On The Street Where We Lived

One of my favorite books of all time is "To Kill A Mockingbird". Growing up in a small town in the south, I have always felt a true kinship with Scout and Jem. Their entire neighborhood was their playground, as was ours. These days kids don't get to know their neighbors the way we did when we were young...like how Scout and Jem knew Miss Maudie Atkinson and Miss Stephanie Crawford and the way they wanted to know Boo Radley. It was the same with us. We knew the Moores and the Nidiffers and the Hagerstroms, but who we really wanted to know were the Lavinders. Our street was named for that mysterious couple who lived in the big house on the corner. It sat waaaaay back from the street (or so it seemed), surrounded by enormous trees and perfectly manicured shrubs. The pedophile-axe-murderers who maintained those shrubs were what kept us off the property. We were terrified of them. There was only one day a year that we dared venture as far as the front door and that was on Halloween, and then only in the company of an adult. The door was answered by the butler, and he always informed us in a manner befitting Boris Karloff that they didn't give out candy. Of course, we weren't there for the candy. We were there for a quick peek...into the house...and at him. It's what we lived for. But we never got to see the Lavinders. Mr. Lavinder soon died and Mrs. Lavinder sold the house and moved away. I was about ten then. It was both a blessing and a curse that the family that moved in had a gaggle of kids, with a daughter our age, so the house that had always intrigued us soon became part of our familiar world. We no longer had to give a wide berth to the drive-way. We could ride our bikes right down it, past the spot where the old men had stood menacingly watching us. We no longer had to survey the yard from a distance. We played in every corner of it. We didn't just see the house from the front door. We knew every nook and cranny. But as when Boo Radley came out of hiding, we also no longer had a mysterious entity to stoke our imaginations. Instead, we had a greatly expanded playground and a much safer environment. Because thank goodness the new owners had able-bodied sons to do the yard work, so the pedophile-axe-murderers were forced to move on.

Salvation Lies Within

It all started a couple of months ago when PhillyTwo discovered a raccoon on the back deck eating Fred's food, and it occurred to us that maybe Fred didn't really eat his weight in dog food every day after all. So we promptly moved his food indoors. A few days later, PhillyTwo began hearing noises that sounded like a family of small animals was scratching out a living somewhere above our heads, either in the attic or on the roof. It was hard to pinpoint, but eventually we narrowed it to the area above the bird's nest (the room formerly known as the bonus room). There was no doubt about it. Our home had become a group home.
It was an eerie feeling listening to the sound of critters, or vermin as I like to call them, moving around over our heads. While PhillyTwo was convinced it was the raccoon, lurking on the roof, waiting for dinner to be served, I was sure it was something worse. Then Sunday morning, as I was sitting at the table drinking my coffee, working the Sunday crossword puzzle, there it was, spelled out for me like a sign from above: roof rat. It was the answer to one of the clues. I couldn't google fast enough. Everything added up. The tree growing up to the roof right next to the house. The tell-tale noises. We, by God, had roof rats. I was sure of it. It was time to call the exterminator. In the meantime, PhillyTwo wasn't buying it. She stuck to her raccoon theory, convinced that the noises we were hearing couldn't be made by smaller creatures. The exterminator came, did his routine inspection, and while there weren't any traces (as in poop), he said it was, in all probability, mice. He planted his traps and left. I felt such a relief...until...it got dark and the noises got loud and PhillyTwo announced that she was going to go take a look. She grabbed a flashlight and headed outside, and standing out there in the road in the dark, she spotted him on the roof. Granted, when he found himself in the spotlight, he tried to flatten himself out as much as he could. But she beckoned me outside and I had to admit she was right. There he was, the flat little bastard. She had maintained all along that raccoons had good memories and that he kept coming back because he hoped that eventually we'd put Fred's food back outside. Okay, so maybe we don't have roof rats. Or mice. But what we do have is a creepy little raccoon who sits on our roof and scratches. PhillyTwo named him Andy Dufresne, after the character from "Shawshank Redemption" who scratched his way out of prison. But unless this Andy can do our taxes, I want his sorry ass off the premises.

Glamour Shots

Last night was the first time in years that I devoted an entire evening to watching an award show. I quit watching the stuff back when Joan and Melissa came on the scene. I was too grossed out to be a part of that. Now that they're gone, I can watch again. PhillyTwo and I settled into our positions (on our respective couches) at 7 p.m. to watch the parade of celebrities walking the red carpet in the rain. I'm pretty sure I've never seen it rain for an award show parade before. I didn't feel sorry for the celebrities though. I felt sorry for those people who had to walk along holding umbrellas over the celebrities' heads. You know they didn't sign up for that. I'm sure it was thrown at them at the very last minute. "Oh, by the way, you won't just be escorting the stars; you'll be keeping them dry. I hope your arm muscles are up to the task."

Anyway, I'm not really sure who or what the Hollywood Foreign Press is, but I like the Golden Globes because it's not just movies, or just t.v. It's everything.

My favorite show, Mad Men, won for best drama again. If you weren't watching last night, you missed seeing January Jones's bad hair-decision and Christina Hendricks's enormous boobs.















I hope Sandra Bullock gets an order of protection against her hair-stylist to avoid any future catastrophes like the one that we witnessed last night. I'm pretty sure it didn't have anything to do with the weather, either. Good thing she won her Golden Globe so that the night wasn't a total disaster.

I thought Penelope Cruz was stunning.

And finally, I'm not really sure how I felt about Tea Leoni's get-up. She wore the mullet: business on top, party on the bottom.

NBC: Nobody But Conan

A few days ago Conan O'Brien wrote a letter addressed to:

People of Earth
That's like someone from outer space greeting earthlings in a sci-fi movie, and that's what makes Conan so damned funny. He thinks of himself as an alien. He knows he doesn't think or act or even look like a normal person, so he embraces it.
In the letter he said that we shouldn't waste our time feeling sorry for him because, "For 17 years I've been getting paid to do what I love most and, in a world with real problems, I've been absurdly lucky." A celebrity who realizes that? Almost unheard of.
Here's the thing: There's a whole generation of people in their twenties and thirties who love Conan O'Brien. And if I'm not mistaken, that's the demographic the network is aiming for. Jay Leno is as old and out-dated as Ed McMahon and he's dead. Leno doesn't appeal to young people like Conan does. Factor in the people who are over and under that much-sought-after demographic who also love Conan and it's a no-brainer. Leno should go home and tinker with his cars. Let Conan keep the Tonight Show.
Conan closed his letter with, "and for the record, I am truly sorry about the hair; it's always been that way." Just another reason to love him. Jay Leno has yet to apologize for his chin.

All's Not Quiet On The Home Front

People in my family don't die of heart attacks. We don't get ulcers. We almost never go off the deep end as a result of years of pent-up rage. Why? Because we come from a long line of screamers and yellers. When things happen, we don't just stand there looking all wide-eyed and shocked or hurt or mad (whatever the particular situation calls for). We seldom cry. We just commence to yelling. And by God we don't stop 'til it's all out of our systems. Once that valve has opened, trust me, there's no shutting it off until aaaaallllll the steam has been released. And then we're done. One minute we can be yelling at the top of our lungs, the next minute we are calm and cool as cucumbers. People who are close to us have either learned to accept it and tune out the tirades, knowing they won't last long...OR...they NEVER accept it and they think they can change that particular "quality" about us. Ron's been trying to get me to stop yelling since the day we got married. It'll never happen. In the face of a crisis, my first reaction will always be to yell. When something or someone pisses me off, I'm gonna raise my voice, the loudness of which is always in direct proportion to how upset I am. Why can't he just accept that? Take yesterday, for example.
On the way into the upstairs bathroom, Ron noticed the carpet was wet, and then when he stepped into the bathroom, he found himself standing in about an inch of water. It was only after the fact that he informed me that there had been this water and (this is still hard for me to say) that he had used my Dyson vacuum cleaner - the one that I still consider new because I've had it for less than two years and the one that I still love because it's the best vacuum cleaner that I've ever owned - he had used it to VACUUM UP THE STANDING WATER in the bathroom. Mother of God, I wanted to KILL HIM. And he got mad at me for yelling, when yelling was the least lethal weapon I could use. I mean, he does something really, really stupid, then he expects me to be calm and sweet about it? Not gonna happen. I'm gonna yell.
I'm all: "Are you insane? You've ruined my fucking vacuum cleaner!"
He's all, trying to be calm, but getting madder and madder: "Why do you have to yell?"
Because that's me. I don't throw things. I don't hit or kick. I don't stab. I don't shoot. Hell, I don't even call him names. I just talk very, very loud, and maybe throw out a few godammits, fucks, and shits, 'til I feel better. That's what I do. If he wanted someone who would whisper, "Oh sweetheart, what have you done, you silly boy?", then he married the wrong damn person. And if I wanted someone who knew what the hell to do when the bathroom is flooded, then I guess I married the wrong damn person.

The Trip To Vegas

We were scheduled to leave Knoxville on Saturday at 6 p.m., which didn't happen because our plane was over an hour behind schedule. So that put us into Cincinnati way, way late. What we needed was at least twenty minutes to make it from one end of the airport to the absolute farthest point possible, which was, of course, our next gate. What we had was five minutes. So, we sprinted like hell through a ghosttown-of-an-airport that was literally shutting down for the evening (at 8 p.m.), knowing that if we didn't make it, there wouldn't be another flight to catch. We ran for what seemed like three miles, but what was likely about a half a mile. Nevertheless, when we finally made it to the plane (and it was still there, thank God) I was out of breath, sweating, on the verge of puking, and definitely regretting the two beers I drank right before we boarded back in Knoxville.

But, made it we did and then it was on to Vegas, where as soon as we landed, I bee-lined to the restroom. Because I have that one little teeny-tiny phobia...getting up to use the bathroom on a plane. I would rather sit in pain than use that scary little john. So I'm always floating by the time we land. Anyhoo, the next thing was to make our way to baggage claim where we anticipated waiting for another twenty or thirty minutes, but low and behold, our suitcases were the first ones out of the chute. Last on, first off, I guess. Now, if you've ever been to Vegas, you know what the taxi line outside the airport is like. It's usually a never-ending line that winds around for ever and ever and can take thirty minutes or longer to get through. Not this time. We practically walked right out the door and into the arms of a waiting cabbie. It all went so smoothly that it made me kinda nervous. But we were headed to good ol' Harrah's, where we like to stay for three reasons: it's free, it's a good, central location and we like their poker room. After we checked in and unloaded our stuff in the room, we headed for the Oyster Bar, where we have a fairly recent (our last three or four trips) tradition of eating our first Vegas meal, and it never disappoints.

On Sunday, we played the 11 a.m. poker tourney at Treasure Island ($50 buy-in) which Ron won! It was a great way to start, and as it turned out, although we played in three or four others during the trip, that was the only win either of us had. It was not, however, the only money that we won playing poker. I actually had a couple of shall we say sa-weeet sessions playing 1,2 no-limit at the cash tables at Harrah's. But no slot machine spit out a jackpot and no craps table turned our fortune.

Other than somehow losing my cellphone (the casino is mailing it back to me) and the mid-flight turbulence that made me think we were heading to the big casino in the sky on the way home, it was a great trip. One of the best Christmas presents ever.