John Pricelesworth III

I work as a Whole Foods buyer (as most readers probably know).  Recently, the most interesting part of my day has become seeing what one of the vendors will put as my last name on the invoice.  At first, I thought it was  cute, but after thinking about it I find it kind of offensive.  After all, one's name is a big part of one's identity and it shouldn't be handled just any old way.

However, much as it sort of bothers me, I don't want to say anything lest I give whoever is altering my name the response the are looking for.  It's hard to restrain myself though, I am so curious to find out what would compel someone to tamper with the name of a person (a business partner, no less) they have never met.

If I ever do find out who's doing it I do want to thank them for one thing: giving me an awesome fancy name to use when I become one of the hoi polloi: John Pricelesworth III.

The Threat Level Is "EXTREME"

Yes, the title of this blog is actually an article snippet from a reputable weather source.

I'm going to rage here, and I hope you can tolerate/forgive my furious wrath at the various weather reports flooding television and internet alike as Irene churns its way north.

1) Jim Cantore is an idiot. I grew up in Florida where watching hurricane tracks was a way of life. I knew all about pressure fluctuations, wind speed, flood variations, feeder bands, eye walls, and how to nail up a piece of plywood by the time I was eight. I don't need to see an over-zealous storm worshiper clinging to a telephone pole explaining how the massive flying debris field swirling behind him could kill you if you go outside. Thank you, Captain Obvious, for your grab bag of freak-out reports meant to further alarm an already frantic populace.

2) I understand the need to raise awareness about a storm's seriousness, but every time a reporter reaches for (or clicks on) their thesaurus to find a better word to describe "danger" and its derivatives (i.e. catastrophic, vengeful, extreme, maniacal, perilous, menacing, etc) they succeed in sensationalizing their story, but in turn cause an upsurge in panic. As Linda stands in line at Costco surrounded by a horde of wide-eyed stricken shoppers toting supplies for the apocalypse, she turns to her nearest counterpart and whispers, "Did you hear what they're calling this storm? A decimating widespread threat!" And like a game of grade school telephone, Nearest Counterpart relays to her friend that "This storm is the most destructive hurricane we could ever see here" and so on. I don't mean to make light of a legitimately serious situation, but I wish it could be handled in a way that both stressed the seriousness without causing a stampede at food and hardware stores.

3) The wind-blown, rain-soaked palm tree graphic of doom splashed across the storm page for weather.com. How about a solid blue backdrop which draws attention to the map and other important information without me having to further visualize what the streets will look like this weekend?

I am jaded about hurricanes growing up in Florida. I take them very seriously and stalk the same reports which drive me crazy, though I don't understand the need to overly-dramatize an already dangerous situation. It is what it is: a terrible awful storm which everyone needs to respect and prepare for. Let's stick to the facts, report what's necessary, and keep people informed. Bottom line. People perceive danger pretty easily. If given what they need to react, all of the zeal could easily be disposed of.

Please be safe, everyone, and take care.

Happy Birthday Macaulay Culkin!

Amid all the hubbub about Hurricane Irene one message stood out like a beacon above all else: Happy Birthday Macaulay Culkin!  I read this note on a digital, rotating bus stop advertisement and it made me wonder a few things.

Firstly, why is an advertising space, even a rotating one, wasting any amount of space and time wishing Macaulay Culkin a happy birthday?

Secondly, what happened to Macaulay Culkin?  For such a cute kid he turned in to quite the douchey sleazeball.  Also, why did Mila Kunis date him for so long?

Lastly, why are we still celebrating Macaulay Culkin's birthday?  Home Alone came out 21 years ago (wrap your mind around that, by the way), let's move on.  I mean we can still love that movie (believe me, I do), but no need to continue to make a big deal out of the birthday of the 31-year-old man who twice played Kevin McCallister.

Or, you know, I could spend a whole 10 minutes writing about him.  I guess I am glad to be reminded it is Macaulay Culkin's birthday after all.          

A Book Unread

I don't even remember what we were talking about before the call came.  It doesn't matter anyway because it was one of those calls where your world is totally changed afterward.  It's been so long since I've received the Bad News Call that I wasn't sure what was going on.

But January 1992 came rushing back to me as Kieley slumped to the floor and began to cry.  Her grandfather died today, you see, and that is not an experience I have been through for a very long time.  Still, I am glad I could be there for her, and that I could empathize in some way.

It's hard for me to know quite how to honor the memory of a man whom I have never met, but I felt like I should say something.  I am glad that he is finally relieved of the suffering he was going through.  It's a beautiful thing to know that in his final days he was starting to read again and in the middle of a book he found interesting.  I told Kieley that we should all hope to be so lucky.

I never met him, but I will always know his affect on this world as his writers' spirit lives on every day in his wonderful granddaughter who I love.  When someone dies we are always quick to think of the things that person never had a chance to see or do before we take the opportunity to celebrate all the things that person has seen and done.  And while the book Kieley's grandfather was reading will remain unread, his entire life has finally been lived.  There is no need to lament either notion.

I will be happy to continue to get to know Kieley's grandfather through the stories she has learned to tell so well and the life she is so generous to share with me.  

Sambo

My grandfather died today and I could fill pages with my memories of Samuel Laird, affectionately called "Sambo" by family and friends. And one day I will because my heart won't hurt the way it does and my mind will be clear enough of grief to do him proud of those recollections. He was, first and foremost, a man who loved to create memories. He relished the intricate recollection in the presence of those he loved. So I will be brief for now in saying he inspired me, who taught me how to dance, who nurtured a lifelong love of reading and writing. I'll always be "Kiles" in my memories of us and you'll always be telling me you love me and not to forget my old Grandpa. I never will. I love you.

These Dreams 2

This morning my girlfriend and I met all my high school friends at Taco John's on Water Street (the street with all the bars) in my hometown of Eau Claire.  Even Booker T was there!

I immediately woke up and told Kieley about yet another bizarre dream of mine.  She was a little less inclined to walk out the door after this particular tale.  Perhaps it is because of what this dream symbolized.  After this whirlwind vacation, there are only a handful of important people in my life that Kieley needs to meet.  Many of those people are my friends from high school and we will be meeting them soon...with the exception of Booker T.

It's interesting to think about the little relationship landmarks we pass on our journey, both monumental and mundane.  I remarked to Kieley yesterday that it was our first miniature golf date.  Cliche and corny, no doubt, but important nonetheless.  We can now file that date in with all the other cinematic dates couples are "supposed" to have: going to the fair, walking on the beach, the first weekend together, and so on.

Every time we pass and recognize those landmarks it makes me more and more glad to be doing so with someone I truly believe I will be able to share those memories with 50 years from now.  Maybe someday, if she's lucky, Kieley will finally get to meet my friend Booker T.

More Soul Searching

Note: This is another piece of the introduction to a novel I started, and quickly abandoned, titled Soul Searching.  It was supposed to be a memoir told in noir style that dealt with a person finding himself, "soul searching" if you will, while literally searching for souls.  Living with a novelist as I do now, I can see that the main cause of my derailment was not going in with a general outline in mind.  I was also afraid to let anyone read it, but I am trying to overcome that fear--that's where you come in.  So, in all of it's rough draft glory, here is more Soul Searching:

            Sleep is something of a privilege.  I would never expect those who experience it regularly to understand.  It is the kind of thing that comes to an individual who is satisfied with his day, week, life.  They say “no rest for the wicked.”  If only it were that simple.  I’ve been awake for a week now (something that is not uncommon in my life).  I have been truly awake for eight years.  Unfortunately, both interpretations have left me sleep deprived for far too long.

            I’m in the backyard of my brother’s house in Maryland digging a hole.  His cat died and I am going to give her some assistance.  I’ve found the souls of cats have a difficult time finding their way out—a real shame considering how intelligent those same souls are in life.  Naturally, I don’t have time to do this with every cat.  I wish I did because cats are old souls and it is a damn shame to see such spirits hit a dead end.  Of course there are worse bodies to have inhabited last.

            At any rate, Pippi was a true friend, and the earth would be well served by her walking it in some capacity.  Most times, cats opt to return as cats, but we might get lucky.  The historical influence of human souls that had once been cat souls is profound, but I am not an historian.  The importance of my job can not be read about in textbooks.

            But freeing Pippi’s soul is a matter of personal interest.  A favor for my brother who, though he will not know about it in this lifetime, deserves it.  He’s lucky he is my brother, too because digging this whole is a bitch.  The soil in his yard is the type of rocky shit that reminds me why I get paid for what I do.  That’s alright though, this gives me some time to sober up from the night’s activities and really give some consideration to the offer she approached me with.

            Why can’t I remember her name?                 

Life's a Beach

John and I have been in Nag's Head at "El Sueno" since late last night and I don't remember the last time either of us was this relaxed. I grew up never more than 15 minutes from a Florida beach, but there's something special about staying in this house surrounded by his amazing family. We didn't have to put on shoes today. People played games and put off showering and drank in the hot tub overlooking the ocean. We laughed, made dinner, watched movies and fought over who ate the last clam. I suppose it boils down to just being completely at ease, at home.

I don't want to linger here too long (there's a large puzzle being worked on in the dining room and my OCD is calling for order) but wanted to get a quick entry done. To you, John, I love you more than I can say. Especially with the smell of salt water in your hair and that smile on your face.

M&M Blondies

It's important to remember how fortunate we are to have good things in our lives and I'm feeling pretty lucky right now.  I've been coming to El Sueno with my family every two or three years since 1998.  Never have I had the opportunity to visit this beach house in North Carolina with that someone special.  At long last I have that chance and I can hardly remember what it was like to not have her around.  That is true in many aspects of my life currently; plainly and simply it feels good to finally have that missing piece in place.  Let's leave this entry short and sweet...just like my lady.

Right Here, Right Now

Made it  from Lake Geneva to Nag's Head in a day.  Those who know where both places are know that trip sucks in whatever way it is made, so this entry is obviously not substantial.  See you tomorrow.  Congratualtions Katie and Dan!

These Dreams

Let me start by informing everyone who doesn't know that I have some of the weirdest most vivid dreams.  More entries about these dreams are an inevitably for as long as I am trying to write about things for this blog.  This dream I am about to describe was weird enough to make Kieley question if she was sleeping next to a madman:

I was trying to explain to Kieley and her sister how lucrative a movie based on a tiger, dog, and little girl love triangle would be.

No, not a tiger-dog.  Notice the comma.

Obviously they were disgusted by the premise, but I reassured them it would be animated and wouldn't center on that kind of love.  Plus there would be great side plots such as the tiger going to find his cultural roots in India.  The dog would be dealing with his fear of swimming while living on a sandbar in the river as well as the concern that the tiger might eat him.  Meanwhile, the girl would be coming to terms with people telling her she is too young to fall in love.

Obviously this idea has money written all over it, something my subconscious was even trying to tell me as in the dream I regaled Kieley and her sister with this story as we slept in the parking lot of a gas station rather than a hotel room the night before my friend's wedding. 

Morning Wood

So here's a question: how did "Growing Pains" get away with Michael Sever's best friend being named Boner? Was that word not the euphemism in the late '80s and early '90s that it is now? Somehow, I doubt that is the case.

I wonder if it was one of those cases where the writers thought "let's see what the censors say when we name this kid Boner." Then when it made it through, they must have just ran with it. It makes one wonder what uber-Christian Kirk Cameron thought about the whole affair.

On that note, did you know that Cameron married the actress who played Kate on that show and that they are still together? I guess when you are that God-fearing you need to marry someone even if you are only pretending to have sex with them. I'm not knocking Christianity, just Cameron's crazy approach to it.

Anyway, I wonder if Boner was best man at the wedding. I wonder how long he went by the nickname Boner. I also wonder how he got the nickname Boner. It would almost have to have something to do with an erection, wouldn't it? And what self-respecting adult calls a high schooler by his nickname, especially if that nickname is Boner.

So many questions arise due to that name's existence. What an enduring legacy "Growing Pains" has left us. A tribute to the man:

In searching, I remember now that Boner's last name was Stabone, so that is where the nickname came from supposedly. I still think it was an excuse to say "boner" on TV a whole bunch. Honestly, how many Stabone families do you know?

Further research has also reminded me that the actor who played Boner, Andrew Koenig, committed suicide in 2010. There were some tasteless videos on youtube that make me hope this post is not equally tasteless. It was really just a random musing and I am sorry to be reminded that Koenig took his own life.

Love You Madly, Maddie

Let me apologize about the lack of length, depth, or general epic awesomeness of this blog entry. And now of course I remember my high school drama teacher telling us to never apologize before a performance.

It's been a long week, so far as weeks before a vacation go. You wind down things at work and want to climb the walls in the last few hours as the sweet taste of freedom lingers in the air. I could envision the gleaming linoleum floors of DCA, waiting to welcome us as we boarded our flight. A wedding with friends and days at the beach house were so very close.

And yet the hardest part still remained: dropping the dog off at the sitter's and realizing we were more broken up about leaving her than she us. I figured Maddie would turn around once before being led into the house by her temporary guardians (which she did) and then there would be the expected amount of whimpering and panic at being separated from Mom and Dad.

But this was not to pass. After she glanced back and was assured by us that going with Erica was okay, Maddie happily shot up the stairs without a single lingering pull. I stood beside the car as my eyes filled with tears. And then I recognized it wasn't because I was sad for her transitional ease away from us, but because she was no longer the terrified pup I took home from a kill shelter five years ago.

The Maddie who couldn't stand to be anywhere but by my side had grown up. She was going to be just fine and this wasn't a feeling I was accustomed to. I cried for a minute, reassured by John, and then experienced the euphoric feeling of knowing someone you love is in the best care when not able to provide such care yourself.

I can only imagine what it will be like the day I have to watch my hypothetical kids go to kindergarten. Might need a (very) large sedative.

One-Handed Typing

My favorite picture result when I

searched "one-handed typing"

As Kieley pointed out this entry will probablt lead to some assumptions about the meaing of the title.  No double entendres here, just felt like typing with only my right hand.  For added fun, I am going to leave in asll the typos.

This is difficult to do, mote so than I remember from thre old "hunt and peck" days.  If any onre from South is reading this surely they will remember Ms. mahler's keuyboarding class.  And if anypone from my class specificcally is reading this, I'm sorry for singing the Bee Gees' "Jive Talkin;" every time we had to type the word "jive" from our keyboarding biooks.

In fact, I am sorry to everyone who just took the time to read this.  Take comfort that it took way less time to read this crapo than it did to type it.

Soul Searching

Note: This is the introduction to a novel I started, and quickly abandoned, titled Soul Searching.  It was supposed to be a memoir told in noir style that dealt with a person finding himself, "soul searching" if you will, while literally searching for souls.  Living with a novelist as I do now, I can see that the main cause of my derailment was not going in with a general outline in mind.  I was also afraid to let anyone read it, but I am trying to overcome that fear--that's where you come in.  So, in all of it's rough draft glory, here is the introduction to Soul Searching:

            There is a theory that the human soul is a physical thing which can be verified by the weight a person loses when he dies.  This is an exciting idea for those who want to put the debate of whether or not the soul exists to rest.  Of course it is merely a theory since scientists are unable to consistently prove this weight loss.  By nature science is a field based on answering questions rather than producing them.  The theory that a soul has mass produces questions both basically and fundamentally unanswerable.  But the easiest question to answer remains the most imposing obstacle in the path of proving that the soul exists.  How much does the soul weigh?

            If someone had the answer, the theory would be fact, but where science fails is that if the answer is “I don’t know” the truth remains unfound.  After all, we can only prove what we know.  Fortunately, I do not need hard evidence to know the human soul exists—though I do have it.

            Call me a grave robber if you want, but someday you may be thanking me, or someone like me.  I will admit that I physically steal from the dead, but spiritually, I set them free.  So I am patient with those who don’t understand viewing me as nothing more than a petty criminal.  I would not expect a world that bases its beliefs upon that which it can observe physically to have a grasp on what I do.  In the simplest terms I am a Soul Searcher.  Beyond that, the explanation becomes a muddied puddle that can make people question what they know, or think they know.  I encourage such people to read no further as what follows will surely challenge the way people think.

            However, before those readers run for cover, let it be known that in all of my experiences I have never sexually violated a corpse.  I understand that in this world such actions are frowned upon, and furthermore it is not something that I am into.  I have crossed paths with plenty of necrophiles in my time, and those perverts make me sick.  It seems to me that necrophilia is a lot of risk and effort put into some glorified masturbation.  Anyway, I respect the bodies and families of the souls I save, and fucking dead bodies doesn’t fit into that line of thinking.

            That is not to say that I haven’t wrecked a handful of corpses in my day.  Sometimes it can be difficult to find the path a soul takes out of the body.  Sometimes I have to go in and dig a soul out either because it is trapped or because it is afraid to come out.           

I passed through the seven levels of the Candy Cane forest, through the sea of swirly twirly gum drops, and then I walked through the Lincoln Tunnel.

When I was a little girl, I caught a special on the History Channel about the Loch Ness Monster with my sister. We sat, raptly glued to the fantastic story unfolding before us on the ancient Quasar (which is a very old television for all you of the Apple generation):



Afterward, we stayed up late devising a plan as to how we would catch the mythical beast which involved, quite scientifically, the use of large nets and a tranq dart. We were big enough dorks in our tender pre-teen years to visualize the spread National Geographic would offer us when we had better evidence to offer than this:



Before the cold hard reality of rational skepticism kicks in (and this is by no means a blanket personality trait), most people tend to believe in the odd and unknown at some point in their lives. It's fun, for even a brief moment, to let go of everything you feel compelled to follow and say, "What the hell. No one has actually caught a Yeti so it might as well be me who finds him first."

At the age of 26, I no longer believe that Nessie lurks in a murky Scottish lake or that Bigfoot is terrorizing campers equipped with bad camera skills. The lack of actual evidence is almost too overwhelming, too improbable. How many times are these beasts almost caught or barely seen? Surely someone...somewhere...but no. These fearsome urban legends only continue to stalk our imaginations and make for fun internet memes.

I had all but given up on any truth until my boss walked into work today, declaring he was terrified of the chupacabra captured in nearby Prince George's County. I balked at him before suggesting he keep Puggle the dog locked up inside so he wouldn't get eaten.

"You can't be serious," I said.
"Oh, I am. Have you seen that thing?"
"It'll be waiting for you when you get home."
"I'll shoot it."
"With what? You don't even own a gun."
"My fists. My fists of fury."

All kidding aside, the thing, whatever it was, can be seen in this video:



My first reaction was, "Ugh! It's hideous! But ohhh...it looks so scared, the poor thing." My boss was less kind, declaring it his greatest fear as they are rumored to drain the blood of their victims and that I should be afraid...very afraid. Coming from a six-foot-two former Marine, I considered if my complete lack of fear was wrong. I stared at the hairless fox-like giant rat again, wondering how much damage such a thing could actually do. My guess? Not much.

The most probable explanation for the chupacabra legend are coyotes riddled with a parasitic infection. Scientists at the University of Michigan theorized this as recently as 2010. Our dog had mange several years ago and it wasn't pretty, so I can relate to just how awful and uncomfortable this can make a fuzzy critter look.

I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where everyone believed everything just because it COULD exist. Where no one experienced a drop of doubt until definitive proof landed in their proverbial laps. We'd probably sit around all day smoking weed and discussing the odds of a leprechaun-zombie war, wearing "What Would Justin Bieber Do?" t-shirts while the Beatles played and people stocked their pantries full of canned goods for the upcoming apocalypse. No one would work because money wasn't important. Clothes would be optional if they were ever invented at all. People would only buy houses with chimneys for Santa and sleep with an aspen stake beside their bed and never *ever* summon Bloody Mary three times in front of a dark bathroom mirror since she then stood a legitimate chance of coming to steal your soul.

Perhaps Buddy the Elf, ironically, puts logic best:

Gimbel's Manager: [showing Buddy around the floor] This, is the North Pole.
Buddy: No it isn't.
Gimbel's Manager: Yes it is.
Buddy: No it isn't.
Gimbel's Manager: Yes it is!
Buddy: No it's not. Where's the snow?

Clyde the Spider

In the years to come the spider will get bigger, I will become braver, and it will seem as if I had stared down Death himself. In truth, Clyde the Spider was a fairly inconsequential porch-guest; an orb-weaving spider who made a significant impact (in my mind, anyway) on the number of flies that found their way in to our already insect-friendly basement apartment. But arachnophobia is arachnophobia, and I couldn't let my girlfriend live in fear every night until we moved especially when that fear negatively affected our dog's bladder.

So I did what any boyfriend would do and pulled Clyde off the web. Now, I would love to say that Kieley's fear of spiders was the only reason I was feeling a bit nauseous as I approached Clyde with two giant plastic cups, but the truth is crushing bugs has made me a bit squeamish since long before I met Kieley. So capture and release in to the wild was the strategy. Great plan, right?

As Kieley said " it played like a horror movie" as I caught Clyde but couldn't find him when the time came to dump him elsewhere. I came in the house with the job half done. Hey, at least Clyde was somewhere else besides right in front of our door. That's when I heard the tearful scream: "It's on your back!" as Kieley slumped to her knees cry-gagging (I made that up, you're welcome to use it as necessary).

I headed for the door and threw my shirt in to the street, Clyde and all. I figured that was the last we would see of him, but like any good monster Clyde returned the next morning. It seems his daytime hours were being spent in the mailbox--something I suspected but would never have known for sure if I had not glimpsed a pair of legs crawling back inside on my way to work.

The bastard was cornered and I knew what to do, squeamishness be damned! I crushed him in to bitty pieces as part of him fell through the bottom of the mailbox never to be seen again.

"John, what about when you get mail?" you ask. Turns out the mail never comes to our little basement apartment, but that is a story for another time.

Who I Am

What more is there to tell about myself that isn't said by my admission that I have seen Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel? I never thought I would be that guy. I swore I wouldn't, but in a moment of weakness last Saturday morning I caught myself watching the movie in it's entirety. I wish I had managed to catch the first 15 minutes of Dinner for Schmucks so I could have counted that as our movie that day. Events like this are the exact reason I don't order HBO when I am paying for my cable. I cannot count how many awful movies I have sat through simply because they were on.

Back to Alvin, Simon, and Theodore. I came to realize something while watching their increasingly absurd high school experience: this garbage was no worse than the stuff I loved as a kid. In fact, it holds the added bonus of having better production quality that will hopefully hold up better than say The Chipmunk Adventure:

In truth the Chipmunks was always about peddling pop music sung in high pitched voices ever since "The Witchdoctor":

And darn it if it doesn't still have some appeal when the little guys (and gals) break in to the most obnoxious version of "Bad Romance" ever heard. Like I said, I feel it is very telling about me that I have seen Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeakquel.

It says I am someone who is willing to give anything a chance, if somewhat begrudgingly. It says I am someone who tries to see the merit in all things. Most of all, it says I am someone who is comfortable enough with who he is to admit he has seen a money-grubbing, soulless kids' movie with nary a child in sight.

Don't Drink the Tigerblood

I won’t go on in great length about our most recent two-week challenge as John’s already given a brief overview (a quite witty one at that) and our new project began last night. Watching a movie every night wasn’t easy, compounded by our quest to watch only movies at least one of us hasn’t seen. Inevitably, at least one of us, and almost always both, remained raptly attuned to what unfolded on the screen in our living room. Watching movies in this fashion isn’t like a Law & Order marathon…you’re less inclined to surf the net or paint your nails or lint roll the couch when undivided attention remains a must for following plotlines. Yes, Fool’s Gold, even you forced John to set aside his fantasy football stats for the sake of a meaningful cinematic experience.

What I think this challenge focused most on was the importance of time- how you break it up, how you value what’s available, who you choose to spend it with, etc. Reserving a two-hour minimum every night for 14 days definitely made us reevaluate some things- as in, would we have otherwise just spent that 120 minutes watching Charlie Harper(Sheen) shop for bowling shirts and bad decisions or could we have done something more active like take Maddie on a long walk? We want to enjoy our nights together doing things we enjoy, and now that we have our nights free, we’re more apt to consider alternate activities that don’t necessairily involve a sofa/television combo.

I am guilty as anyone of being exhausted when I get home from work and wanting to steer clear of things which involve mass amounts of brain power or physical prowess as the sun goes down. I want to vegetate. In my pajamas sans make-up. With a bowl of mac and cheese. This is nice once in a while, truly. It’s necessary for my sanity. But I’m certainly more open to considering different ways of using our time now than I was before.

Maybe tonight will be a good night to tell John I signed us up for competitive team knitting…

No, that can wait. In the meantime, get excited about our new challenge of writing a blog entry everyday. We promise not to talk about the weather.

Pulp Fiction

As Pulp Fiction rolled to a close on the third to last night of our challenge to watch a movie every day for two weeks, a few things occurred to me. One, I feel like I am getting old when I am stunned to be going to bed after 10:30. Two, Pulp Fiction (released in 1994) is definitely starting to feel dated. And three--most relevant to this blog--watching a movie every day, and I mean really watching it, is time consuming.

With a day full of work and making future plans and walking dogs and building a strong relationship foundation and trips to CVS for desserts we shouldn't be eating, there seems little time to watch a movie AND blog about the experience. But, I understood that that would be the challenge from the get go: finding the time to accomplish something (no matter how small) and then talk about the experience (no matter how mundane). The guilt I felt watching a movie and not writing about that movie started to weigh on me more each day to the point that this two weeker will be the act of blogging at least once per day by both contributors.

Certainly, this whole project feels like extreme navel-gazing, but it is hard not to notice that a few Facebook friends took the time to take at a least a passing glance at what we have going here. I'd like to have more to offer than a handful of entries and another failed startup to a project I've romanticized for some time. This will be an effort to build that catalog and in the process hopefully hit on a topic that isn't writing about writing a blog.

Success?

Without much incident we made it through our pizza challenge and have moved on to the next. For the record, I did eat my favorite pizza in my area and I am happy to advertise for them: Besta Pizza. If you ever find yourself between Cleveland Park and Friendship Heights, they are worth a try.

And so on to the new challenge we went and within hours Lady Loophole accidentally broke the pact. Not to be disuaded so soon in to our project, we came up with a new challenge. I'm realistic, I know at some point we won't get through a two weeker or we'll slip up, and we will chronicle that because we need to embrace our failures as much as we embrace our successes. Plus if this goes on a while, we should have no trouble once again trying to only eat home cooked meals for two weeks.

But since Surfside (a Mexican restaurant) was paid a visit last night, we will instead be watching a movie every day for two weeks. Given how many movies the two of us watch this should be no problem, but I have tried something akin to this before and I know the difficulties that may arise. We'll worry about them when we get there, for now let's talk about Adventures in Babysitting.

Elisabeth Shue, my first love:



That right there was all it took to get the mojo of little four year-old Johnny going. My dad might not like it but the Crystals version of the Beach Boys' "Then (S)he Kissed Me" is so much catchier. Honestly, my first crush on Elisabeth Shue runs so deep that I don't even think that hair looks dated, though it so clearly is. I always wanted her to be my babysitter minus all the adventures except this one:



Love it!

PS today we watched The Italian Job (2003) and it was okay. Noteworthy in that it was one of the first DVDs that Kieley bought which certainly means something. My first DVD was Gone in 60 Seconds. I am not sure who has better taste.