I've discovered my new favorite sport

And you'll never guess what it is!

But you should try anyway.  Three guesses.

Nope.

Nope.

And certainly not that either.  :)

What is it? 

Cheese Rolling! 

The rules are basic.  Find a tall dangerously steep hill.  Roll a wheel of cheese down it and chase it.  First man to either catch the cheese or cross the finish line wins. 

I am sensing that some of you don't think this is a real sport.

Proof!

I suggest we form a league here in the states.  It will be far more interesting than golf, for a certainty. 

What does God Cheese taste like?

Oftentimes I wonder how certain things were ever discovered.  The really really basic things, like whipped cream, butter, and cheese.  Before we knew they existed, who wanted to randomly take oodles of time and spend it sloshing milk around until something happened?  Sounds like a daft idea to me.  But somewhere along the way cream and cheese and butter were discovered.  How?

I asked my Dad this question and he answered that maybe God told the first people how to make cheese.  Good notion, but it makes me inconceivably sad.  Because somewhere along the way we've lost the recipe for God cheese, which was surely the most awesomely tasty cheese that ever existed. 

Friday Apology

Drat it, I've really got to stop this from becoming a habit. 

But you see, yesterday was the first night of Passover, and that's a pretty big deal in my family.  We all get together and eat lots of food and talk about how grateful we are that we aren't slaves in Egypt anymore. 

Sounds simple, right?

Not right.

Number one, we don't live very close, so we have to make a trip to get together.  Number two, when I say lots of food, I mean Jewish quantities of food--as in, it's not a feast unless there's food enough for three times the amount of people who are there.  Number three, the Haggadah.  This directs the Passover Seder and you read through it to commemorate what happened those thousands of years ago.  Only we seem to talk less about the actual story, and more about arguing over obscure passages and what basic words mean.  (very Jewish)

Don't misunderstand me: I am all for Passover.  I appreciate the idea of having a holiday that remembers what happened to my people thousands of years ago.  I'm grateful that I'm not a slave in Egypt.  I'm grateful to be alive. 

I'm less grateful to be participating in what I call 'Jewish Algebra' every year. 

The part of the Haggadah I most object to is where Talmudic scholars argue about how many plagues God sent against Egypt.  For those of you with a smattering of bible knowledge, you know that the answer is 10.  Apparently the Talmudic scholars couldn't leave it there--they were Jewish and had to argue about everything--because there's a three page section talking about 'the finger of God' sending ten plagues, so therefore when the 'Hand of God' shows up, it must mean at least fifty plagues--and so on and so on, until we could possibly end up with the Egyptians suffering from 250 plagues. 

Now, if you are interested in what various scholars throughout time thought of the Passover, this is a mildly interesting section. 

However, do we have to read this same passage every year?  It doesn't really add to the miracle of Passover (whether God sent 10 plagues or 250, we still got out of there) and it seems like the Talmudic scholars are just trying to play 'God Loves Us Best Because He Sent Even More Plagues Against The Egyptians.'  Yes Talmudic scholars, the Jews are the Chosen People.  What exactly made God choose us, however, is up for grabs.  (personally I think it was because we're the most stubborn and argumentative people on the planet.  God knew that if he could just get the basic rules through our thick skulls we'd never ever forget them)  So please stop wallowing in your self-importance. 

Was that a bit harsh?  Maybe.  But perhaps I just have trouble fake-arguing the same points every year just for the sake of tradition.  Not that I'm against tradition.  I just like my tradition to mean something more than a forced recitation of centuries old arguments. 

Dre-e-e-e-eam, dream dream dream dream dre-e-e-e-eam....

So I had a dream last night. 

I know, right?  Amazing.

But unlike most nights where I dream, this one made me feel really uneasy waking up.  I felt like the dream had sunk dream-claws into my shoulders and was using me to tow itself around and freak me out.

What was this dream, you ask?  I tell you.

I'm in a throne room.  Maybe.  It's got a throne in it, and a King, so that qualifies, I guess.  But the decor is more stone-and-statues than oh-my-goodness-the-french-say-gold-chrome-is-in-this-year.  (Gilt all the things!)  So I'm talking to this guy/King and he's a little odd, and somewhere in the back of my mind I'm thinking he's Crazy King George of England so that makes sense (duh) and then I get even further proof when he starts talking to statues and skipping around etc.  Only the problem is, is that I can see the statues talk back and move and argue with him.  But I know he's Crazy King George so these are just his hallucinations---

BUT WHY AM I SEEING CRAZY KING GEORGE'S HALLUCINATIONS!!???!!!
(cap-locks are a necessity)

And then it gets even weirder as Crazy King George and one of his hallucinations start dancing around in an  acid trip version of Mary Poppins 'I love to laugh.'

And then I wake up, feeling really disturbed that I'd dreamed about someone else's hallucinations.  But then it got worse when I realized that if Crazy King George was a product of my mind, then technically all his hallucinations were mine too.

I am now slightly terrified of my brain. 

And I am never ever ever taking drugs.  'shudder.'

Wednesday Word: Murgatroyd

For all of you fascinated readers who are looking at your screens in confusion: no, Murgatroyd is not a word.  Spellcheck keeps trying to insist that I mean purgatory.  And as a point of interest, spellcheck does not recognize itself as a word.  Ha.

I do wish to raise the question however: Is a name a word?  Names qualify as nouns, and nouns are words, so are names words?  Not in the conventional sense, I know, but do they qualify? 

For the purpose of me having something to write a blog about, I will arbitrarily say yes.  :)

Murgatroyd!

It's a name!  Not a very common one, though, although I think it should get a comeback soon.  Mostly because it sounds like a 50 foot tall destroyer robot.

'Look out!  It's the Murgatroyd!!!!!'
'Aieee!!'
'Aaaaahhhh!!'
cue lots more screaming and running away.
someone gets stepped on.
laser eyes blow up a house.

You know, all the standard destroyer robot stuff. 

And even if the kid hates being called an awesome destroyer robot name, there's even a good nickname: Troy.  Troy's pretty solid as names go, and it's not overused either. 

That's it.  It's settled.  One of you must now go out and name one of your future children Murgatroyd.  Preferably a boy.  It would just be too cruel to saddle a girl with that name.

And Happy Birth Day to Hugo Weaving and Robert Downey Jr!  You make fun movies!  Thanks!

But on a slightly sadder note, if we could all take a moment to remember our favorite Heath Ledger movie, because today was also his birthday.  We miss you, Heath.  

I've reached my Media-Life Crisis

They say it happens to us all eventually.  Some people can feel it coming and get all sorts of agitated about it and do everything they can to stave it off.  Other people know it's coming and just resign themselves to their fate.  And others have it come upon them so suddenly that honestly it's a bit of a shock. 

But what to do about it?  Buying a red Ferrari won't help.  Dressing up in age-inappropriate outfits won't make a bit of a difference.  Even getting into a fool-hardy relationship won't make me feel any better. 

Because it's happened, you see.  I've reached my Media-Life Crisis.  It's that moment when you realize that the actors and actresses on the screen of the movie theater or the tv are starting to be younger than you. 

How did this happen?  I'm not that old--I don't even qualify as anywhere near old.  But it's--it's like age is gaining on me in the form of younger people.  All my life I've looked up to actors and actresses/their characters, because they could do things I couldn't.  Whether it was fight off terrorists, blow up the Death Star, or leap tall buildings with the help of lots of special effects, they were something to admire.  If only because they got to make ridiculously large amounts of money for doing as a job what I did with my stuffed animals: make up stories.

But it was all right, you know?  They were all older than me, all adults, so it was okay.  Adults were always doing things that I couldn't.  And there's that certain sort of maturity that Adults get to carry around with them that I've always found very likable. 

But how do I cope with actors who are younger than me?  I mean, they're still doing awesome things on screen and I do admire them for their abilities and chosen profession--but--but--they're younger. 

Maybe it's just the way my mind works, but I like to put myself into the story.  (as a reader it's nearly automatic).  I like to imagine I'm one of the participants--or at least an invisible sidekick who's involved.  It allows me to live vicariously through the characters (which is kind of the point of the movies) and feel what they feel for the same understandable reasons.  But it feels kind of creepy to me when the people I'm vicariously living through are 5-7 years younger.  It feels like I'm approaching 'dirty old man' syndrome.  Even though I'm not a man.  And I bathe regularly, I swear.

I suppose the only thing I can do is go back and watch my favorite Disney movies until I feel better.  And try not the think about the fact that Prince Phillip is only 21 years old.

Monday Musing: Patience

‘Never pray for patience.’  

Did you ever receive this advice?  I remember hearing it as a child—and when I asked ‘Why not?’  I was told something like, ‘because all that will happen are situations guaranteed to make you impatient.’

Being a sensible child, can you guess the one thing I never prayed for?  Absolutely right: Patience.  If that was all it took to keep life sailing smoothly, why invite disaster?  Life was already full of things to feel impatient about.  Long car drives.  Waiting at all the places that we drove to.  Waiting for the adults to stop talking.  Waiting to go home.  Waiting for dinner.  Waiting for dessert.  Waiting for summer vacation.  Waiting for Christmas.  Waiting for birthdays.  Waiting to grow old enough so that I could stop waiting.

I hate to break the news to any young readers, but I still haven’t been able to stop waiting.  I just wait for different things now and since I am an adult, I’m not allowed to jump up and down and whine about them.  Bummer.  I could use a good bit of whining. 

Couldn’t we all?  Life just seems to get harder and harder and our only recourse is our least favorite advice: be patient.  Patient?  Patient?!  How much more patient do I need to be?  Will that really solve my problems, being patient?  No.  But I suspect it’ll make everyone’s lives around me a lot easier.  But is that the only reason we should be patient: because it is a social construct?

When you were a kid, what was the best part of Christmas?  The presents?  The food/candy?  (seeing relatives is more of an adult joy, but we’ll give it an honorable mention).  I’ll admit that for me it was always the presents.  I was one greedy little child and I loved being given things.  At some point however, I realized that presents weren’t living up to my expectations anymore.  Not that they still weren’t wonderful—they just weren’t as wonderful as I always wanted them to be.  There was no perfect present that could keep me interested and happy to match the amount of time that I spent anticipating the presents I received.  It dawned on me that I was enjoying the idea of Christmas far more than the reality of it. 

Perhaps this should have ruined Christmas for me.  But for some strange reason I think I started enjoying Christmas even more.  Christmas and my Birthday, to the sometimes amusement and sometimes over-patient bemusement of my parents.  Because now that I knew the real fun was in anticipation, I made sure to milk as much anticipation as possible.  I would start counting down months in advance of my birthday, getting a thrill of glee each time I said the words:

‘Dad, Dad, guess what?’

‘What?’  (imagine a world weary exasperated sigh)

‘It’s 89 days till my birthday!’

‘Oh, wow, is it?’

Seriously, best Dad ever.  He plays along with me every year. :)

Hold on a minute, though.  We were talking about patience: is anticipation really the same thing?  Could you have one without the other?  You can anticipate something with impatience, as well as with patience, so maybe not.  But I think that anticipation is far more fun if you’re at least a little patient.  Impatience ruins the fun of it, because you can’t enjoy the moment when you’re impatient.  You’re always looking ahead, looking for the big thing coming up; and you miss what’s right there in front of you.  Whereas if you are (at least mostly) patiently anticipating something, you never lose sight of the excitement that will be, while still maintaining enjoyment of the now. 

I believe it is a grand thing to enjoy ‘what will be’ before it happens, because no matter what happens after, you just spent so much time being happy about it that even if the moment doesn’t live up to expectations you had all that time enjoying it already. 

One day of a good Birthday still equals only one day.

Three months of anticipating that Birthday equals three months of happiness.

Mmm, good math.

But this idea of waiting for the good things in life seems to have faded out of style along with poodle skirts and mullets.  We are the instantaneous generation.  We have our computers and our iphones (or droids/blackberries/etc) at our fingertips constantly: we are never out of touch with the rest of the world.  Have a question?  Just consult the internet, you’ll find the answer in less than five minutes.  There’s no more waiting, isn’t that great?  I don’t know.

I don’t mean to sound down on modern technology.  I love my computer.  I love the internet.  Cell phones are great.  Having all the knowledge you could ever want at your fingertips can be thrilling.  All the things we can think!

But—

But.

What is it doing to us?  What are the consequences?  Do we care?

I do.  Call me old fashioned, but if I’m taking the time to be with a friend, I don’t want them to be ignoring me in favor of their cell phone, no matter how many texts they’re getting or posts on their facebook wall.  We’re never truly ‘with’ people anymore, because we’re carrying around the entire world with us wherever we go. 

Everything is getting faster.  (people keep saying that, I know, I know).  We don’t even take the time to speak full words anymore: why do that when you can say everything with a couple letters?  Lol.  Rofl.  Asap.  Brb.  G2g.  We don’t even have the patience to think anymore.  Thinking takes too much time; the world is moving too fast for us to think about it.  Have to keep up!

We have lost the art of waiting.  We have lost the ability to be patient when nothing is happening.  In some ways it’s not our fault—not anyone’s fault.  Our world moves so fast we never have the time to be impatient with the dead space because there’s so little of it.  But when there is that five second gap—hoowee.  The long and short is that we panic.  We don’t know what to do with silence, because the only thing that’s there other than silence…is us.  And if we’ve never had the time to get to know ourselves and be comfortable with who we are…man, that is one awkward silence.  Even worse than an office party.

The reason I object to our fastfastfast culture is that it takes away our ability to be.  Be what?  Be ourselves mostly.  People complain and complain about how shallow our culture is—newsflash, a culture is defined by its people, and we are shallow people.  We’ve never been taught how to be anything else.  We’ve never had the time to be anything else. 

But we could.  We really could be so much better than we are.  But it all starts with waiting, with patience, with anticipation.  With time.  And above all, a little bit of silence.