Average Jane

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  • Average Jane Does Laundry

    The other day as I was leaving an evening meeting, I remarked to someone that I needed to go home and do laundry so I’d have something to wear the next day. The other person laughed at my obvious exaggeration, little suspecting that it was no exaggeration at all.

    When I was young and poor and used to have to periodically drag my laundry down the street to the laundromat in the back of a pickup truck, I got into the habit of waiting until everything I owned was dirty before I made the trip. More than a decade has passed since then, but I still can’t seem to adopt the logical practice of washing clothes regularly. I do laundry for two now, so that means both hampers get stomped full and create Laundry Mountain in the basement baskets when they’re brought down. It takes a week of evenings or a full weekend day to mow through it all. (Especially if you include re-washing at least one load each time that has been left too long in the washer.)

    I’m always jealous of people who have their laundry rooms in their kitchens or near their bedrooms. Part of the reason that I don’t approach wash day with gusto is that I have to haul the baskets down the world’s steepest, narrowest stairs to the basement, hoping against hope that I don’t step on or get tripped by a cat on the way down. But then, I doubt that more approachable appliances would have much effect on my general laziness in this area.

    Signs you’re a bad laundry procrastinator:

    • You own 3 dozen pairs each of underwear and socks
    • Football season ended two months ago and you still have a basket of team t-shirts and jerseys in your “red” pile
    • You’re forced to dry yourself with a hand towel after a shower because both sets of bath towels are dirty
    • When you put away your clean clothes, it’s as if you just returned from a giant shopping spree. Sometimes you find a recently-purchased item you had forgotten you owned.

    We won’t even talk about dry cleaning…

    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

    By the way, I’m feeling much better today. Last night I dosed myself with some heavy-duty prescription cough medicine that I had left over from one of the other two times I’ve come down with this same set of symptoms since winter began. It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep will do for you!

  • Average Jane (Rerun)

    Since I’m even sicker today and my pounding head is blocking any humorous thoughts I might share, I’m not even going to try to write something new.  Instead, here’s my review of "A Knight’s Tale" from May of 2001:

    Today’s Consumer Report

    Last night I went to a sneak preview of "A Knight’s Tale," which has to be among the oddest movies I’ve ever seen.

    It stars Australian hottie Heath Ledger (of "The Patriot" and "Ten Things I Hate About You") as a lowly squire who passes himself off as a high-born knight.  There’s no one else in the movie anyone would recognize – apparently they blew the majority of their casting budget on Heath.  This is not to say that there aren’t other good actors in the movie, but there are some clunkers, too.

    Anyway, as I already knew from previews, the soundtrack to the movie is almost exclusively arena rock standards of the 1970s and 1980s.  I wasn’t sure just how weird that would be in practice until the opening "number."  As a crowd waits for a joust to begin, the soundtrack kicks into Queen’s "We Will Rock You," and the crowd does the "clap, clap, stomp" that makes the song so distinctive.  Okay, so MAYBE that could have happened in medieval times, but then you see various crowd members singing along.  Deeply strange.

    As the movie progresses, our hero falls in love with a noble lady with a very anachronistic tan, for no readily discernible reason.  She jumps him through Psycho Girlfriend hoops, which doesn’t bother him enough that he refuses to play along.  He also develops an intense rivalry with a French knight, also for no reason that the movie is willing to expound upon to the audience’s satisfaction.  The filmmakers preferred to paint their plot developments with broad strokes to leave more screen time for galloping horses, shattering lances, and defeated knights lolling out of their saddles.

    Oh, and I can’t leave out Sir Heath’s ragtag band of merry men.  In addition to two fellow squires who join him in his deception, he also manages to pick up Geoffrey Chaucer (yes, the writer), who serves as his forger of documents and who introduces our hero at his jousts like a Renaissance Ed McMahon.  Before the end of the movie, their little band also includes a female blacksmith who apparently enjoys the advantages of 20th century feminism in the midst of the Dark Ages.

    But back to the main story.  Heath and his Malibu Barbie continue to make googly eyes at each other and eventually end up at a banquet and dance after a jousting tournament.  One of the squires makes him a tunic to wear to this event, and for a horrible moment we think he’s going to construct it out of the tent, a la "Gone With the Wind."  His merry band also teaches him to dance.

    At the banquet, he meets his girlfriend, who has clearly taken her hairdo and makeup tips from Sheena Easton, circa 1984.  Incidentally, her costumes throughout the movie are extremely odd and I daresay not historically accurate, and her hairstyles get more bizarre every time we see her.  By the time the dance devolves into a David Bowie song, I am half expecting the camera to pan over to Bowie himself, fronting a modern band in some corner of the castle’s banquet room.  Thankfully, that does not actually happen.

    After that, Sir Heath’s diehard enemy returns to the front of some war or other, depriving his rival of the opportunity to beat him at further tournaments.  Both men get very worked up and pissed off about this, again for no readily apparent reason ("pride," I suppose, in the remedial logical sweeps of this movie).

    The wrap-up of the movie includes a completely non-tear jerking interlude in which Sir Heath finds his beloved father, who apprenticed him to a knight years ago so he could have a better life.  The father is now ancient (although considering the era we’re talking about, he’s probably only about 45) and blind.  Sir Heath’s visit to his father proves his undoing, as his rival follows him to the ‘hood and discovers his true identity.

    After some gratuitous "kicking him while he’s down" scenes, our hero is saved by the Prince of Wales, with whom he once jousted when everyone else was too afraid.  The actor cast as the Prince bears an uncanny resemblance to our current Prince of Wales, except that he’s considerably handsomer (with a cool scar to let us know he means business).  The Prince, impressed by Sir Heath’s knightly qualities, makes up some B.S. about an ancient royal lineage, which the peasants have to accept because his word is law.  He then knights our hero once and for all.

    The movie ends with a final joust between Sir Heath and his mortal enemy, who pulls out every dirty jousting trick in the book in an increasingly cartoony, Snidely Whiplash kind of way.  Naturally, our hero triumphs, despite hideous injuries that suddenly seem to disappear the minute the joust is over.  He vaults a fence and runs to embrace his girlfriend, who now bears a striking resemblance to Jennifer Lopez.  Fade to the credits, rolling over AC/DC’s "You Shook Me All Night Long."  Wow.

    If you still think you might want to see this movie, I recommend waiting until it’s out on video or DVD.  That way you can watch it with friends, have a drink or two, and make the most of the opportunity to provide a "Mystery Science Theater 3000"-style commentary.  If you see it in the theater, don’t say I didn’t warn you!

  • Average Jane vs. Her Tonsils

    For the past few days I’ve had that “I think I may be catching a cold” feeling. As of yesterday evening, there was no doubt that the cold had arrived in the form of a painful sore throat. I heard the word “strep” bandied about the office last week, so I imagine someone carried in the germs and thoughtfully passed them along to me.

    I’m no stranger to tonsillitis. When I was 23 and living alone in my squalid first apartment, I came down with a case of it so bad that I missed almost two weeks of work. My tonsils looked so swollen, spotted and horrible that everyone who saw them involuntarily reacted with an, “Ewww!” – including the doctors and nurses. The first doctor I went to decided it wasn’t necessary to test for strep, but that I “probably” had it. After the first round of antibiotics not only failed to help but landed me in the emergency room, I finally had a strep test (negative) and the right drugs to get me back on my feet.

    In the midst of that whole medical drama, my mother had come by my apartment and, noting my lack of food, comfort and will to go on, scooped me up along with my cat and taken me to her house. It was from there that I’d made my late-night emergency room trip. It’s a little worrisome to consider what might have happened if I’d had my bad penicillin reaction alone at my place.

    I know it’s boring to read someone’s self-indulgent whining about their minor ailments. But you know it’s difficult to focus on other things when you’re sick, so I’m sure you understand. I’ll work on amping up the entertainment value tomorrow.

  • Average Jane on Ice

    I am now officially tired of winter. The first couple of snowfalls were pretty, even though the worst of them kept me home in my food-free house for a day. The reason I had not grocery shopped before the storm is that I’d stocked up before a previous storm prediction that had amounted to NOTHING. Rather than be sucked in again by the “weather guy who cried ‘blizzard,’” I smugly sat home and watched the estimated 2-3 inches of snow become 12+ inches that trapped me in my driveway and denied me a lunch of the world’s best Chinese dumplings (which I’m still craving, by the way).

    My winter vehicle is a soccer mom van that is in dire need of mechanical assistance. The operation of the power steering ranges from “works somewhat, but squeals like a piglet” to “let’s pump up those pecs and biceps.” Yesterday my husband had finally chopped through enough layers of ice and snow that I thought I might finally be able to get my summer sportscar out of the garage and take the van to the shop. But no.

    As I left the office yesterday, I saw little snowflakes drifting out the sky. Since I almost never seek out weather forecasts (see above), I had no inkling that any snow was expected. On the way home, a radio weather guy said we could expect a “dusting.” Well, I stopped watching the snow accumulate when I turned in at midnight. We got at least two inches. The driveway is completely covered again. At this point, I’m so sick of shoveling that I’m considering a trip to Flamethrowers R Us for a quick afternoon rental.

    The good news is that it’s getting warmer outside and I can hear water running through the downspout by my window. But enough is enough. Bring on the crocuses and light jacket weather!

  • Average Jane Watches TV

    I used to watch a lot more television than I do now, mainly because all my favorite shows keep being retired or cancelled. Today I learned that “Angel” will be ending this season* (you can vote here for an unlikely reprieve). Along with, of course, “Sex and the City” and “Friends” (a mercy killing, but still…), added to last year’s loss of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” it means that even with a TiVo at my disposal, I’m still watching less and less TV with every passing season.

    Even if I do end up with only a couple of favorite shows, I swear I’ll never turn into the sort of person who responds to every mention of a TV show with, “Oh, I don’t watch TV.” Ugh, get over yourself. I watch television to entertain myself. If I want to learn something, I’ll…well, I may watch television for that, too. Cable certainly does present a wide range of learning options. If it weren’t for “Trading Spaces,” I might never have redecorated my kitchen a couple of years ago. If not for “Unwrapped,” I wouldn’t have the comprehensive knowledge of junk food manufacturing technology I now enjoy. I’m also a big fan of the history/nature/animal/oops, don’t drop your baby in the crocodile’s mouth variety of programming.

    The good news is that I now have more time for reading and Web surfing. It would be even better news if I took the extra time and did something constructive, but that’s just a bit too much to ask.

    *Update: While doing my daily net surfing, I ran across a comment at E! Online that suggests the uproar may be premature. Maybe Angel isn’t cancelled after all. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.

  • Average Jane Goes to the Prom

    Senior Senior PromDespite the fact that I am way too far on the wrong side of 30, I agreed to go to a Valentine’s Day prom-themed party last night. My husband’s band was playing, so I figured it might be fun.

    Of course, the whole thing brought back memories of my real high school prom. I hadn’t been very excited about attending it either. My mother gave me a big spiel about, “This is an important milestone in a girl’s life…” blah, blah, blah. Anyway, I got a dress, roped in my boyfriend, and went.

    I remember a few key things from my high school prom.

    1. The minute I walked in the door, I spotted someone else wearing the same dress I was wearing. It did not help that she was wearing a version of my dress that was several sizes smaller than mine.
    2. My boyfriend (a year younger than I, and from a different school), had not thought to plan beyond procuring a tux, so we had no dinner reservations. We ended up having hamburgers and chocolate malts after prom, which seemed rather lame, even at the time.
    3. The best-kept secret of prom is that it is BORING, BORING, BORING! At least it is if you don’t live near anyone in your school, you’re widely thought of as a big geek, and none of the people you do know from school would be caught dead at prom.

    Anyway, I’m over it.

    So, I went out to the thrift stores yesterday in search of the perfect 80s prom dress. Oh, did I find it! It’s a masterpiece of 80s design from Bonwit Teller, covered with tiny black and white checks guaranteed to make it unphotographable. The long sleeves are poofy at the shoulders, which are padded, of course. The waist is gathered from hips to lower ribs, and there’s a giant bow across the chest. Best of all, the tulle peeking out from under the skirt is red!

    I persuaded my sister to fix my hair in classic 80s poofy style. The big black bow on my head was her idea, too, as was the shocking purple lipstick and the “someone just slapped both my cheeks” blush. I also put on the oh-so-trendy-at-the-time blue eyeliner. I should be embarrassed to admit that the eyeliner stick in question really is left over from when I was in high school. The condition and age of my makeup collection always prompts much disgust and dismay from my sister.

    Anyway, I ended up at the prom party very late. As it turns out, that was just as well because I didn’t know anybody. Since my husband was occupied with the band and nobody seemed moved to talk to me, I got to play the wallflower. Just like high school all over again!

    So, it didn’t end up being very much fun. On the other hand, I think that playing dress-up is always kinda fun, so that was one small consolation. I only wish that I’d been surrounded by my own friends in hideous prom attire. That may be my next party theme…

  • The End of the Sea-Monkey Saga

    November 21, 2000

    I’m looking at the Ocean-Zoo on my windowsill as late-afternoon sunlight pours through the window and illuminates the water. The effect of the light beaming through the bright green spots and hanging tendrils of algae makes the tank look like Sea-Monkey paradise as envisioned by Maxfield Parrish. I’ve just aerated the water, so the big female Sea-Monkey and her brood are circling joyfully.

    This is the kind of sight that harkens back to the early days of my Sea-Monkey ownership, when every development was new and interesting. The new babies are thriving, and Iā€™m beginning to appreciate that each generation may have a few surprises in store after all.

    The rampant algae growth is rather unexpected. The bottom of the tank appears to have been accessorized with shag carpeting in a conglomeration of verdant shades. The green-crayon-colored spots on the walls of the tank are getting more and more dense. Most recently, algae has begun to float to the waterline like aquatic Spanish moss.

    The female Sea-Monkey, turned pale yellow backlit by the bright sunlight, looks like she’s making snow angels in the water. The soft-pink babies make a beautiful contrast to the shamrock-green algae patches, like pink blossoms on ivy. I wish I had a “Sea-Monkey Cam” to share the sight with you.

    I haven’t gotten around to starting the Triops yet. I was sidelined by a cold over the weekend, so I haven’t had the chance to set up a safe, permanent spot for their bowl. Perhaps that would be best left for the weekend.

  • November 17, 2000

    We’ve all had the opportunity to come to some conclusions about Sea-Monkeys. Their life cycle holds some scientific interest, they’re kind of cute, and they don’t require a lot of maintenance. They’re a little dull, though, it turns out. Once you’ve raised them through one generation and started another, the variables are pretty much exhausted.

    What if Sea-Monkeys were bigger…more colorful…perhaps carnivorous? In a week or so, you need wonder no longer!

    My friend Christy has presented me with a new variety of dehydrated sea creature that can be raised in a tank: Triops. They come packaged like Kool-Aid or Burpee zucchini seeds in a colorful packet adorned with exciting dinosaur artwork. “They’re ALIVE!” proclaims the packaging, and we Sea-Monkey veterans cannot doubt it.

    How are Triops different than Sea-Monkeys, you ask? Well, Sea-Monkeys are the pacifist tree-huggers of the undersea world. They do little besides eat algae, swim around and mate enthusiastically when given the chance. Triops, on the other hand, are not so peace-loving. Right on the back of the packet it says, “Feed them twice daily and your Triops will live 20 to 70 days – unless, of course, they are eaten alive by their cannibal siblings.” Awwwright!

    Unlike the diminutive 3/4″ long Sea-Monkeys, Triops “quickly grow up to two inches long.” They look like big, mottled, reddish and bluish Sea-Monkeys, judging from the drawings on the package and the photos I’ve seen online. Yes, even though I’ve never heard of them before, Triops are already popular enough to merit their own web-ring.

    There’s one slight drawback to Triops ownership: the tank environment. Triops aren’t picky about the mineral balance in their tank, but they need their water to be at least 74 degrees Fahrenheit. This means their bowl has to sit under a desk lamp that’s on all the time. If not for this detail, I would have a bowl of rapidly hatching eggs on my desk right now. Instead, I am afraid I will have to raise this batch of desktop pets at home, rather than risk having the cleaning crew turn off their lamp over the holiday weekend and cut their lives short.

    The main disincentive to raising them at home will be the limited observation time. I will have to make a point to sit in my home office more often so I can send you full and accurate reports. I also kinda wanted to see if the Triops would notice their tasty little brine shrimp neighbors in the Ocean-Zoo. I guess you wouldn’t be able to see them drooling underwater anyway.

    My plan is to get the desk lamp fired up this evening and warm up their water enough to add the eggs before I go to bed. If all goes according to plan, there will be aggressive little Triops larvae swimming around by Sunday morning. Keep an eye out for frequent reports – this oughtta be good!

  • November 10, 2000

    Do not be alarmed! I know I’m a little behind on the Sea-Monkey reports, but it’s not because of anything catastrophic.

    To be honest, the Ocean-Zoo is looking a little rough these days. The walls and floor are covered with large, Kelly-green spots of what I can only assume is algae. It looks moldy and gross, but the Sea-Monkeys do not seem to care.

    The only easily visible Sea-Monkey left is a surprisingly long-lived female. However, there are still lots of babies in the tank, and many are can now be seen from a few feet away if you stop dead and really concentrate.

    I have seriously cut back on feedings, partly because of the vigorous algae growth and partly because I’m afraid I was feeding them to death. According to the handy-dandy “Official Sea-Monkey Handbook,” green algae is beneficial to the Sea-Monkeys as a food source and oxygen-producer, so I’m sure they’re in no danger of starving.

    The adult female Sea-Monkey appears healthy and vigorous, but you just never know. She spends the majority of her time grubbing around at the bottom of the tank. Sometimes in the morning I think she might be dead until I see the plume of tank muck she stirs up while she’s hunting for the perfect molecules of algae for breakfast.

    The babies range in size from about 1.5mm down to “tiny little speck.” The larger ones are already wide at the front, tapering to a straight little tail at the back. They’re all whitish in color – I haven’t used the “Red Magic” vitamins lately.

    So that’s the latest Sea-Monkey saga. I have high hopes for this new crop of youngsters. They will carry the torch for their fallen ancestors (many of whom are still enhancing the topography with their withered corpses). Try to enjoy your lunch.

  • October 20, 2000

    I’m trying to stay hopeful, despite the fact that the Sea-Monkey population is now down to only two females. Since they do not really need the males to reproduce, I’m taking that as a positive sign. They’re now a true colony of Amazons, having dispensed with their useless, weak males.

    There are dozens of babies in the tank again. Obviously, I’m not holding my breath waiting for them to mature, but it’s nice to know that the water isn’t so tainted that babies can’t hatch. That isn’t to say I expect any babies to remain by the time I come back in on Monday, but I like to view the Ocean-Zoo as “half full,” not “half empty.”

    I fed the tiny colony some “Red-Magic Sea-Monkey Vitamins” in the no doubt futile hope that it will nourish the babies through the weekend. They are actually pretty big; they look like magnified sperm cells doing the disco of life through the murky tank water. I could go further with this metaphor, but probably not without ranging into the territory of questionable taste.

    The last two adults look as vigorous as ever, Ethel Mermaning through the tank with joy. Sea-Monkeys have absolutely no maternal instincts, so they treat the youngsters no differently than drifting flakes of bottom-algae. Fortunately, the babies don’t seem to mind.

    So, that’s this week’s story – short and sweet. Last week’s response to the idea that the Sea-Monkey reports might come to an end leads me to the conclusion that, one way or another, the weekly reports will go on. I don’t know if they’ll always be about water-dwelling live bait, but they’ll continue in one form or another.