoat and a wool scarf. I waited for the bus and when I swore about the fog trying to eat me, I saw my breath. At night, I considered building a fire while I drank hot cocoa and crocheted an afghan (watched tv). Yea, yea, "the coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco" - I get it. Enough. Good talk. Now bring me my sun.

2.) Cuteness.

Awesome

I want to punch people in. The mouth when. They send emails that. Are supposed to contain helpful. Information and. Schedules to make my day easier. But have random punctuation so by the. End of it I'm more confused. Than. Before I received your helpful email. Did you or did you not. Go to. College? Did you. Or did you not go. To elementary school?

Meat Gum. Or: He Better Sleep With One Eye Open.

Name That Flavor

Knowing I'm a sucker for all marketing schemes, The B-Fri picked these up for a Mem Day bbq we attended yesterday. The idea is taste the chip and send in your vote for a Flavor Name. Just like a Crayola contest. Well, I tried it. And it's a Jr. Whopper with Cheese. Heated-up frozen beef, mayonnaise, American cheese, and a bun. I see a rapidly-approaching Burger King partnership in Doritos' future.

I Could Just Take Some Ambien

It's not that I don't miss him when he's gone - because I do! I do! - but when The Boy travels (the first half of most weeks) I can't help but get into my own little routine. This includes leaving a trail of dishes and glasses at various stations around the apartment, eating Nutella out of the jar, sitting in the middle of the couch, and watching Matlock on the living room television from my bed.

The first night The Boy's back is the most difficult one in my adjustment period. I don't remember how to share the couch, I get confused by someone else in my kitchen, and I feel especially territorial about the bed. I have to choose a side? I have to sleep vertically?

I'll fully admit that I am a terrible sleeper. It's a lifelong disorder I can't seem to kick. I'm not sure who's to blame here, but when in doubt I blame my parents. It takes me a long time to fall asleep and when I finally do I have nothing but nightmares on topics ranging from glow-in-the-dark robbers to Bill Cosby and his quest to murder me. Starting around 2, I wake up multiple (MULTIPLE) times during the night. I've recently cut down on my habit of eating small meals during my jaunts (hunks of cheese, beef jerky, Thin Mints), but that only means that the trips themselves are shorter, not the frequency that I take them.

Thursday I was having a particularly rough sleep night. I tossed, I turned, I kicked the sheets off my feet (nothing is more detrimental to a good night's sleep than sweaty feet), I got up, I got down, I sighed, I moaned. The Boy silently suffered through all of it, until my final move. Around 4 am I pulled a dramatic back-to-stomach flip, pulling the comforter off of him and onto me. Out of the blue, in a crystal clear, sleep-free voice he says: "STOP MOVING BEFORE I BLOW DART YOU."

I have no idea what he was dreaming about to stay something so... tribal, but you can bet I hightailed it out of there and onto the couch to flip and moan in a tranquilizer-free zone. Yow.

Drinking a chai latte made with soy milk...

...is like drinking a plant. A spicy plant. A spicy, liquified plant. Other than raising my estrogen levels, turning me into a Train lyric, and giving me a gut ache, what's in it for me?

Tae Bo

Billy Blanks. Love him, hate him, don't mess with him in a dark alley. All I know is, this (51-year-old!) man's beat down gets me in better shape than anything I've ever done - including those hellish months of JV soccer when I was an "athlete" and ran quickly after a ball I didn't know what to do with. I believe my source of inspiration lies in the things BB yells at me. I like to repeat them to myself throughout the day.

Some gems?

"Peace, love and joy!!! Peace, love and joy!!!"
An overall happy thought he likes to throw out at particularly tough moments. I've never been clear in how it applies to kicking and punching with forceful rage, but that's not mine to figure out.

"Hold on! Even when you can't hold on - HOLD ON!"
Pretty aggressive. It reminds me of my freshman acting professor who never gave specific feedback. She'd just say "Act better." We'd sit and stare. There's not much room for interpretation on this one. The Blanks has spoken.

Trouble is, I can't seem to get anyone hooked on him - "That's so 1997" they tell me - and I'm desperately looking for someone to speak my new language. Any takers?

Thank You Coke Gods

Anyone who knows me knows about my serious issue with anything made from fake sugar. I almost cried when I ordered chocolate pudding online and it arrived sugar-free. I've had people bring me back cranberry juice "lite" and almost punched them in the mouth. It all tastes like rat poison mixed with bubble gum and I'm pretty sure it puts holes in people's brains. Except. For. Coke. Zero. I'm not sure how it's done, and I don't really want to know, but this stuff tastes so much like real Coke it's scary. I think it's made in the same place unicorns live and Santa Claus takes vacations.

I've been worried about it disappearing off the shelves before people gave it a real chance, but my hope has been renewed. A new ad campaign just launched and they've recently added Cherry Coke Zero to the mix. Combine this with it being Friday, someone supposedly dying on my DVR'd Lost and, Sweet Jeebus, could life get any better?

An Open Letter to My Remaining Friends on Idol

Melinda,

For a long time, you were my hands-down favorite. You did that crazy back-of-the-throat guttural thing, sang songs that taught us how to spell woman, and bravely admitted to never having a boyfriend. But c'mon, lady. You're 29, not 79. Stop singing songs my ancestors would bop to, stop pretending you don't know how good you are, and - not to be mean - but sometimes I get worried about where your neck went?

Jordin,

At first I didn't really notice you or remember what you did each week. You just didn't stand out for me, which is hard to believe since you're roughly three times the size of Seacrest. But lately, it's hard to ignore how good you are (especially for 17) and I tend to enjoy your song choices. Still, don't rest easy. Sometimes you yell at me really loudly and you're kind of a kiss-up. Also - that little heart thing you do with your hands is pretty cute, but it's trademarked. Pay up.

Blake,

Blake. Blake, Blake, Blake. I hate you, I love you, I want to rip your hair off. Why did you dye it black? Who told you this was a good idea? If it was Bon Jovi, you shouldn't turn to him for style advice. That whole beat boxing thing works for you, but do you have to change every song into a dance party? It's either that or you give it the David Bowie/Coldplay/Bono treatment and I squirm uncontrollably. However, you seem to be a genuinely nice person, wear fun sneakers, and I appreciate your affinity for 311, a fact that proved to me you were most definitely a fellow Class of 2000 graduate.

And to all of you: Please make next week a more enjoyable entertainment experience for us all.
I'm feeling restless and looking towards Dancing with the Stars for happiness. Not good.

Love,

A

Good Talk

"Remember how Dad used to say 'thank you much'? Not adding the very?"

"Oh. I do that now. It's actually really useful. At least i don't say howdy??"

"Oh. I say howdy all the time."

What have we become.

Hairapy

I realized this weekend that my hair color is the hair color it wants to be when left alone. Meaning, all my highlights have grown out, my roots are the same color as the rest of my strands, and someone might actually describe me as having brown hair if pressed for an opinion. It immediately made me nervous and just a little bit naked.

Since eighth grade, when I started coloring my hair with a disturbing combination of lemon juice and markers, I don't think my locks have been their real self. It makes me want to break out a box of cheap henna or, alternately, dial up someplace expensive and get "caramel" highlights no one else will notice. I'm trying to hold still, though, and appreciate the potential serious downgrade in maintenance (and costs) this could mean. But man, are my fingers itching for a pink highlighter.