Girl Detective

Girl Detective

( 6:59 PM ) Girl Detective

Week four of six, and I'm still watching Joe Millionaire. I feel like a complete idiot for doing so, but I'm watching, nonetheless. Since it is my first reality TV show I don't have anything to compare it to. A friend assures me that it's one of the worst; and while that's not hard to imagine, I'm still irresistably drawn in. I accidentally watched part of American Idol the other night, and now have a healthy respect for the addictive powers of reality TV. I'll watch Joe till its sordid conclusion, but here are a few curious things that have been bothering me so far.

Evan is not the brightest bulb on the porch. How he goes on date after date with these women and doesn't bore them to death, I can't fathom.

The "host" Alex McLeod appears for a few moments each episode, but the butler does all the narration. Did they decide after they'd contracted her that she was boring and stupid? Did she get upstaged by the butler? And who the hell is dressing her? She dresses more poorly than the trashiest of contestants.

During episode three, the butler walks Evan to one of the "girls'" rooms. Evan says "Thank you, Paul." Paul replies, "Whatever." I may have misheard this bit, but I listened a few times. What the hell kind of butler says "Whatever?" And who the hell is editing this show?

Speaking of editing, the show is so poorly stitched that it looks almost Frankensteinian. There are shots of the "girls" lying around, with dialogue that is obviously from another point. They loop the same shot over and over, as when Joe kissed Sara at the wine tasting. For Evan's date with Zora, they illustrated his comment that the date was a little too happy, like a Disney movie, with lots of cute shots of woodland creatures. Then more shots. Then some more. Is the show so thin on content that they can't fill an hour less commercials and recaps? Apparently so. And yet, I continue to watch.

Finally, the show takes some weird turns that either demonstrate that Evan is the puppet of the show's producers, or they're trying to surprise us. But the surprise comes off so clumsily that it's not even interesting. In episode three, we were led to believe that Evan would eliminate Zora, since they'd had such a bad date. Instead, he gave Alison the axe. (And a good thing for her too, given that she'd already expressed concern that he didn't seem that cultured. The fact that the others haven't noticed this as well is somewhat surprising, but then they didn't sign on because they were rocket scientists.) In episode four, we're led to believe that he'll send Melissa M packing, since they had a ridiculously bad date and she's the only one he hasn't kissed. Yet instead, he gives Mojo the boot (possibly after sleeping with her--ouch!) so that even though we were all rooting for her to go, when it happens we feel bad for her, and worse since the immature and stuck up Melissa M is still around. Mojo, with her puzzle/poem, hat and sparkly eyeshadow, was no class act, but at least she was sincere. Both these eliminations felt contrived, and contradicted earlier comments from Evan.

Is it realistic to criticize the show for its obvious flaws? Is that like criticizing fast food for being of poor quality and poorly prepared? I'm not sure. I am more certain than ever, though, that I have better things to do than watch reality TV and that the best way to avoid the trashy snare in which I've found myself is to stay away in the first place. So no more American Idol for me.

( 10:24 PM ) Girl Detective

I haven't had such good luck with Mormons. Besides my Franklin Covey experience, there have been a few other problems. One was the bad-boy type who I got a little too close to, not knowing he was still in love with his old girlfriend. That was a few years after the first encounter, though.

I grew up in a small Ohio town that had more churches than stoplights. No one locked their doors during the day and everyone knew everyone else. One summer day when I was eleven, I was home alone when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and the screen, and found two men wearing white shirts, black pants and little nametags that read Church of the Latter Day Saints.

"Hi there," said the short, dark-haired one. "Are your parents home today?"

I shook my head. "No, sorry, they're not here."

"When is a good time to check back?" he asked.

"Around four, usually," I answered.

The tall, blonde one was looking over my head into the house and then made a surprised noise. "Is that your piano?" he asked.

I nodded, proud. We had a shiny, black Yamaha baby grand that my parents had bought when we lived abroad during Dad's stint in the Navy. I'd finally gotten out of having to take lessons. Since it was no longer the object of weekly torture, I could appreciate it as an impressive piece of furniture.

"It's beautiful," he breathed. "Could I..." he hesitated. "Would you mind if I had a look at it?"

I didn't hesitate. I opened the door for the two of them. "Come on in," I said. "Play it, if you want."

They came in and the blonde sat down on the piano bench, running his hands over the keys. I asked if they wanted anything to drink, but they declined. As Blondie began to play, the other one asked me what I knew about Mormons.

"The Osmonds are Mormons. And you can't drink caffeine. That would be weird."

I knew these factiods because the second major crush of my life had been on Donny Osmond. (For the record, number one was Adam West, and number three was Shaun Cassidy. After that I was in fifth grade and shifted my interest to real boys. That is, until I saw Tom Cruise in Risky Business.)

He talked a little bit about their religion and what they believed, but I wasn't paying attention. My own church bored me, and this one, where you weren't allowed to drink Coke, seemed kinda crazy. He eventually stopped talking and we listened to his friend play. He was pretty good, running through some Beethoven and Mozart. After a few minutes, he shut the cover on the keys, got up and thanked me for letting him play. I showed them to the door.

They asked if they could stop back when my parents were home. I said sure and they went off down the street to the next house.

That night at dinner, when my mom asked what I'd done that day, I mentioned that some guys had stopped by and come in.

She paused, her fork in midair. "There were men in the house?" There was a weird anxious note to her voice and my father was staring at me strangely.

"Sure," I responded. "One of them liked the piano, so I let him play it a little. That was OK, wasn't it?"

By this time I was sure that it wasn't. Mom had turned pale and Dad looked decidedly funny.

"Honey," she said slowly. "Did you know these men?"

"No, but they were religious. They were from the Mormon church."

Dad rolled his eyes.

Mom began again. "Honey, I know you were trying to be polite, but if someone that you don't know comes to the door and we're not home, don't let them in. Tell them to come back later."

I shrugged, relieved not to be in trouble. "OK."

A few days later, the two guys stopped by when I was upstairs reading. My dad answered the door, and I looked downstairs as he told them he wasn't interested and not to come by again. They looked dejected as they walked away.

I think back on this story and shudder. The complete shelter and naivete of growing up in a small town is amazing to me now. I can't believe my mother handled herself so calmly when her eleven-year-old daughter announced that she'd let two strange men into the house. It's not hard to imagine all sorts of very unhappy endings to that story.

I learned that you shouldn't trust strangers, and that being nice isn't always smart, even though the Mormons themselves were perfectly respectful. Their visit showed my parents and I what might have been, and that's what I'll always associate with the boys who do their missionary year for the Church of the Latter Day Saints.

Ironically, I thought this was going to be a funny story when I began to write. It's not, at least not with this telling. I could edit it to make it so, but I think I'll let it stand as it unfolded this time.

( 8:10 PM ) Girl Detective

PDA vs. Paper

When I started to work for my current company, I learned that one of the benefits was that I could get a Franklin planner and take a class on how to use it. The planner seemed as good as another and the price was right, so I decided to give Franklin Covey a try. I should've known better. Silly Mormons.

Things got off to a shaky start with the class. The teacher had on a beige power suit, lacquered helmet hair, a significant spackle of pancake makeup, and two pink war stripes of blush. Over the next four hours, she extolled the virtues of the Franklin system, smiling mechanically as she doled out various platitudes at strategic points in her presentation. I was frightened to learn that there was a two-day version of the class and wondered if all Franklin Covey representatives were so robotic. Nonetheless, I did learn a few useful tips for my planner, though I sure as hell wouldn't be teaching them to another unsuspecting victim within the next twenty-four hours, as we were encouraged to do in order that the training "stick".

I got along pretty well with my planner. I used it to make to-do lists, and transferred items from day to day until I crossed them off. I did not, however, learn to tame the random bits of paper that I stuffed in for notes. Additionally, I found that schlepping the planner around was a chore. Even if I only included last month, this month and next month, as was recommended, that planner still weighed a ton in my bag. And I was supposed to take it everywhere? Vacation? The grocery store? Not bloody likely.

As the year drew to a close, my husband G. Grod convinced me to try a PDA. I could see if I liked it and if not, could always get a new Franklin planner. We bought an inexpensive, basic model to which he added several different programs. Now I had my address book, my date book, my check book and my to-do list all in one small container, plus a Tetris-like game, solitaire and some Sherlock Holmes stories. I was prepared for anything.

"Oh, I could never do that. I'm a paper person," people would coo at me condescendingly when they saw my new gadget. I would womanfully resist the urge to wrap my fingers around their throats and remind them that "I'm a writer, dammit, I love paper too," then demonstrate how many things fit into one small package, with no messy notes or forgotten bits. I'd look meaningfully at their tattered and overstuffed planners, and they would usually have the grace to look embarrassed.

Over a year later, I was still using the PDA when something bad began to happen. It crapped out on me with no warning. Bzzt. Dead. This was alarming, because as I've mentioned here before, I am not the most consistent backer-upper. The first time or two it happened, things weren't too bad. I was mildly annoyed, but there was no lasting damage. The next time it died, though, it had been twelve days since I'd synched. Gah. I lost twelve days of checking input, to-do lists, work info. I did my best at reconstructing, then resolved to be better at backing up. And I was, so that the next time it died without warning I only had to reconstruct a day and a half. This was still too much. Something had to be done.

I faced a dilemma. Should I buy a new PDA, since the technology has improved and the prices are low, or should I use my husband's old Palm 3X, which was larger and much less cute than my feeb model, but in fine condition?

I couldn't decide, so I did both. I bought a new one, which is in its box and perfectly returnable within ninety days; I also had G. Grod load my data onto his old Palm, which is what I'm using now. I'll give it a little while and see how it goes. It's large and unlovely, but it does get the job done, plus I have the added bonus of feeling virtuous and economical. But that new Sony was NOT that expensive, plus it's smaller, cuter and has a jog dial.

As you can see, at least in this arena, I've gone over to the dark side. Writer or not, I'm not going back to paper. I know the right thing to do is to use the old machine till it craps out, then take advantage of whatever lower-priced, better-tech stuff is available at that point. But I'm not quite ready to return that Sony yet.

( 9:34 PM ) Girl Detective

A friend recently sent a bunch of people, including me, this quiz. She included her answers, and we were supposed to fill out our own and return them to her, then send on the questionnaire to other friends to get them to return them to us. I suspect that it might be a fact-finding mission for the national security act, but will post the list here anyway. Feel free to use it. Send it to friends; send it to me.

1. WHAT TIME DO YOU WAKE UP IN THE MORNING? When the alarm goes off or when I wake up from my dream about Ewan McGregor; whichever comes first.
2. IF YOU COULD EAT LUNCH WITH ONE FAMOUS PERSON, WHO WOULD IT BE? Ewan McGregor
3. GOLD OR SILVER? Depends on my outfit, of course.
4. WHAT WAS THE LAST FILM YOU SAW AT THE CINEMA? Adaptation. Don't remind me.
5. FAVORITE TV SHOW? Scrubs
6. WHAT DO YOU HAVE FOR BREAKFAST? Cappuccino and cereal. And if I don't get a proper cappuccino, beware...
7. WHO WOULD YOU HATE TO BE LEFT IN A ROOM WITH? Norm Coleman. >>shudder<<
8. CAN YOU TOUCH YOUR NOSE WITH YOUR TONGUE? Nope
9. WHAT INSPIRES YOU? Great art--writing, movies, music, etc.--or movies with Ewan McGregor. I'm aware that these are two mutually exclusive categories.
10. WHAT'S YOUR MIDDLE NAME? None of your beeswax
11. BEACH , CITY OR COUNTRY? North shore, Minnesota
12. SUMMER OR WINTER? Either, at the north shore
13. FAVORITE ICE CREAM? Raspberry chocolate chip
14. BUTTERED, PLAIN, OR SALTED POPCORN? Salted, with Junior Mints mixed in
15. FAVORITE COLOR? Orange
16. FAVORITE CAR? Mmmmmini
17. FAVORITE SANDWICH FILLING? Ewan McGregor
18. TRUE LOVE? My boyfriend Ewan...um, I mean my husband.
19. WHAT CHARACTERISTICS DO YOU DESPISE? People who leave chicken bones on the the street
20. FAVORITE FLOWER? Yellow roses
21. IF YOU HAD A BIG WIN IN THE LOTTERY, HOW LONG WOULD YOU WAIT TO TELL
PEOPLE? My financial guy--immediately. Everyone else--why tell them?
22. FIZZY OR STILL WATER AS A DRINK? Still
23. WHAT COLOR IS YOUR BATHROOM? The same color it was when I moved in here.
24. HOW MANY KEYS ON YOUR KEY RING? 4, and one of them I can remove till spring. Thanks for the reminder.
25. WHERE WOULD YOU RETIRE TO? North shore, Minnesota
26. CAN YOU JUGGLE? IF YES HOW MANY THINGS AT ONE TIME? Sometimes, and three
27. FAVORITE DAY OF THE WEEK? Saturday--there's a nice cushion before returning to work
28. RED OR WHITE WINE? Neither
29. WHAT DID YOU DO FOR YOUR LAST BIRTHDAY? B & B plus 2 fancy dinners.
30. DO YOU CARRY A DONOR CARD? Yes
31. WHO DO YOU LEAST EXPECT TO SEND THIS BACK TO YOU? Ewan McGregor
32. WHO IS THE PERSON YOU EXPECT TO SEND THIS BACK FIRST? Haven't the faintest.

( 8:26 PM ) Girl Detective

All I wanted to fuckin' do was iron.

There is a world of wrong with that sentence.

I iron about twice a year. I don't hate ironing, but it's such a production with hauling out the board and the iron, refilling the water reservoir, pulling out all clothes to be ironed, etc. that just the thought exhausts me. There is ALWAYS something better to do, and usually even something marginally more useful.

This weekend, however, that was not true. Last week was the umpteenth week that I squinted at my closet in the wee hours of the pre-work morning and thought:

Nope, not that one, too wrinkled.
Can't wear those pants till I iron them.
That's a spring blouse and the high today is 4 degrees.
And on and on.

I reached my tolerance point for wardrobe laziness because my wardrobe was so messed up that it was requiring serious thought and effort to get dressed each morning. I decided that this weekend's project would be to stash all the spring/summer clothes, which I won't be needing for at least six months if this weather keeps up; and to iron and depill all the clothes that I'd been avoiding, or wearing and looking slovenly.

I started by doing two loads of laundry, then weeded the closet of all the warm-weather clothes, which freed up a HUGE amount of space. I jammed those into a storage box which I used to put cedar blocks into until I realized that cedar smell doesn't really fade and for dry-clean-only items, that's a bitch. So I just think hopefully that these things don't look very tasty to bugs. I got out the sweater de-piller, which I discovered works great once you remove the clear plastic cap, but not so well without it. I used it to successfully de-fuzz a pair of pants and a sweater.

Finally, I got out the ironing board and the iron. I dumped out the old water, filled it up with new, took a deep breath and moved the iron over the sleeve of a blouse. K-chk, k-chk. It barely moved over the shirt. I peered at the faceplate. It had gunk on it. And I started to swear.

My husband G. Grod found this hilarious. Which part, I'm not sure. Still swearing, I dug out the faceplate cleaning kit that I bought the last time I ironed and this happened (though the last time I cleaned it with the kitchen sponge and some Goo-Gone, I think). I had to empty the water again, follow half a dozen instructions, then voila, the faceplate was clean.

I began again, setting aside the blouse that may have caused the gummy build-up; I had no further problems as I moved though four blouses, two pairs of pants, and finally to the troublous blouse, which meekly submitted to my cursory ministrations this time.

I figure if I ration out the blouses that this ironing spell can last me at least a month. Yes, it's tempting to wear them all this week, but if I add one in a week to the rotation, then this will take me into March. And then it will only be five more months until I haul out the iron again.

( 8:18 PM ) Girl Detective

I met the mother first.

She was shopping in the kids's area at the bookstore in which I worked when I first moved to Minnesota. She was petite, with long straight grey hair pulled back in a thick ponytail. Her eyes, behind thick-lensed glasses, seemed very small. She could have been anywhere between thirty-five and sixty.

"Do you have any books about Anastasia?" she asked, blinking owlishly.

I began to move toward the children's biography section when she went on, "Because I just took my daughter to see the show on ice and I wanted to know a little more."

I smiled, then went intead toward the TV & Movie books section, pulling out a colorful picture book adaptation of the animated movie.

She grinned at me. "That's perfect. Thanks so much." She proceeded to tell me about how much she'd liked the ice show and how interested her daughter had been.

"How old is your daughter?" I asked her.

"Twenty three." My eyes widened a bit but I nodded, and bid her goodbye as she made her way to the register. When I talked with a co-worker later and told her about the exchange, she smiled knowingly.

"Oh, you met Marsha's mom." She went on to explain that the woman I'd talked to often came into the store with the daughter that she'd mentioned, and they were both a bit, well.... She paused.

"Simple?" I filled in.

"Exactly." My co-worker also said that Marsha was engaged to a creepy looking older man, who would sometimes come to the store with them.

After that, I saw both Marsha's mom and Marsha many times. Marsha's mom was a more frequent shopper than Marsha; she was very interested in wedding books for her daughter. Marsha had wavy, dirty-blonde hair and was passably pretty until she opened her mouth. Her voice was a strident drawl and jutting front teeth. And the first time I saw the fiance, I had to agree with my co-worker. He was a small, hunched man with frizzy grey hair under a baseball cap. He was most certainly creepy.

I began to feel a sort of weird affection for Marsha's mom, though, since she always visited the kids' section looking for books for herself. I liked helping her find new ones, and hearing how she'd liked the old ones.

Things started to feel weird, though, when I left the bookstore but continued to see Marsha. First I saw her on the bus. Or rather, I heard her on the bus, bawling into a cell phone, then turned to verify that it was indeed her. Another time I saw her walking down Nicollet Avenue in Minneapolis, chewing gum and swinging her arms vigorously. I saw her again at the Mall of America, and yet again peeling out of Southdale Mall in a white sports car. Sometimes she'd be alone, sometimes she'd be with the man who may at some point have become her husband. These sightings have continued since I left the bookstore; it's been almost four years and I still see Marsha a couple times a year. I saw her leaving Shinder's with the guy to catch a bus last fall, and getting off the elevator in Marshall Field's during Christmas. I have not seen her mom again, though.

Marsha has become this weird totem of my life in Minnesota. She doesn't ever see me, or know who I am, so these encounters are entirely one sided. She pops up periodically, unexpectedly but definitively, reminding me that I live here now and have made connections. Whether I chose them or not.

( 8:59 PM ) Girl Detective

Before we left on our trip to Italy, I spent about two hours in the bathroom trying to hone the perfect toiletry kit. It didn't work; I forgot sunscreen plus made us late for our airport shuttle. This made my husband G. Grod quite cranky. Upon our return, then, I didn't unpack the kit, but spent some further time ensuring that it actually DID contain travel sizes of everything essential. I arranged them so they fit, then put in a list from a magazine to remind me of other possible items.

Our trip last week was a breeze to pack for. I opened the bag, quickly verified its contents, decided against taking my contact lenses, then tossed in my SPF moisturizer plus a few key makeup items--Bobbi Brown Thickening Mascara, Nars the Multiple in Orgasm and Laura Mercier lipstick in Dry Rose. I double checked the list and was finished in under fifteen minutes. I feel suitably foolish for unpacking and repacking my toiletries throughout my life, but late is better than never.

Here's my list, if you'd like to give it a try on your next trip.

Shampoo
Conditioner
Liquid soap (I like Dr. Bronner's peppermint)
Facial cleanser
Facial SPF moisturizer
Body moisturizer
Deodorant
Toothbrush
Toothpaste
Floss
Are you going to be showing skin? If so, razor. You can bring shaving cream, or you can use the moisturizer or conditioner.
Hair brush
Ponytail holders
Sunscreen
Lip balm
Tweezers
Nail file
Mini eyelash curler
Vitamins
Travel candle and matches

And for the plane, here are a few extra things for self preservation:

eyeshade
earplugs
antibacterial wipes and gel
hand lotion
Evian spray
saline nasal spray

( 9:43 PM ) Girl Detective

I've just returned from a four-day trip to the east coast, where my husband G. Grod and I visited family and various friends in PA. We also made a day trip to NYC to see other friends. This trip was in lieu of a Thanksgiving or Christmas visit. Grod and I had travelled to Italy in October with my family, so had recently seen them. Also, after travelling home for the holidays for all of my adult life, I wanted to avoid the rush of holiday travel. We left on Thursday at mid-morning and returned on Monday early afternoon. The airports were quiet and not crowded. Lines were short and moved quickly.

The upside of visiting at the holidays is that many relatives and friends from other places migrate home as we do; there is a magnet effect. Because we were visiting in mid January we did not get to see Grod's brother, as we would have if we'd visited at Thanksgiving, or his aunts, uncles and cousins, as if we'd visited at Christmas. We did, though, get to spend time with his parents, grandparents and a slew of friends. Also, our visits weren't rushed. We had time to relax and talk; and we usually only spent time with a few people at once, so we could have lengthy conversations and catch up with one another in a substantive way.

As I've mentioned, my father is fond of saying that all of life is a compromise. Travelling after the holidays is less stressful and less expensive. While we didn't get to see as many people as we might have otherwise, we did get quality time with all those that we did see. I doubt we'll give up holiday travel for good, but not doing it this year certainly had its merits.

( 8:49 PM ) Girl Detective

My apologies, but I'm going to be busy the next few days and probably won't be able to update till next week. Have a great weekend.

| ( 8:47 PM ) Girl Detective

The film critics have come out with their lists of the top films of 2002. I wouldn't presume to list the best films of the year because I know I didn't see them all. There were some that I know were good, like Far from Heaven and City of God. I'm sure they are masterful and compelling, yet depressing as hell. I'm not often in the mood to see films like that. I went to see In the Bedroom last year because I felt that I should; I left it feeling the same way. Not glad that I saw it, but like I'd satisfied some criteria for having viewed a well-made, difficult and not very enjoyable film. This year I've tried to see more enjoyable films. What I'm going to share with you, then, are three of the most enjoyable films of last year--all of which were also quite good films--that you probably didn't see.

The first is a French film, Read my Lips. It's a dark thriller about a hearing-impaired woman who becomes involved with an ex-con. Complex hijinks ensue. This one was a great story from beginning to end--suspenseful with intriguing and layered characters.

The second one you're not going to believe. I know you're not, because I've had this conversation with not one but several people. I'm talking about Femme Fatale. Yes, it stars Rebecca Romijn-Stamos and Antonio Banderas. That's where people usually stop listening to me. I know your disbelief. I felt it, but I was won over by Brian DePalma's entertaining film. The key to not having a problem with Antonio Banderas is to cast him as himself--an aging weaselly guy with no backbone who is easily sucked in by a strong woman. I can't explain Rebecca R-S except to say that for most of the movie, she did a fine job. Her character was a liar and a thief, so she spent most of the movie playing a woman who was pretending to be someone else. When she did this, she was fine. But when she played the character straight, it didn't work so well. Thankfully, these moments were brief and were made up for by some rather hot girl-on-girl action. Femme Fatale reminded me of a naughty Hitchcock movie. Or, rather, a MORE naughty Hitch movie. It is meticulously crafted and quite a lot of fun--an excellent example of a good bad movie.

The third movie you didn't see but should have is Spirited Away, the Japanese animated film directed by the master Hayao Miyazaki. Don't insult him by calling him the Japanese Walt Disney--a better comparison is that he is the Kurosawa of animation. Spirited Away tells the story of a young girl who loses her parents to their greed and stupidity. She has to survive by hard work and honesty among a fascinating array of characters. In spite of all odds--bad witches who might not be as bad as they seem, piggy parents and a mysterious boy--she triumphs in the end. This film, as do all of Miyazaki's, shows a girl heroine who is complex but capable. She may be scared, or feel selfish sometimes, but she does the right thing and wins out in the end. Many people won't see this film because it's animated. Open your mind. Animation isn't just for kids; and this is one of the best films--period--of last year.

These three are gone from theaters now, so the next chance to see them may be on DVD. Keep an eye out for them, though. There are no shoulds about these films; they are simply fun to watch and don't leave you feeling like you've had a head full of junk when they're over.

( 8:31 PM ) Girl Detective

One night last week, while I was starting to do the dishes, my husband flipped on the TV. It was VH1's I Love the 80's series. I could not finish the dishes fast enough to get on the couch and devote my full attention to it. They showed clips of TV shows, of music videos and of movies. I got swallowed up in a nostalgic wave, and stayed up an hour later than usual watching the whole thing.

Tonight, I got home from work and planned to do laundry, vacuum, write a blog entry and read. But as we finished dinner, we flipped to VH1, which was showing The Most Outrageous Game Show moments. I recognized nearly all of the American shows. The fact that some corner of my brain still stores this frightens me. Does anyone else remember how Gene Rayburn's microphone got longer and skinnier the longer the Match Game ran? Remember when it switched from having years--Match Game '76--to just plain old Match Game? I know I watched Tic Tac Dough with Wink Martindale, but thankfully can't remember what it was about. How about Card Sharks? They didn't show two of my favorites, though. The Joker's Wild--"Joker, Joker, Ancient Civilizations!"--and the game show whose name is escaping me that had the electronic board with the weirdly cute cackling bad guys--"Big money, no whammies!"

So when people today lament that today's kids are being brought up on Barney and Teletubbies, perhaps they shouldn't be so judgmental. My parents, who most people would say are quite decent people, let me watch all the game shows that played during the mid-70's to the mid-80's. ALL of them.

Unlike I Love the 80's, though, my fascination wasn't in fond memories from the past. The clips were hilarious. My favorite was one of John Davidson hosting the New Hollywood Squares. A woman contestant accused the other contestant of cheating and reading John's card. She started bitching, then got up and began to berate the guy while John looked on with a simultaneous amused and panicked look, at which point she pushed the guy off the podium and John gaped blatantly in disbelief. She whispered something in his ear, looking very pleased with herself, then went back and took her seat.

The VH1 show finished with poor Bob Eubanks having to admit that after years of crying "urban legend", he'd been lying about the crazy answer to "Where's the strangest place you've ever had the urge to make whoopie?" question, but he introduced the clip, and sure enough, the wife answered, "In the ass."

So there went another hour of my life, which I didn't even blink as I threw on the altar of VH1.

I think there's a new trash channel in town and the others--are you listening Fox, E!?--had better watch their backs.

( 4:39 PM ) Girl Detective

I made brownies last night. When I suggested bringing a few in to share with friends at work, my husband G. Grod cried possessively, "No! None of those brownies should leave the house!"

I did smuggle a few out this morning; and they were duly appreciated by my grateful friends. I can’t take all the credit for this brownie goodness, though. There’s a secret step that ensures success and I wouldn’t have known about it if not for two publications.

The first is Cook’s Illustrated, the bi-monthly magazine that’s like a Consumer Reports of cooking. There are no ads, and they test the crap out of food, tools and utensils until they get it right, then print well-written articles about roasting half-a-hundred chickens, sharing the technique that triumphed in the end. I love this magazine because it’s as anal-retentive as I’d like to be if I had time, but I don’t, so they are and then I get the same results.

So when they recommended Cookies and Brownies by Alice Medrich and said the book was great overall but would be worthwhile even if only for its brownie technique, I bought the book. I was not disappointed.

The technique, which Medrich calls "The Steve Ritual" calls for baking brownies at a higher temperature and for a shorter time than called for in most recipes, then plunging the brownie pan into an ice bath. The result is a brownie that is crisp on the outside and gooey/fudgey on the inside—perfect.

So please, if you like to cook check out both Cook’s Illustrated and Cookies and Brownies. They’re great publications with lots of great information, plus you’ll get the details of the Steve ritual and so much more. But if you just happen to be baking brownies tonight, try the ice bath trick. More people than me have declared it a winner.

( 7:33 PM ) Girl Detective

After over three decades of athletic avoidance, marked by brief intervals of guilt--high school track, Jane Fonda aerobics, rollerblading--I finally found something that worked pretty well for me. Yoga was both a good workout and something that calmed my million-miles-a-minute mind. When someone asked me once how long I'd been doing it and I told them almost three years, they said, "You must be good." But I can't quite lay claim to that. I think a fair assessment of my progress is that I don't suck.

In addition to the physical and mental focus aspects of yoga, there are also spiritual aspects as well. I've learned about these through the comments by the instructors before and during class and by reading Yoga Journal. Most of it is good, common-sense stuff, and while I'm not quite there yet, I do aspire to incorporate some of the spiritual stuff like meditating.

Lest you think I'm becoming some kind of yoga saint, though, I must come clean. Last week I've had a few less-than-praiseworthy experiences in yoga class.

The first was when an instructor came over to give me an adjustment while the class was doing the Extended Side Angle pose.

"Wow," he said, "your abs look really buff in this pose."

He is one of the most fit people I know, so coming from him this was high praise. I was glowing for hours and told half a dozen people. Yes, in the back of my mind I knew that being psyched about buff abs was hardly the enlightened mental state I was going for, but I didn't care. Buff abs!

At a later class, another instructor was putting us through a very tough sequence. I was struggling to keep up while she constantly reminded us that we should rest if we needed, or take modified versions of the poses. What I was unfortunately focused on, though, was the man on the mat behind me, who was sucking wind like there was no tomorrow. His loud wheezes (not even remotely resembling ujai "ocean" breath) were alarming; I kept looking back to see if he was going to keel over. He didn't, and instead I found him adamantly going through every pose with no modifications. He was clearly a man on a mission to get through the class; but I wished he'd take it easy and calm that breathing back to something in the non-myocardial-infarction range.

When I finally managed to drag my attention back to my own mat, where I was doing rest and modification aplenty, I found much misery of my own. As the instructor called out pose after pose, several times I found myself on the verge of tears, thinking, what am I doing here? I can't do this! At which point took a deep breath, reminded myself that yoga is not about misery--my own efforts and the man's behind me aside--and that I could rest and do the modifications as much as I needed. And that's what I did. I finished the class feeling as if I'd rested and modified my way through the whole thing, and I'm sore as hell today, but I made it through.

I'll go again on Tuesday, with the hope that my muscles and my mind will be in somewhat better shape. That's the great thing about doing something over time. I realize that no one day is representative. One day I'm flexible, another I'm not. One day I'm focused, the next I can't stop thinking about lunch. So I keep going back, because going to class is a habit like any other--the more I do it, the easier it is; the less I do it, the more I stay away. This week--full of ego, then crushing judgment against myself and the poor wheezing guy--was not my best. I'm hoping next week will be better. But this week was good to remind me that I've got a long way to go to enlightenment.

( 8:37 PM ) Girl Detective

August 1998: $17840.25
September 1999: $9,978.35
October 2000: $6619.17
November 2001: $2,599.27
December 2002: $196.97
January 2003: Zero.

I have finally paid off my credit card debt. What's really scary is that the 1998 amount is actually not as big as it got. I started accumulating in 1990, with one credit card payment that I couldn't pay off. So I began to accumulate a balance. Which I've carried now for over twelve years. Twelve years, people.

This is what fucked up spending looks like. Please pay attention. Learn from my mistakes. Laugh at me. Pity me if you must. But for pete's sake, don't ever do anything as fucked up stupid as I did.

So I went from my one payment that I couldn't cover to just paying off what I could. Then I graduated from college and didn't get a full-time for a year. The debt bloomed up to $3K. I freaked. Asked my banker friend what to do. She said no matter what, never declare bankruptcy. While I'm sure this isn't entirely true, I decided not to. Then I got a full-time job, a decent salary and my first real aparment, and my debt bloomed to $10K. Damn, how'd that happen?

Citibank kept sending me these cards with low rate intros, but they never gave me enough credit to transfer the whole amount, so I kept a little here, a little there, plus just this one extra ... book binge, expensive dinner out, vacation, piece of furniture, spree at the Gap... And I kept being promoted, and I kept getting paid more, and then suddenly, five years after that first missed payment in full, I am in debt $26K

So of course, that's when I decide to quit the job, go to grad school and make $10K a year, which is actually the gravy train of grad school.

But that's also the time I sit down, add it all up, realize it's $26K, hyperventilate, cry, try to figure out if I can return anything (I can't), call the Consumer Credit Counselling Resource people, and decide that things have to change.

They did. I consolidated as much as I could, paid off as much as I could every month, only used one card for "necessary" purchases, and began to get better. Because that's really what it was. I couldn't stop a lifetime of crappy spending habits and flagrant disregard of the laws of credit. I'd still spend too much, and have to call my parents and ask for help. But then I'd firm up my resolve and get back on track. And over the years, the wavers became less extreme, and the debt dwindled.

And now it's done. So while other people my age who are less stupid have been socking away money into their 40Ks hand over fist for the last 13 years, I've been paying off a monster. What do I have to show for it? My couch and loveseat. My bed. That's about it. Thirteen years is a long time. That's enough time to buy an outfit, wear it to death, get sick of it and give it to Goodwill. I've given a lot of things to Goodwill over the past 13 years. I've given away a lot of books that at one point I was sure I'd read and finally got tired of toting from apartment to apartment. I've learned that there are very few things that I truly need. That sometimes, if I wait, the urge will pass. Sometimes it doesn't and I buy something anyway. Sometimes it doesn't, and I don't. Two years ago I wanted a Marc Jacobs purse like I couldn't believe. But I didn't buy it. Somebody else did. And I mourned it. And I regretted not buying it. But I'm glad that I didn't.

I'm still not a good spender. I still spend more than I should on clothes, trinkets, cosmetics binges (mini-binges, really) at Neiman's, books and eating out. But it's a lot less than before. I finally have a budget. That I mostly stick to. I finally have a sense of how much comes in and how much goes out. 2003 starts with me out from under this burden I've had for far too long. I feel like I'm coming out of a cave into the sun. I'm not anxious to go back in that cave anytime soon, so I'm going to take a deep breath and try to live the rest of my life as a responsible spender.

Wish me luck. I think I've got a shot at it.

( 7:55 PM ) Girl Detective

I recently finished Flux by Peggy Orenstein and felt like kicking myself for not reading it earlier. I'd seen it recommended in an article on choices faced by women in their thirties. It was one of several books praised for its realistic portrayal of the consequences of choosing to be a parent. Among them? Marital happiness goes down after having a child and further down with each subsequent child. Not surprising, but hardly the warm, fuzzy picture that most envision. Orenstein combines her own experience with interviews with women at different stages of life, as well as a great deal of research. The second part of the title, "Women on Sex, Work, Love, Kids, and Life in a Half-Changed World" accurately assesses the wide range of topics covered. While Orenstein can't cover them all in detail, and she tends to focus more on women of middle and higher income levels, she does an admirable job of shedding light into the murky depths of these issues.

As most people who have talked to me recently can attest, I can't stop talking about this book. The author does a great job of debunking a lot of the pleasant myths that people tell themselves. One of her hardly comforting points is that luck is a big component in how successful people are in managing career and family. What I found most useful about the book, though, is how it combines conversations with women of different ages, situations and careers. While many women have a business mentor to help them navigate their career choices, most women aren't talking about life choices with a large variety of women with different experiences. This book addresses that need. Most women in their twenties say that they have choices, yet can't imagine not being married with children by their mid-thirties. This book represents women who've made a range of choices that demonstrates the real range of possibilities--had kid and continued to work, had kid and stayed home, didn't have kid, didn't get married, and more.

While women in their thirties like me are the obvious audience for this book, I think it would be useful for men, and women of other ages, too. This book is about the choices we face, and sometimes the life circumstances that take away those choices. She talked to people who had little support for the choices they made, and who were often questioned and second-guessed about them. Her portrayal helps bring understanding and empathy to all the choices, not just the traditional ones, or the feminist ones, or the whatever ones.

( 6:29 PM ) Girl Detective

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife."--Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

Apparently no one believes this more fervently than the women on Fox's Joe Millionaire.

I finally have succumbed to reality TV. For years, I'd managed to avoid it. I was helpless in the face of Fox's clever twist, though. Twenty women are shipped out to the estate of a handsome guy who's just inherited 50 million dollars. But they don't know that it's all a lie; in real life he's a construction worker who makes $19,000 a year. They'll be put through their paces as each tries to win him, only to later discover that he's an ordinary joe. A great-looking, well-built ordinary joe, but still.

I'm reminded of that old sexist joke. A man asks a woman, "Would you sleep with me for a million dollars?"

"If you had a million dollars, yes. You don't, do you?"

"No. How about twenty?"

Gasp! "What do you think I am"

"Actually, we've already established that; now we're just settling on the price."

The women are wide eyed as they approach the estate in horse-drawn carriages. They burble on and on about fairy tales and being a princess. After they meet him, they're even more excited. He's tall, with dark, curly hair and an aw-shucks demeanor that's quite disarming. One woman (the show does insist on calling them girls; I will not follow suit) compares him to Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. Doesn't she recall that he was the evil villain of the movie, who fell to a horrible, painful death upon jagged rocks? Why is she only remembering the favorable parts?

That question could well be the key to the show. The folks from Fox have hired a British butler and a slew of experts to prepare "Joe", whose actual name is Evan, to pretend to be rich. Yet their story is that he just inherited the money, so why does he have to pretend to know how to dance, ride horses, use the correct silver at dinner and know which wine goes with which food? Certainly it makes for entertaining clips that are interspersed between shots of the women arriving and being interviewed. Perhaps, though, they need to prep him so that he can keep up the charade for the required amount of time. Perhaps if he were less than pseudo-polished, the women would catch on that they're being duped.

The show is cleverly edited, so that we're persuaded that Evan is an honest, kind guy who feels bad about lying to these women. "I've never had to lie to a women to get her to sleep with me!" he protests. The women's comments are also skillfully interwoven so that we can easily identify the bitch, a woman named Heidi who applies her liquid eyeliner with a heavy hand.

Hint, it's supposed to be a line, darling, not something that looks like a misplaced false mustache. The makeup artist Bobbie Brown says that liquid eyeliner is too difficult for most women to use. Heidi, pay attention.

Eight women were eliminated last night, and the previews for next week indicate that seven more will go to bring things down to five. In order to identify the twelve he'd chosen, he called their names and gave them a pearl choker, while the others waited, and waited, their lips becoming more and more taut as they tried to be happy for those who were chosen. I wonder which of them are smiling now.

It does seem rather rude to give the necklaces to those who stay, though. Why not those who go? "Sorry, you don't get to do me, but here's a nice necklace." That seems a lot more fair to me.

There are five more episodes; and I'm hooked. While I'm abashed that I've given in to reality TV after so long, at least I'll never lack for something to talk about with people at work.

( 6:44 PM ) Girl Detective

I love movies; and I try to support locally owned businesses like movie theaters. But there is a limit to my tolerance. And I found it yesterday.

My husband G. Grod and I made plans to see an early show of Adaptation. The online listing said it was showing at 1:50 p.m. We didn't find parking on the street, so parked in a lot not too far away that is a relative bargain in the Uptown Minneapolis at $3. After a short, chilly walk, we faced a long line out in the cold. When we finally got inside, we found the the time was wrong; the movie was actually at 2:20. We pooled our cash since the place doesn't take cards (which is fine for small businesses; credit cards cost them a significant percentage of their sales) but this place only has matinee prices for its first show of the day. Our show was full price and cost--d'oh!--$16. Suddenly we had less than I thought for water and candy. But plenty of time to wait in line for them. My head nearly exploded when the guy at the counter told me that a bottle of water was $3.25. It was a small bottle of Aquafina. I can buy a 6-pack of large bottles for $1.99 at Target. So this bottle cost more than 150% of retail. I had no money left for candy and all of a sudden we were at a whopping $22.50 for a Sunday afternoon movie. Gah.

Sadly, though, that was not the worst part. The movie before ours did not let out till 2:10, so we were left standing about in the lobby for gobs of time watching other movies exit and enter while we waited for our amateurly scheduled movie.

This is your business, people, this is what you do, isn't it?

Of couse, after we were seated, we had talkative stupid people behind us. More frustrating, they weren't consistent, making it more difficult to turn around and shush them. I chose not to, though, fearing that I wouldn't be able to maintain a facade of politeness in the face of so much idiocy.

We left, vowing never to go to the Lagoon in Minneapolis ever again. The Lagoon sucks. Boo, Lagoon.

Oh, yeah. The movie was pretty good.

( 8:15 PM ) Girl Detective

A few months ago, I was lamenting how little I was reading. I had magazines piling up, books stacked to the ceiling, and yet I could not seem to find time to read. It would take me two to three weeks to finish one book. I felt like a literary failure.

So imagine my surprise when I looked back on December and found that I'd read six books. Six! An average of one and half a week! Now that was more like it. With that average, I may yet make a dent in the books I've purchased but not yet read and still be able to rationalize periodic new ones.

What changed during December? My writing class ended, my job became less busy, I didn't travel for the holidays and I took a little vacation from this weblog. The difference was time.

When I was a kid, teachers, friends, family and librarians would all praise me as a fast reader. So I grew up believing I was a fast reader. My recent surge in completed books, however, indicates that it was not so.

I was not a fast reader, but a diligent one. I spent what time I had reading and so finished a great many books. I fooled others into thinking that I read a lot in a little time, where I actually read a lot in a lot of time.

So it is with some trepidation that I take up these weblog entries again. Will this mean the end of my sudden surge of literary capability? I must make some compromise to accomododate my writing, but I hope that I can find the balance between my reading and my writing. At least until something else comes along that sucks up all my time.

Girl Detective the person is a titian-haired sleuth, intent on fathoming the mysteries of the world at large, with particular (and some might say obsessive) attention paid to the mundane details of female life.

Girl Detective the weblog is not about girl detectives; sorry if you came here looking for that. It is, however, an homage to the inquisitive nature, untiring spirit and passion for justice that marked these great literary heroines.

Girl Detective the weblog is a forum to practice my writing. It is about whatever strikes me on any given day. I am a woman writing for other women. If guys find it interesting, bravo. If not, that makes sense, but don't complain.

All material here is copyright 2002-2004 Girl Detective.

I was pregnant. Now I've got a baby.
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