...Bought the T-shirt, right? Not so nowadays. If one wants to properly mark a significant life event, one buys a sticker and slaps it on the rear end of a vehicle, preferably the one that person customarily drives. T-shirts are so 1990's. (Confession: a small, very repressed part of me still wants an airbrushed t-shirt from Gulf Shores with my name and a friends emblazoned across it. Oh and there have to be dolphins. Dolphins that are leaping in the shape of a heart over a red rose suspended above the ocean at sunset. Perfect.) And keychains? Don't even get me started. Nope, it's all about the stickers now if you want to let people know where you've been, what you like, what you do.
I'm not sure if the proper terminology would be "bumper sticker" anymore. I rarely see them actually affixed to the bumper. If you're cool, you position the sticker in the lower right hand corner of your rear window. This placement prevents dangerous driving practices, such as checking your rear view mirror and being overcome by the irrational fear that your highly stylized initials are following you. The lower right side of the back window also makes it easier for your passenger to read the sticker(s) on other vehicles to you as you drive, because we all know that reading any kind of text while driving is hazardous to our lives. Hence the large, flashing orange signs placed along the interstate to remind us of this very fact. If your stickers represent the members of your family (including the 13 family pets), the lower left corner of the rear window is the traditional choice. If you are supporting your favorite sports team, you will have no less than 3 stickers of varying sizes and colors placed randomly anywhere over the entire back end of the car. Drivers of pickups favor the space immediately on either side of the license plate. Any closer to the edge of the tailgate and someone might think that you should actually be driving a sedan.
In the beginning of the car flare craze, the stickers were easily readable, even by circumspect drivers such as myself, who never avert their eyes from the road, even to check on their two small children in the back seat. They are both confined to car seats on opposite sides of the vehicle. What could possibly go wrong?? Original, bona fide bumper stickers could easily fit not only John 3:16 in the King James Version but also the name and phone number of your church in a font that you could distinguish at three car lengths. But lately I have noticed a trend in these ingenious little badges. They are becoming smaller and more inscrutable. The difficulty in deciphering the message of the sticker is less a function of the font size and more a matter of the actual numbers and letters inscribed on it. (I cannot even comment on stickers that resort merely to colors to convey their meaning. That's what flags are for, people.)
It is not unlikely, in fact, it is very likely, in the course of a 10 minute drive to the grocery store for a pint of ice cream...er...I mean, bunch of organic kale, that you will see at least 5 of these incomprehensible symbols. 26.2. 13.1. OBX. Now people are just getting snarky with these things, taking us back to algebra with all these meaningless numbers and letters. But if you tailgate closely enough you will see the tiny explanation of the sticker. 26.2 miles. Oh great, this one runs marathons. What's he doing in a car, anyway? Why isn't he running? 13.1 miles. Okay, they get a pass. They only ran half the marathon, came to their senses, and are most likely now driving home to eat that pint of ice cream. OBX. OBX?!? Is this a new species of African antelope on display at the zoo? Nope. Turns out this one refers to the Outer Banks off the coasts of the Carolinas. So these people visited the Outer Banks, spent some time, ate some seafood, and loved it enough to slap those letters on the back of their vehicle which is now four hundred miles away from any banks, outer or otherwise.
But this is the one that gets me hooked. I don't know if it's the enigmatic boldness of the letter "X," or the sheer rush of genius that I feel every time I see those 3 letters grouped together and know what they mean, but I am now intrigued more than I am befuddled by these small circles traveling all over the country on the hatchbacks, tailgates, and trunk lids of various vehicles. In a way these stickers are now less about what they mean to the driver of the car they decorate, and more about the community of fellow drivers. Now they connect us, through our experiences, to one another. Even as we are ensconced in our own cars, we can discover a little bit about the lives of the people hurtling past us at 70 miles an hour.
However, for those of you sporting the 26.2, or even the 13.1 stickers, we are going to have to find some other kind of common ground.
-Ashley
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Monday, March 16, 2015
Holland vs. Armadillo
Armadillos. I don't like them. Where I live they are frequent roadkill, and if there is anything uglier or more disgusting than a living armadillo, it's a dead one. In addition to that, they can carry and transmit leprosy, a freakish fact I learned only after my yard had been ruined by these pests. What was previously a pretty nice lawn (okay, it was mostly weeds, but at least we kept it maintained) is now a mine field of divots with their accompanying mounds of red clay. The entire middle section of my front yard is decimated. Apparently we have an unusually high population of whatever food source these armadillos go for. Lucky us.
But holes in the yard were just the beginning. We were upgraded from 24-hour buffet to an extended stay motel, complete with all-you-can-eat grubs, ants, and earthworms. We discovered the first burrow under the cypress trees in our side yard. Burrow is such a benign word for deep, dark, scary hole. Not a comforting sight when you have a curious outdoor-loving little boy like I do. After my husband attempted to drown the armadillo in its den, the malicious beast burrowed again, directly beneath our son's slide. Not cool.
One night I surprised our resident pest as I walked out to the mailbox. Armadillos are either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. This one didn't scuttle away until I was about 12 feet away from it. When I returned to the house and told my husband I had spotted the vermin he jumped into action, grabbing a flashlight, laundry basket, and gun. Of course, our 4 year-old son was thrilled about going night hunting with his dad. A momentary lapse of judgment put the laundry basket in our son's hands, but reason returned and instead he tromped out the door manning the flashlight. Unfortunately this exciting mission proved fruitless, as the quarry sought shelter either in the woods or a neighboring yard. But did this second attempt on it's life warn it off permanently? Oh no. The holes continued to multiply.
And then one day, sweet revenge. The armadillo met the fate of so many others before it, right across the street from our house. I've never been so happy to see roadkill. Granted, the joy over the death of the marauding animal waned quickly as the corpse lingered for days as a feast for the local carrion birds, but still I was glad that we could reclaim our yard and return it to its former weed-covered glory.
But the saga wasn't over. Soon after the death of our first invader we noticed that the number of holes in our front yard had increased again. The first armadillo dug deeply over the majority of the lawn. The successor concentrated on the middle part of the yard, completely destroying all appearance of grass (weeds) with a multitude of shallow holes. Imagine my chagrin at this new development.
One night a few weeks ago my family and I were driving home after dark when we suddenly spotted an armadillo in a yard just one street over from ours. We just knew it had to be the same one that frequented our place. Could we drive past such a perfect opportunity to deliver our vengeance? Oh no. My husband stopped the car and jumped out, to the mixed cacophony of my laughter and our children's wails. The little one was crying from sleepiness, the older, so he says, because I was laughing. Either I laugh so infrequently that he wasn't sure what was happening, or the sound of it is truly terrifying. Not flattering for me in either case.
But back to my husband and the armadillo. My husband rushed around the back of the car, but once he stepped into the yard he began to feel a little awkward. First of all, he was planning to kick the armadillo, but then what? Keep kicking? Secondly, we don't even know the people who live at this house. He decided to go for a swift kick and almost made it, but the (again, brave or stupid) animal made a get-away right before my husband connected. Too bad. I still think it is pretty epic that he almost kicked an armadillo.
And that's how things remain. We, the hapless victims of this disease-infested creature. The armadillo, growing fatter by the minute on our plethora of creepy-crawly delicacies. You just thought it was cute when Simba ate that grub in The Lion King. Not so adorable in real life. Maybe I will find a way to slip a poisoned earthworm to the armadillo. That'll show it "Slimy, yet satisfying."
-Ashley
But holes in the yard were just the beginning. We were upgraded from 24-hour buffet to an extended stay motel, complete with all-you-can-eat grubs, ants, and earthworms. We discovered the first burrow under the cypress trees in our side yard. Burrow is such a benign word for deep, dark, scary hole. Not a comforting sight when you have a curious outdoor-loving little boy like I do. After my husband attempted to drown the armadillo in its den, the malicious beast burrowed again, directly beneath our son's slide. Not cool.
One night I surprised our resident pest as I walked out to the mailbox. Armadillos are either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. This one didn't scuttle away until I was about 12 feet away from it. When I returned to the house and told my husband I had spotted the vermin he jumped into action, grabbing a flashlight, laundry basket, and gun. Of course, our 4 year-old son was thrilled about going night hunting with his dad. A momentary lapse of judgment put the laundry basket in our son's hands, but reason returned and instead he tromped out the door manning the flashlight. Unfortunately this exciting mission proved fruitless, as the quarry sought shelter either in the woods or a neighboring yard. But did this second attempt on it's life warn it off permanently? Oh no. The holes continued to multiply.
And then one day, sweet revenge. The armadillo met the fate of so many others before it, right across the street from our house. I've never been so happy to see roadkill. Granted, the joy over the death of the marauding animal waned quickly as the corpse lingered for days as a feast for the local carrion birds, but still I was glad that we could reclaim our yard and return it to its former weed-covered glory.
But the saga wasn't over. Soon after the death of our first invader we noticed that the number of holes in our front yard had increased again. The first armadillo dug deeply over the majority of the lawn. The successor concentrated on the middle part of the yard, completely destroying all appearance of grass (weeds) with a multitude of shallow holes. Imagine my chagrin at this new development.
One night a few weeks ago my family and I were driving home after dark when we suddenly spotted an armadillo in a yard just one street over from ours. We just knew it had to be the same one that frequented our place. Could we drive past such a perfect opportunity to deliver our vengeance? Oh no. My husband stopped the car and jumped out, to the mixed cacophony of my laughter and our children's wails. The little one was crying from sleepiness, the older, so he says, because I was laughing. Either I laugh so infrequently that he wasn't sure what was happening, or the sound of it is truly terrifying. Not flattering for me in either case.
But back to my husband and the armadillo. My husband rushed around the back of the car, but once he stepped into the yard he began to feel a little awkward. First of all, he was planning to kick the armadillo, but then what? Keep kicking? Secondly, we don't even know the people who live at this house. He decided to go for a swift kick and almost made it, but the (again, brave or stupid) animal made a get-away right before my husband connected. Too bad. I still think it is pretty epic that he almost kicked an armadillo.
And that's how things remain. We, the hapless victims of this disease-infested creature. The armadillo, growing fatter by the minute on our plethora of creepy-crawly delicacies. You just thought it was cute when Simba ate that grub in The Lion King. Not so adorable in real life. Maybe I will find a way to slip a poisoned earthworm to the armadillo. That'll show it "Slimy, yet satisfying."
-Ashley
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Downton Abbey Season 5 Finale
I'm a bit reluctant about writing this post. Finale! How imposing! And so I am retreating to more familiar and comfortable ground and will be composing this much as I would an email to Mom. As that was the catalyst for the blog, I think it is a fitting way to finish my reviews of this season of Downton Abbey.
But before I do that, I want to say Thank You! to all of you who have read my posts, given me feedback, and been so encouraging. Choosing to write this blog was much more challenging, time consuming, and intense than I realized it would be at the outset. It was also a great joy. To combine my love of writing with my interest in Downton was a pleasure, but sharing that with my friends (and making new friends in that process!) was such a treat. So again I say, thank you.
On to the review!
Mom,
To be honest, I didn't like this episode nearly as much as I did others during the season, particularly episodes 5-7. The sweetness of it all just got to be too much for me, and at the end I felt much the same way that I do after a real holiday season, glutted up to my eyeballs with desserts and in need of a month of fasting. Or at least a No-Candy January. If the episode had been of regular length, the balance of dramatic tension and moments of happy fulfillment would have been much more equal. But once the Christmas party started the episode began to unravel, much like Robert's ability to think coherently, bless him. I'm not surprised to find that inebriation only magnifies the good qualities of Robert, and makes him into a friendlier and more expansive version of his most jovial self. Not that I would recommend he remain in a state of liquor. I love him best when he is stone cold sober.
The one thing that struck me the most during the episode and has stayed with me throughout the day is....those shockingly green brocaded walls in the dining room of Brancaster Castle! When contrasted with the medieval exterior (I would not have been surprised to see King Arthur and his knights charging out of the gates), the interior is fantastically, staggeringly luxe and opulent. Did you see the chandelier in the library? And the paneling in the stairwell? Who lives in a place like that?! And what's more, who rents a place like that just to have somewhere they can go and shoot at birds?!!? Lord Sinderby, that's who, the man who practices adultery but eschews divorce, the man who only recognizes the worth of his daughter-in-law after she prevents ruination and despair from raining down upon his bald head. Lovely Rose, sprung from thorns, what a clever heroine you were! And how much you truly love your husband and dear mother-in-law, else you would have had no reason to prevent the truth from having it's way.
It was kind of delicious to see Thomas slip so easily back into his role as sneaker and schemer, at the behest of the Mistress of Mischief, Lady Mary, and aided by the silent but deadly Baxter. What an intriguing trio! What devilry might they wreak next season?
I was bored by Anna's predicament for the first seven episodes this season, irritated when the writers took the lazy way out and threw her into jail in episode eight, and so I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when she and Bates had the exact same conversation in jail that they had when he was incarcerated. And did you notice that neither Bates nor Anna has ever denied murdering Vera and Mr. Green, respectively?? At least not that I can recall. These are two of my favorite characters! Why, oh why can't the writers do something interesting with them?? If they give her a limp next season, I'm throwing in the towel. (I laughed out loud at Thomas' comment regarding Mr. Bates willingness to cut off his arm in order to help Anna. Wobbly at both ends. Ha!)
How lovely was Edith? Motherhood has made her bloom. She is content, easy-going, playful, confident. It's been a long time coming. Her moment with Robert was both sweet and awkward, which was perfect considering their relational history. I think now that both Robert and Cora will view their middle daughter with more respect and admiration, and hopefully give more expressions of love. That's all Edith ever really needed. She needed to feel, not just know, that she was loved.
The costumes were gorgeous. Almost overwhelmingly so. How much more lavish and beautiful can these women get? But the men had the upper hand in their shooting tweeds. I think all men should forsake camouflage in favor of tweed. It is far more gentleman-like and refined. Play clothes with style. And the drabness of those clothes mingled with the mist and heather of the outdoor scenes was a welcome respite for my eyes before plunging into the next round of evening wear. (Good grief, Mary's beaded evening gown!! As she said herself at the fashion show, "Oh yummy!")
There were some wonderful juxtapositions during this episode. The echo of a gun shot becoming the ring of prison gates. The grand attire and bad manners of the dinner at Brancaster against the simplicity and friendliness round the kitchen table at Downton. And, for the 437th time, Edith's maternal instinct beside Mary's....well, what exactly does Mary feel for George??
Apparently Mary and Edith have a supernatural power that can only be employed through the use of piano music and song. Whenever we have seen these two in duet, lost men have come home. First Matthew and William in Season Two, now Bates during the Christmas party. Nice, but cheesy. I infinitely preferred the former moment. The latter was merely a pale echo.
One moment that I will not deride the writers for cashing in on was the use of the Christmas party as the setting for Carson's proposal to Mrs. Hughes. I think I felt much like Mrs. Hughes. I wanted it to happen, but I didn't necessarily expect that it would. And I love that instead of becoming even more stiff and formal in his moment of declaration and request, Carson became just like any other lover beseeching the hand of his beloved. Oh! The sweetness. But did she really have to call him a booby? I'm not ready for them to have terms of endearment yet. Let's at least drink the glasses of punch first.
I feel sorry for Isobel and Lord Merton. They genuinely care for each other, but those wicked sons would never let them be happy. So in the end I think she made the right choice. There's always hope for Dr. Clarkson! Granny certainly thinks so. I would really like to see more of him in Season Six. Even though he can be a bit cranky, he's familiar and comforting, and his little mustache is just so cute!
I do not feel sorry for Prince Kuragin. If he had channeled his intensely passionate nature into his marriage, I seriously doubt that his meeting with his wife after 5 years of separation would've been as bitter and cold as it was. What an awful evening that must have been for all of them! Granny was a little bit pathetic (blasphemy, I know!) in her solicitude on behalf of Princess Irina. But she certainly owed that woman an apology! I'm glad that Granny and Isobel can continue their amusing friendship unhindered by romantic attachments on either side.
I know there was much more to this episode, but these are the things that chiefly struck me. Well, one more thing. If Mary manages to catch another man just by wearing gorgeous clothes, looking superior, and being rude, I'm going to throw up a little bit in my mouth. It's Edith's turn. Let her have a chance at a real relationship with a man who isn't encumbered by facial bandages, a sling, or an insane wife. Sheesh!
-Ashley
But before I do that, I want to say Thank You! to all of you who have read my posts, given me feedback, and been so encouraging. Choosing to write this blog was much more challenging, time consuming, and intense than I realized it would be at the outset. It was also a great joy. To combine my love of writing with my interest in Downton was a pleasure, but sharing that with my friends (and making new friends in that process!) was such a treat. So again I say, thank you.
On to the review!
Mom,
To be honest, I didn't like this episode nearly as much as I did others during the season, particularly episodes 5-7. The sweetness of it all just got to be too much for me, and at the end I felt much the same way that I do after a real holiday season, glutted up to my eyeballs with desserts and in need of a month of fasting. Or at least a No-Candy January. If the episode had been of regular length, the balance of dramatic tension and moments of happy fulfillment would have been much more equal. But once the Christmas party started the episode began to unravel, much like Robert's ability to think coherently, bless him. I'm not surprised to find that inebriation only magnifies the good qualities of Robert, and makes him into a friendlier and more expansive version of his most jovial self. Not that I would recommend he remain in a state of liquor. I love him best when he is stone cold sober.
The one thing that struck me the most during the episode and has stayed with me throughout the day is....those shockingly green brocaded walls in the dining room of Brancaster Castle! When contrasted with the medieval exterior (I would not have been surprised to see King Arthur and his knights charging out of the gates), the interior is fantastically, staggeringly luxe and opulent. Did you see the chandelier in the library? And the paneling in the stairwell? Who lives in a place like that?! And what's more, who rents a place like that just to have somewhere they can go and shoot at birds?!!? Lord Sinderby, that's who, the man who practices adultery but eschews divorce, the man who only recognizes the worth of his daughter-in-law after she prevents ruination and despair from raining down upon his bald head. Lovely Rose, sprung from thorns, what a clever heroine you were! And how much you truly love your husband and dear mother-in-law, else you would have had no reason to prevent the truth from having it's way.
It was kind of delicious to see Thomas slip so easily back into his role as sneaker and schemer, at the behest of the Mistress of Mischief, Lady Mary, and aided by the silent but deadly Baxter. What an intriguing trio! What devilry might they wreak next season?
I was bored by Anna's predicament for the first seven episodes this season, irritated when the writers took the lazy way out and threw her into jail in episode eight, and so I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when she and Bates had the exact same conversation in jail that they had when he was incarcerated. And did you notice that neither Bates nor Anna has ever denied murdering Vera and Mr. Green, respectively?? At least not that I can recall. These are two of my favorite characters! Why, oh why can't the writers do something interesting with them?? If they give her a limp next season, I'm throwing in the towel. (I laughed out loud at Thomas' comment regarding Mr. Bates willingness to cut off his arm in order to help Anna. Wobbly at both ends. Ha!)
How lovely was Edith? Motherhood has made her bloom. She is content, easy-going, playful, confident. It's been a long time coming. Her moment with Robert was both sweet and awkward, which was perfect considering their relational history. I think now that both Robert and Cora will view their middle daughter with more respect and admiration, and hopefully give more expressions of love. That's all Edith ever really needed. She needed to feel, not just know, that she was loved.
The costumes were gorgeous. Almost overwhelmingly so. How much more lavish and beautiful can these women get? But the men had the upper hand in their shooting tweeds. I think all men should forsake camouflage in favor of tweed. It is far more gentleman-like and refined. Play clothes with style. And the drabness of those clothes mingled with the mist and heather of the outdoor scenes was a welcome respite for my eyes before plunging into the next round of evening wear. (Good grief, Mary's beaded evening gown!! As she said herself at the fashion show, "Oh yummy!")
There were some wonderful juxtapositions during this episode. The echo of a gun shot becoming the ring of prison gates. The grand attire and bad manners of the dinner at Brancaster against the simplicity and friendliness round the kitchen table at Downton. And, for the 437th time, Edith's maternal instinct beside Mary's....well, what exactly does Mary feel for George??
Apparently Mary and Edith have a supernatural power that can only be employed through the use of piano music and song. Whenever we have seen these two in duet, lost men have come home. First Matthew and William in Season Two, now Bates during the Christmas party. Nice, but cheesy. I infinitely preferred the former moment. The latter was merely a pale echo.
One moment that I will not deride the writers for cashing in on was the use of the Christmas party as the setting for Carson's proposal to Mrs. Hughes. I think I felt much like Mrs. Hughes. I wanted it to happen, but I didn't necessarily expect that it would. And I love that instead of becoming even more stiff and formal in his moment of declaration and request, Carson became just like any other lover beseeching the hand of his beloved. Oh! The sweetness. But did she really have to call him a booby? I'm not ready for them to have terms of endearment yet. Let's at least drink the glasses of punch first.
I feel sorry for Isobel and Lord Merton. They genuinely care for each other, but those wicked sons would never let them be happy. So in the end I think she made the right choice. There's always hope for Dr. Clarkson! Granny certainly thinks so. I would really like to see more of him in Season Six. Even though he can be a bit cranky, he's familiar and comforting, and his little mustache is just so cute!
I do not feel sorry for Prince Kuragin. If he had channeled his intensely passionate nature into his marriage, I seriously doubt that his meeting with his wife after 5 years of separation would've been as bitter and cold as it was. What an awful evening that must have been for all of them! Granny was a little bit pathetic (blasphemy, I know!) in her solicitude on behalf of Princess Irina. But she certainly owed that woman an apology! I'm glad that Granny and Isobel can continue their amusing friendship unhindered by romantic attachments on either side.
I know there was much more to this episode, but these are the things that chiefly struck me. Well, one more thing. If Mary manages to catch another man just by wearing gorgeous clothes, looking superior, and being rude, I'm going to throw up a little bit in my mouth. It's Edith's turn. Let her have a chance at a real relationship with a man who isn't encumbered by facial bandages, a sling, or an insane wife. Sheesh!
-Ashley
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