O Captain my captain

It is my boyfriend's birthday today, and I thought that, in honor of the occasion, we could all sing a little birthday song to him, OK?

Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday, dear Ethan
Happy birthday to you

Thanks, everyone. That was really nice. Has anyone ever told you that you have a great singing voice? Well, you do. No, really. I mean that. Good job.

I would like to report that I have a lovely romantic evening planned for me and Ethan later tonight, but shockingly, he hasn't been returning my calls. I think he's still a little upset that I didn't like his first book. Really, honey, a little constructive criticism was all that was. Let's let bygones be bygones and move on, OK?

Rosebud's his sled, by the way

About three months ago, I requested The Wicker Man on DVD using the public library's handy online reservation system. Not the recent remake starring Nicholas Cage--the one that I'm pretty sure no one saw except the critics who collectively gave it a dismal 15% (certified rotten) rating at Rotten Tomatoes. No, I'm talking about the 1973 original--the one ranked supposedly sixth greatest British film of all time and the one with a decidedly more respectable 90% fresh rating online.

I had almost forgotten I requested that movie until the e-mail arrived notifying me that I could pick it up. Since I requested it around the time that the remake came out, the line of holds ahead of me was more than unusually long. By the time I had the DVD in my hand, I had pretty much forgotten why I actually wanted to see it. And when I read the pull quotes on the case, I almost took it straight back.

I've already established that scary movies are not my thing. And yet, I apparently decided that on a Saturday night, home alone, it was a good idea to watch a movie about which the critics had these things to say:

"Harrowing, absorbing, eerie and erotic... A must-see!"

"A modern horror masterpiece."

"Witty and scary! No one who sits through it to the end is likely to find it easy to shake off."

And my personal favorite:

"The 'Citizen Kane' of horror films."

Um, I do not at all like horror films. Exactly why would I think watching the 'Citizen Kane' of one was a good idea?

I watched it anyway, irrational terror be damned. Knowing my history with horror films, though, I tried to set it up to ensure as little trauma as possible. I deliberately started it early enough in the night that I'd be able to stay up for at least two episodes of Freaks and Geeks on DVD afterward, should I need something to clear my head. I even gave myself a pathetic little pep-talk as I went downstairs to put in a load of laundry. Worried that I'd be too scared after the movie to retrieve my clothes from the dryer, I looked around my basement saying, "You're not scared now... There's nothing and no one here that's going to hurt you or creep you out, and there won't be after the movie, either. If you're not scared now, you needn't be an hour and a half from now, either."

Yes, I really talk to myself. Quite regularly, in fact. But we've already covered that, I believe.

Anyway, all of this prepping proved unnecessary after all, as The Wicker Man was, in fact, probably the least scary horror movie I've seen in my life. Bizarre and a tad unsettling, yes. Scary, no. After all, how frightening can a movie be when it's part horror, part musical? How much fear can rural pagan villagers incite when a few scenes earlier they were dancing naked around a fire in broad daylight while Scottish folk songs played in the background?

The nakedness was probably what surprised me most about the film (I did get it at the library, after all, and I had no idea the library was the go-to place for softcore porn), but in retrospect, it's actually the part I should have been expecting all along. As I said earlier, it wasn't the 2006 remake of this film that made me curious enough to check it out. It was actually an old episode of Coupling. Specifically, it was the one about Patrick's extensive... video collection, titled "The Cupboard of Patrick's Love." In that episode, Steve, Jeff, and Patrick recall Britt Ekland in The Wicker Man as one of their most memorable formative crushes. They didn't get into specifics, and at the time, I'd heard of neither Britt nor her most famous role, so the reference was lost on me. But when she started singing in her bed topless and then got up to dance with the walls like a provincial showgirl, that episode came rushing back.

As I put the DVD back in its case, I looked back at the pull quotes again. "The 'Citizen Cane' of horror films," said Cinefantastique. And that's when I realized there are at least two distinctly different ways to interpret a quote like that. I took it to mean "best of the best; the greatest within its genre." I forgot, for a minute, that to non-critics like me, that quote is actually an excellent way of calling something wholly bizarre and overrated and inexplicably more popular than is warranted.

In all fairness, I haven't seen Citizen Kane in years, so maybe I should refresh my memory before I disagree with every major film critic on record. I'm pretty sure I'm done with The Wicker Man, however. One viewing of these guys was, I think, more than quite enough.

Math is hard

I had a rant all stirring about in my head, but then I remembered that it's not exactly original to point out how kids can't do math anymore and how the average teenager manning a grocery store register has the mental reasoning skills of a Shih Tzu. I've already established that I'm a cranky old lady years before I expected to be, so there's really not much sense going down that route.

Besides that, it's not even the dimwit cashier I'm still irked at an hour after our exchange. It's really myself I'm annoyed with, for letting a lazy and surly teenager make me doubt my own basic math prowess. Here's pretty much how that went...

Surly teenaged cashier: "Your total is $10.19."
Me: [handed her a twenty and two dimes, in a smart attempt to avoid a wallet full of shrapnel]
STC: "$9.91 is your change."
Me: "Actually, I'm supposed to get a ten back. I gave you a twenty-dollar bill and twenty cents. My change should be ten and a penny."
STC: [exhasperated eye roll as she eyes the receipt] "No, it says your change is $9.91."
Me: "You must not have put in the change. I gave you a twenty and two dimes."
STC: [pointing to the receipt] "No. See? It says right here. I put in $20.10. Your change is $9.91."

At about that point, I thought, OK. Maybe I can't do basic math. I also decided that squabbling with a cashier over less than a dollar was not worth the burning glare I was getting from the guy behind me in line. I muttered something about maybe it being me who can't do math and took my stuff and left.

In the parking lot, it still wasn't making sense to me, so I pulled out the receipt, planning to consult a calculator if need be just to find where one of us went wrong. I did the math over and over in my head, thinking, "Twenty cents takes care of the $0.19 in the total. How was I not supposed to get a ten back after that?"

I stared at the receipt for a full fifteen seconds before I finally figured out the problem. "20.10," she said she put in, and "$20.10" it said on the receipt. I gave her two dimes (I am positive I did), but 20.10 is what she punched on the keys. $20.20 minus $10.19 is, in fact $10.01. I may not remember enough algebra and trigonometry to get me a community college-worthy score on the ACT anymore, but at least I could still pass the fourth grade.

I wish I could say the same for Rainbow's finest.

Five things I did not expect to see at the grocery store last night

Item #1 actually made me say "What the hell?" out loud right there in the canned vegetables aisle. From there, I realized this week's list was in the works.

1. A fried chicken leg, gnawed down to the bone, inappropriately abandoned atop a can of Bush's baked beans. Yes. Seriously. I can't make this shit up. (Or, I could, but I assure you I did not. Barbarians, I tell you. Ghetto Rainbow is full of barbarians.)
   
   
2. Blue frosted Pop-Tarts decked with tiny white stars and filled with red and white striped frosting. On first glance, I thought the Republican Party had gone entirely over the edge with its aim to instill blind patriotism into our nation's youth and was now trying to brainwash them through breakfast foods. Then I looked closer and realized it was an American Idol tie-in. Frankly, I'm not sure now which is more disturbing. Incidentally, that post I linked to was the only evidence of these freakish Not-Tarts I could find online, and considering it was apparently posted over a year ago about what is supposedly a limited edition product, I do have to wonder just how long those flag-tarts have been on the shelf. Ew.
   
   
3. Ginseng-up soda ("a Caribbean favorite!"). I have no idea what carbonated, liquid ginseng might taste like, but I do wonder if 7-up has any qualms about the name.
   
   
4. A wide selection of candles in glass jars featuring images of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and various saints. In case you're wondering, this wasn't in any sort of Christmas display. It was in the ethnic foods aisle. Specifically, on the shelf above the taco seasoning. I mean, of course, right?? Where else would you sell such a thing?
   
   
5. A young, bald cashier who could have maybe passed for a shorter, less attractive, stubbier-armed Michael Rosenbaum. (Or at least, he could have passed for him if that celebrity look-alike thingy were in charge. And we all know how accurate that is, don't we now.)
   

I'm going to try not to let this get to me

So I know this is making the rounds*, and therefore you've probably already seen it. Maybe even more than once. But you haven't seen it from me yet, and that, of course, makes it fully worth posting. Whoo boy. Only two days into this NaBloPoMo (HeyHoSoCo? SoHoSloMo? MarioCuomo? Um, whatever; moving on...) deal, and already I'm resorting to Internet meme-like things. Whoopie. This is bound to be a more than red-letter month!

Anyway, the idea is you upload a self photo, and this high-tech computerized thingy tells you which celebrities could maybe pass for your long-lost sibling. Or which celebrities you might be mistaken for in an ominous, dark alley. You know, if you're the type to frequent ominous, dark alleys. Or if you look like the sort of celebrity who would.

Whatever the point or purpose, I finally decided to play along. And wow, am I ever glad I did. See, before now, the only celebrity I recall anyone ever comparing me to was Jennifer Garner. I'm not saying that I particularly fancy myself any sort of Jennifer Garner look-alike; I'm just saying I've actually heard it more than once. Then again, the first time someone said it, I was wearing a blue wig and pleather pants (for my tattoo artist costume, which I wore, coincidentally, the same year Alias went on the air), and the second time someone said it, it was someone who was more than likely trying to have sex with me. So really, maybe neither of these can be deemed a reliable source. I have, however, seen a photo of my mother taken when my older sister was just a tiny baby, and thought, "Hey. Mom looks sort of like Jennifer Garner in that picture!" So if I look anything at all like my mother (which, unfortunately, I'm told that I do), this really isn't as far-off and downright ridiculous as it may seem.

In any case, the Celebrity Look-Alike Finder did not, as you may have suspected, decide that I look anything like Ms. Garner, during her Alias stint or otherwise. No, instead, it decided to offer these terribly flattering suggestions.



Let's review, shall we?

I will try, for a moment, to ignore the obvious complaint, which is that six-eighths of these people are MEN. Clearly the Look-Alike Finder is an equal-opportunity matcher. Perhaps it thinks some of these guys could quite possibly be my near-identical brother. Or, in the case of Larry King, my father. Seriously... Larry King? Or Elvis Costello? You have got to be kidding me.

Apparently the closest match for me (at an alarming 83%) is Aki Hakala, who I'll admit I've never heard of, apparently because I've somehow managed to miss the Finnish TV series Siamin tytot. Chester Bennington** came in at 76%, which I find equally curious since the only similarity I can see in our photos is the thick, black plastic glasses.

In fact, I'm pretty sure the glasses are the only common factor in all of these supposed matches. It seems the Look-Alike Finder just scanned its database for thick, dark frames and popped all finds into my list. No computer is perfect, of course, so it also interpreted Jennifer Love Hewitt's raccoon-like eye makeup as a pair of glasses and added her to my matches as well. It's an honest mistake, I suppose.

To test out this theory, I tried the search again, using a slightly less recent picture of me, with my old, less prominent wire frames. (You know, the ones you saw here, in case you want a reference point.) That gave me Molly Ringwald and Sarah Silverman (a suggestion I'm actually a lot happier with, I must say). But it also gave me Zac Hanson (Yes; that Zac Hanson. Really I don't see it.)

The only celebrity to show up in both lists (also in two different types of glasses frames)? Matthew Lillard. What do you think? Should I contact him for possible stunt-double work? Yeah, I think not.



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* By that, I mean the blog rounds, or blounds, of course. (That was for you, Red.)

** Perhaps this is a good time to mention that I secretly sort of love Linkin Park, despite all the very good reasons I shouldn't. But I still don't think I look like him. Not even a little bit. (Though I suppose that, in the end, it doesn't really maaaatter-er-er-er-er-er.***)

*** Yes, I am doing a footnote to a footnote. I'm reckless with structure like that. Anyway, if you secretly or not-so-secretly love Linkin Park, too, then perhaps you got this reference and actually sang along in your head, giving the word "matter" the proper seven-syllables it's allotted. If not, well, then never mind. Nothing to see here; move along if you will.

Grow to regret this, I shall

I am nearly certain this is really quite a bad, bad idea. I have a hard enough time rattling out an idle thought or three more than once a week. Suddenly I think I can convert myself into a post-a-day sort of Blogger? Unlikely. But then again, I do like a challenge. Wait a minute. No I don't. Coasting along down the easy route is actually much more my style, I think. "I like a challenge"? Where on earth did I get that idea? Ha. Who said that?

Regardless, The Other Girl's wise and witty rationalization for this madness has me convinced I should give it a try. So fine. I'm in.


For now, anyway.

I should warn you that if I'm going to post something every day, I reserve the right to hit "Publish Post" on some utter and total crap. Other Girl threatened an entry saying nothing more than "I like peas." I myself am not all that fond of peas, but a "Yay for olives" post is surely not ruled out. I can also pretty much guarantee that if I'm posting every day, I am bound to detail at least one (and likely more) of those crazy-ass dreams I have. Again, you've been warned. I'm sorry.

I also reserve the right to decide this is lunacy and be a great big 'ol quitter midway through this goal. Ordinarily I wouldn't stand for such a thing, but Guinness Girl says that quitting is OK. And who's going to argue with GG? No, really--who? The woman's charming and persuasive, and frankly I'm not sure I want to meet the person who's impervious to her powers. But this isn't about GG. This is about me. Me and my foolish and lofty goal to jump on this bandwagon and see it through to the end.

Wish me luck. And ideas. Because I think that I'll need both.