Memories Like the Cobwebs of My Mind

In recent weeks, I've seen two movies that delve into the subject of memory: Oblivion, starring Tom Cruise, and Trance with James McAvoy. Oblivion is a big budget, sci-fi extravaganza that was probably produced by the Church of Scientology. No I'm totally kidding. Because Morgan Freeman is also in the movie, and he's like an atheist. 

In Oblivion, Tom Cruise plays one of the last humans still left on Earth following an invasion by aliens. We are told these aliens, called Scavs, launched a nuclear war that left the moon with a giant hole in it and purportedly much of the planet uninhabitable. Most earthlings left for a space village in the sky, while Tom aka Jack and his lady friend Victoria are charged with minding the slow removal of the Earth's water. They are kept company by a fleet of drones, known only by their numbers, that are programmed to target and destroy any remaining Scavs.

Tom goes on patrol every morning to repair downed drones. His lovely partner keeps an eye on his progress and warns him of Scav sightings. Those pesky Scavs. They are having a run of good luck lately, damaging drones and downing a US  spacecraft that's from the past, but in the future. It's this incident that causes a rift between Jack and Victoria, heretofore always considered an "efficient team." And the unraveling of secrets begins, including the fact that this team has had their memories scrubbed.

I won't give all of the plot away. It's actually pretty twisty and likely the film deserved better ratings then it received. But IronMan 3 is kicking ass in the big budget movie department with $75 million in box office last weekend versus $4 million for Oblivion.

Trance on the other hand is a film by Danny Boyle, the director made famous for Slumdog Millionaire. James McAvoy's character, Simon, is in security at a prestigious auction house when an expensive painting is stolen. During the robbery, Simon is hit over the head and suffers a serious injury. From that point forward, his memory is shaky. This plot also takes some major turns and it becomes imperative, if not life threatening, that Simon recall the events of that day.

I Coulda Been a Contenda on Name That Tune

My memories are a strange thing. I can remember many, many, many song lyrics. If Name That Tune was still on, I would rock that show. (This is so cool. I just googled Name That Tune and a free app came up that is like Name That Tune for the iPhone.) But I can't remember other things. Important things. Like my anniversary. It took me forever to remember it correctly. I got married on July 6th and my husband's birthday is July 9th. But I always feel slightly panicked when I try to keep them straight.

We moved a lot as kids. Thanks IBM. So I also have trouble remembering where I was when something happened. Was that California or was that Connecticut? Sometimes I can remember because of what was around me. Was it sunny? What clothes was I wearing? If it's sunny, and I'm wearing OP shorts, that was Cali.

As a teenager, I worked in a home for retired Jesuit priests in Weston, Massachusetts. Kind of a weird job but all the Friendly's waitress jobs were taken. Some of the retirees could remember everything. Brother Sullivan, for example, looked after the wine in the apparently enormous wine cellar at Fairfield University. He could remember all the wines. For Father Eberle however, every day was a new day. Every day, I was the new girl. 

Last weekend, my husband and I went to Radio Shack to invest in something called an RCA cable. We had to google that too. My husband walked in the store then shortly after walked out. He wanted to check the connection to the cable. "She was right," he said. Then he walked back in and out again. Cable in hand, we were trying to read the Tiguan owner's manual to see how to work this magical cable that would allow us to connect our iPhone to the CAR! Spooky scary cool.

I said, "What do you think Radio Shack girl would say if we asked her to help us? I think she would say we are old." He nodded in agreement. I actually figured it out before we had to enlist the help of Radio Shack girl. Thank god!

The first song that played from my phone through the magical car cable was an oldie from the Counting Crows Mrs. Potter's Lullabye. "If dreams are like movies, then memories are films about ghosts." That's the line I've been thinking about. 

The Persistence of Memory pictured is a painting by Dali, in case you don't recognize his style.

One Car, Two Years, Three People

For the past two years, we've been a one-car family. It's not been easy driving to the train and baseball and work and repeat. I wish I could say our decision to own one car was eco-driven, our own personal statement about sustainability and green. It's not. It based on cowardice. My husband and I cannot stand dealing with car salesmen. Or car sales ladies. Either one.

For my husband, I think it has to do with his upbringing. His father owned an auto parts shop growing up and he spent his summers stripping engines and foraging for car parts. He got hit in the face with a dolly and split his nose open. He drove a forklift off a cliff (or large hill). He sweated through many North Carolina summers, cursing under his breath. He did say it was a slight improvement over working in a tobacco warehouse.

For me, it's that I've never really been a "car" person. Or maybe I never got over my first car. When I was 16 years-old, my dad bought a red Triumph convertible - TR6. I think he actually bought it for himself, but at some point realized that when you're 6' 4", the TR6 is not the optimal driving car. Unfortunately for my dad, that car was a stick shift and I wrecked the transmission. And that was all she wrote. 

I know. Youth is wasted on the young.

When I went to college, I lived in New Orleans. I took the streetcar, hitched (yes I'm an idiot) and my roommate had a car. Then I spent a year studying in Paris and taking the Métro. Mais oui. When I worked in Manhattan, I took Metro-North. All along I had this car my parents bought me. It was a blue Volkswagen Golf that I got when we were living in Massachusetts. It had no A/C. Now when you're living in Massachusetts, that will probably work. When you move to New Orleans or Raleigh, that will not work. The Blue Bunny as I called her eventually died in North Carolina after 12 years of loyal service. Boy did I go through some hot summers.

My next car was a Volvo station wagon I bought from my friend Amy. It had 178,000 miles on it. Again no A/C, no air bags or other modern safety features. On a positive note, it only cost me $1,500. I drove that car back and forth from Cisco in RTP for a couple of years. Then I got married. I got pregnant. And we needed a car. A real car with air bags and seatbelts that worked. We traded in our old Volvo for a shiny new Volvo sedan. It was awesome. We even leased it through the business, so it was sort of like a free car. When the lease was up, we turned her in. 

At Least My Car Doesn't Have an 8-Track

By that time, my dad had sold us one of his old Jeeps. Then he gave me my grandma's Jeep when she wasn't allowed to drive anymore. I'm thankful he gave me that car because the car she had before was a pale yellow, gigantor Caddy with Al Hirt stuck in the 8-track player. Slowly but surely those two Jeeps died and my husband and I were faced with the ugly truth. We needed a car. From like a dealership. We were going to have to negotiate.

We test drove a few cars including a sensible Subaru Forester. Ultimately, we bought a Volkswagen Tiguan. Get it? It's like a Tiger and an Iguana, in the same car. My husband swore he wouldn't buy a VW, but they are nice cars to drive. Have we had problems? Yes. You betcha. That's the nature of cars. That's why I hate cars. They're so needy. It's always, "I need oil. There's no air in my tires." Such high maintenance. 

As often as possible, I drive the scooter my husband bought me for Christmas about 10 years ago. Not a terribly practical vehicle for New England. But I love my scooter. It's a Yamaha Vino. It's silver. I have a shiny red helmet and a horn.

My dream car is a dark blue Porsche 911 Carrera convertible. As a kid, we lived in LA briefly and my dad had a friend in La Cañada. One day my dad and I followed him to his house, trailing behind him in his Porsche 911 Carrera. Maybe I'm dreaming this but I think it really happened. I remember that beautiful car, the mountains in the distance and the feeling of being in LA.

I guess when you are finally able to buy a Porsche, there's not a lot of haggling that goes on. Or maybe the haggling gets worse? We shall see.

The Second Screen Effect: Raising A Generation of Media Multitaskers

In the April 1st issue of Adweek, there is a cool infographic about the issue of the second-screen effect. At my house, I call that behavior "doing two media at once." I frequently have to tell my son, "Stop doing two media at once." Apparently he's not the only one who has caught on to this idea. 

According to the stats (via Adtheorent):

Among those with a TV and computer, 52% are somewhat or very likely to use another device while watching television. (Source: IAB)

So called "media multitasking" is on the rise particularly with younger people. The article goes on to state that media multitaskers have fewer emotional highs and fewer lows. I'm not sure if this is good news or bad news -- or neutral like their emotions. 

I had an interesting conversation yesterday with a fellow copywriter / blogger / social friend and also father to a teenager. We were discussing all the implications of our kids being tethered to a phone, tablet or other device. He said he does check his daughter's phone from time-to-time to see what she's texting. What he found alarming was that she is often texting about nothing. Literally. Nothing.

"What r u doing?"

"Nothing."

"what r u doing..."

"Nothing."

Really, this is text-worthy? How much radio frequency is used up by texting "nothing" back and forth between teenagers? It's ridiculous. Or so it would seem to me. And to my friend. Not so to the youngsters. 

I didn't actually get a cell phone until I was 35 years-old. I only caved after realizing that with a new baby, there might be need for me to call someone for say roadside assistance or I'm running late to daycare or something else that I would consider urgent. Now of course, I'm on my phone alot talking to friends, surfing the web, updating my social channels on twitter and facebook and pinterest.

One time I walked in on my son and he was on his phone Skypeing with a friend while watching TV on his iPad. He had turned his phone to face the tablet so his friend could watch the show too. They were watching TV together on the phone. I don't understand this behavior. Or possibly it's that I can't relate. 

Adweek calls the younger generation digital natives, while I fall into the nonnative category. I can remember a time when there was one home phone, one TV with only a handful of channels, and these things called books. Was it a better time? I don't know. It was my time. Now it's the digital natives' time. I hope they use their power for good. Just don't use it for nothing.

You can find me on the twitter @fightingfinn or sometimes I go outside without any device at all.

Does My Hair Make Me Look Like Billie Jean King?

Over the winter, I cut my hair short. Well I didn't -- but my girl did. My husband and I have this deal about my hair length. Actually he has a deal that he thinks I care about — but I don't. I understand it. The fear that is. There is a certain mom haircut that looks a little mannish. It says I've given up and now I'm buying my jeans at Costco. 

But that's not the look I have. At least I didn't think so. 

I'm always rushing around. Rushing and rushing. Typical mom. So I started blow drying my hair in a way that went a lot faster. It involved not using the brush and instead just pushing my hair back with my fingers. I thought I was looking pretty good. That is until I took a look in my rear view mirror and thought, "I look (a little) like Billie Jean King."

So I asked my husband, "Hey, do I like like Billie Jean King?"

Silence.

Me: "I'll take that as a yes?"

Him: "It's not that you look like Billie Jean King. But if you cut your hair any shorter, you're going to be getting dangerously close to the mom haircut."

Me: "I do not have the mom haircut."

Silence.

The next day, I started using the brush again. Besides, I don't look like Billie Jean King. I look like Yolanda from the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. You know the one. She's always saying "dahling" with some vaguely Prussian empire accent. Here's Yolanda.

NB: I met Billie Jean King and actually wrote some interview questions for Mary Carillo when she interviewed Billie Jean King at one of the USTA's annual meetings in Palm Springs. Yeah that's right. I did. BJK was as nice as can be, so it would be totally fine if I had her haircut. 

Also my husband designed the plaque they gave Billie Jean King when the USTA dedicated the stadium to her. But he's probably forgotten about that. I didn't. It was a good day. 

Things I Invent at My Day Job (II)

For those of you who missed it, Things I Invent at My Day Job (I) was a seriously funny blog that I wrote filled with ideas from my co-workers that I stole. Now I know what you're thinking. Are you funny, or is it just that you stole funny material from your co-workers? Listen hair splitters / knit pickers, if I write the blog filled with stolen material, then it's all mine.

So the much anticipated follow-up is here. Things I Invent at My Day Job Numero Dos. 

Large Print Cosmetics

Actually this one is my idea.  That's why it's not that funny, but incredibly practical. See the other day I was shaving my legs with conditioner - by mistake - and I realized how often these days I make the mistake of reaching for the wrong bottle of whatever cosmetic because I can't read the fine print.

This is what my labels will look like going forward. 

Shampoo

And...

Spackle

And...

Embalming Fluid

Realistic Fingernail Polish Names

Honestly I pity those poor fingernail polish namers. The pressure must be huge. Every season, something new. How many ways can you say pink? Here are a few real examples of fingernail polish names: muchi muchi (mauve pink), no pre-nup (sheer pink), exotic liras (decadent fuschia aka pink). Exotic liras is currently out of stock. I'm thinking that's an older pink name because liras don't exist anymore.

So at work we decided to start our own line of fingernail polishes that are realistically named so you know exactly what you're getting. First out of the chute from Julie was granny underpants. It's off white.

NB I just attended a Seth Godin webinar and he actually wrote a blog that appeared shortly after mine about not want to wear reading glasses to see the shampoo labels.

My Top 3 Things that You'll Never See on Goop

Honestly I don't visit goop often but I was pleasantly surprised to stop by today and see my twitter friend and fellow Texan @BreneBrown writing about vulnerability, the subject of her book Daring Greatly. I had originally planned to write a snarky blog about a few of my secret shames and how anti-goop they are - at least it seems to me.

In reading Brené's post, it occurred to me that maybe I should cut the snark and just put my crap out there. Just me daring to be vulnerable. And leave Gwyneth Paltrow alone. Because in all reality there is a really good chance that GP likes Fritos too. I mean who doesn't like Fritos?

So here are my top 3 things that Gwyneth Paltrow might possibly like as well but I really doubt they will ever be featured on goop.

Frito Pie

I love Frito Pie. They serve it in malls in Texas. I had a very interesting conversation with my Connecticut work girlfriends about Frito Pie. Turns out, they'd never even heard of it. What? When I was searching for Frito Pie images for this blog, I found out that people actually make it in the little Fritos bag. But I'm kicking it old school in a handy mall container. The recipe is super simple and involves only processed food. It's fantastic. Trust me.

• 4 cups Fritos

• 1 can (15 ounces) chili - no beans (Hormel preferred)

• 1 cup shredded Cheddar cheese
• 1/2 cup diced green chilies
• Sour cream, onions and salsa (optional)

Use the Fritos as your crust. Heat the chili and pour over the Fritos. Sprinkle cheese and other goodies you like on top. Grab a fork and some napkins. And a Zantac.

Spanx Bathing Suits

Obviously, it goes without saying, if you're eating Frito Pie you may at some point need to purchase a Spanx bathing suit. Spanx bathing suits can be any brand really. Miraclesuit is another one. Miraclesuit promises to make you look 10 pounds thinner in 10 seconds. I am so in on that.

There's only one small problem with Miraclesuit, Spanx bathing suits etc. It's like any malleable object you apply pressure to, for example silly putty. When you squeeze silly putty in your hand, it will seep through your fingers. The same holds true for flesh. Yes a Spanx bathing suit can create the illusion of a waist (finally, a waist!). But suddenly I have an ass too?  

RHO Name That City

My husband says that watching any of the Real Housewives of New York, Beverly Hills, Atlanta, New Jersey etc is like watching wrestling. It's like middle-aged woman wrestling. 

I disagree. There's something so mind numbing and yet reassuring about watching these shows. I love when one of the housewives tries to launch a singing career.  Here's a classic video of "Countess" LuAnn de Lesseps singing Money Can't Buy You Class. I had a cousin back in Texas named LuAnn. We called her Ludy. This LuAnn should've reconsidered the bustier that sort of - or alot - makes her look like a drag queen in this video.

NB: I wrote this blog several weeks ago and since then Gwyneth has come out to rag on herself about her worst Oscar outfits including that one that was like sweatshirt material.  You know I totally think that a gal who would wear sweats to the Oscars might go for a little Real Housewives and Frito Pie. 

NB2: I just checked back with goop and the site is currently featuring oyuna for goop - cashmere throws starting at just $900. Really?

March for Change -- Post 12/14

After the great blizzard Nemo (seriously the most ridiculous name), my mood was foul. I have grown to hate snow. Snow is the enemy. Snow causes back injuries from shoveling and broken hips from falling.

On Sunday morning, two days later, we woke up here in the Northeast to a day almost like a day out West. The sun was so bright it reflected off the icicles that were hanging everywhere. While we still had many more hours of shoveling to do, my mood lifted.

If I can see the sun, I'm okay.

After being socked in for the weekend, I completely forgot about Valentine's Day and a commitment I'd made in January to participate in something called the March for Change. To honor the two month anniversary of the Sandy Hook shooting in Newtown, a group of women initially (and men) decided to take action.

The events of 12/14/12 saddened us all. It didn't matter on that day how you felt about politics or guns or the 2nd Amendment. You were still someone's mother or father, someone's child, someone's sibling. I remember I took a half day off from work to do something -- I don't know what. I was listening to the radio on my way home and had to pull the car over I was so distraught. Then my mom called and my roommate from college who lives in Littleton, CO (home to Columbine). We all cried on that day. We cried during Christmas. We lit candles, sent teddy bears and generally did what any compassionate human being would do in the face of such terrible tragedy. There were so many acts of kindness from around the world, it seemed like it would just go on.

And then winter set it. The holidays were over. It's human nature to forget. I remember my friend Deb posted something on Facebook about a march and it stuck with me. Why not? It's been a long time since I got off my duff and did something about an issue, any issue.

As the day grew closer and closer, I started to think maybe this is silly. What does it matter if I go? Look at all these other women who have been lobbying State leaders and rallying buses and taking charge. So I'm going to show up in my lame green track suit jacket and that matters?

More than 5,500 women, men and children showed up today in Hartford. That's twice the crowd that was predicted. It was another beautiful sunny day. The snow was still on the ground but I had to take my coat off to stay cool. There were speeches from politicians on both sides of the issue. There were celebs (Christine Baranski, you rock). There were activists and organizers. But it was the families, of course, that got to me.

Henrietta Beckman from Mothers United Against Violence. She lost her son.  Colin Goddard who survived the shooting at Virginia Tech. Survivors from Aurora. A father who lost his 14 year-old, the same age as my son. He was stifling back tears.

Jillian Soto spoke about her older sister Victoria, a very brave teacher who died that day in her classroom trying to shield her students. She said, "Vicki was already my hero. She didn't have to die to be my hero."

And Veronique Pozner spoke about her six year-old son Noah who was murdered that day in Newtown. She reminded us of all the things he will never experience from middle school to dating, and marriage and kids. She said on this beautiful day, "Noah will never feel the sun on his face again."

She spoke of Noah not as a martyr but as a typical child full of energy and difficult questions and curiosity. From far away, I couldn't see it but she held up one of his last art projects for Thanksgiving. You know the one where kids trace their hand to make a turkey. And then Noah was asked to label each of the 5 feathers on the turkey with something he was grateful for that day. He wrote:

1. Electricity (possibly a reference to recent power outages after Hurricane Sandy)

2. Books

3. Friends

4. Family

And on the last feather, he wrote

5. The Life I Live

Less than one month later, Noah was killed.